4. Nik
My BMW looks out of place here.
The dark alleyway I’m parked near is weathered and unassuming, which leads me to wonder, what is he doing here?
I slide my hands up and down the leather steering wheel, always landing back at ten and two.
“This is where you tracked him to?” I ask Igor, certain he screwed up somehow. He fumbles with his phone, glancing up at the alleyway, then back down again.
“Da,” he replies. “Senator’s driver dropped him off right here. He’s been in there for over an hour.”
Selfish behavior doesn’t shock me anymore, not with what I’ve seen. In fact, destructive behavior—all that is morally wretched and depraved—is what I’ve come to expect.
However, I have to admit, I’m stumped by this.
Why did Senator Hope, with all his high-rolling money and powerful alliances, come here? To this run-down alley next to a pawn shop with a weeping exterior and an eerie green glow. The pulse of the shop’s sign illuminates the alley’s entrance for a moment longer until the AWN flickers out. I doubt Hope came here to sell a watch.
“What the hell is this place?” I ask, mainly to myself, but Igor answers anyway.
“I don’t know. Want me to go check it out first?”
I detect a hint of teasing from the asshole. I flick my eyes in his direction, annoyed. The joker has the audacity to laugh.
This is my mission; no way in hell I’m not going in there.
My sidearm is strapped to my chest holster. I take it out and release the magazine, checking the rounds before sliding it back in. Nodding in Igor’s direction, I push open the door. My nose wrinkles at the sulfur stench, the odor pungent and eye-watering. Igor tries to hide a cough and I smirk, heading over to the dark alleyway we’ve been watching for the past thirty minutes.
The wind catches my suit jacket and it blows back, revealing my weapons. I swivel my head as I button up, making sure we haven’t been spotted. Igor is ahead of me, meticulously scanning the cracked brick and trash-lined walls.
There’s a lone door at the end of the alley. We approach with caution, and I notice that there’s a biometric scanner and key card access, similar to what we use at our weapons warehouses. Two recognizable letters have been etched into the door, the grooves deep and perfect. And their addition wasn’t a last-minute decision. This door was specifically crafted to include the outline of a square, with the letters EV dead center.
I pull out my phone and do a quick search for bars, clubs, or other facilities with the initials EV. Even with a fifty-mile radius selected, nothing gets a hit. Igor snaps a photo of the door and we both look at each other, neither of us saying a word but conveying our concern all the same.
The Bratva makes it their business to be familiar with the private, often shady clubs in the city—hell, most of our arms sales go down in these locations. This stop for Senator Hope has never been identified.
An elbow connects with mine and Igor flicks his head up to the corner of the door frame. Two micro cameras are pointed straight down at us, red lights on. Since they’re already aware we’re here, I figure—what the hell—and knock, three loud pounds of my fist on the steel door. We wait; nothing happens.
With Igor’s gun drawn, I raise my fist to knock another time, but the door glides open. A bulky man dressed in all black growls down at us, his hand going to his ear. Nope. An earpiece.
“Password,” he grits out.
The man shifts, only half a step, but I catch a glimpse of what’s beyond him. Dark lights, giving off a red hue, and velvety, intricately draped fabrics, cast shadows in the dim lighting. Sensual music sounds, low and quiet. Glasses clink, and hushed whispers filter out.
“We’re looking for our friend, Senator Hope. You’ve seen him?”
It’s the best I’ve got at the moment. I don’t know the password, and I’m not going to announce who I am, though I’m sure many here would know my face. Apparently, I’m not convincing, because the man scowls and slams the door.
Yeah, I wouldn’t buy my friendship with Senator Hope, either.
We head back to my car. Once inside, I send a message to Luka—a photo of the door along with a recount of what happened. Then I press the vehicle’s start button and sit back, pondering the dark alleyway and mysterious EV.
The files removed from Antonio’s office after his death flash in the back of my mind—the cufflinks. My chest tightens, and my grip on the wheel slips as the meaning behind the perplexing initials becomes clearer.
Each push-up I do is supposed to relieve tension, break down worry, and replace it with calm—it’s not working. Sweat dripping from my face makes my hands slip on my warehouse apartment concrete floor, and I smack into the hard surface.
Shit. I’m a mess.
Luka stopped by yesterday to show me the contract Salvatore Buscetta sent over regarding the arranged marriage. It was your standard agreement, both parties consenting—although it feels like the opposite.
There were other details concerning the wedding and the future of the marriage sprinkled in as well. However, the contract said nothing about consummating the marriage or whether the bride is a virgin. I don’t care either way, but often those specifics are addressed. Maybe Salvatore isn’t as archaic as he seems.
I snort and push up off the slick floor, then pad into the kitchen—newly renovated with sleek gray cabinets, as well as light-granite countertops that extend to the island. Design compliments to Kate.
This apartment was a project. One I enjoyed working on. It has an urban-industrial vibe, with several concrete pillars spread throughout. The whole place is an open concept studio, because—well, it’s a bachelor pad. I was not expecting to have a woman here, ever.
The heart of the apartment has a sprawling living area where I spend most of my downtime. A plush sofa sits across from two leather armchairs, with a wooden coffee table between both seating options. All of the windows—except for the ones in the living room, which look down into the warehouse—are framed by iron and give me a sick view of the surrounding woods.
After retrieving my blender, I gather ingredients from the freezer and my supplement drawer—frozen fruit, along with a couple scoops of protein powder. Vegetables aren’t usually my favorite, but I grab some fresh spinach. Before closing the refrigerator, I scan the shelves—there isn’t much here.
That’ll change soon. The woman I’m marrying—damn, I did it again. Luna will likely fill the fridge with all her favorites.
I squeeze my eyes shut and slam the door. With a grumble, I dump my ingredients into the blender and switch it on, tensing as the sound amplifies my thoughts of her. What does she look like? Will she try to make this a real marriage? Will she replace my food with chick shit?
I shake my head, determined to knock the irritation away. She’ll have to deal. I’m not bending to make her comfortable.
Buzzing on the counter rips me from my thoughts, and I reach for my phone at the same time I snag the top off my blender. The device slips from my hand, the word Boss flashing across the screen, as it takes a dip into my smoothie.
Damn it.
I scramble to rake it out, surprised it’s still ringing, and slide to answer.
“Yes, Boss,” I huff out.
“Nikolai, where are you? You sound like you’re underwater,” Luka barks out on the other end.
“Just making a smoothie,” I say, cold mango and spinach seeping into my ear and running down my face because, of course, I didn’t think to answer on speakerphone.
“Uh-huh,” Luka says, and Kate cracks up in the background. “Natallia booked us suit fittings. Buscetta’s wedding planner sent her the details for the attire—just need to go.”
I choke on an unblended piece of ice and cling to the island. “Yeah, okay. Have her send me the where and when.”
He hangs up, and I take another sip of my smoothie before dumping the rest down the sink—I can’t stomach it. I’m not hungry anymore.
“I think the navy is nice,” Kate says over dinner the following day.
“You want to marry her, then?” I quip, and Luka’s face heats. He tucks an arm around her and pulls her closer to him in our booth. After almost an hour of poking and pinning, we finished the fitting and met Ivan and Igor for dinner at one of Luka’s favorite places.
Kate chews at her lip like she does when she’s nervous. “Well, I’m excited to finally see and meet her. There’s nothing about her online. The Cosa Nostra has done a good job keeping her hidden.”
“You’ve been Googling her?” Luka asks.
Kate shrugs her shoulders. “What? You haven’t?”
She grins at him, and he steals a kiss. It’s chaste and sweet and everything Luka is not—or, wasn’t. Kate has definitely had an effect on him. It’s for the better; she balances him. God help us all if she decides this life isn’t for her anymore.
“I hope the food is good,” Igor sounds in during a lull in the conversation, and we all nod.
The wedding is in three weeks, and I’ve never felt more underprepared. I keep a tight lock on every aspect of my life. I have to. Luka”s life and the Bratva depend on it.And Luna entering my world is going to throw everything off kilter. It grates on my nerves.
“Did you find out any information on what EV is and why Senator Hope seems to think he’s a club member?” I ask, shifting the topic of conversation away from my impending doomed marriage.
I hate that man. He was always a necessary evil. Willing to look the other way when it came to our weapons shipments—for a price, of course. But his loyalty was only as big as the dollar signs he was pocketing, and when Antonio offered him more, he sold us out. However, even Antonio knew the senator was triple-dipping. There’s another player in all this, and EV is a highly suspicious candidate.
“Nyet. But Buscetta is looking into it. He’s going to ask the boss about it,” Luka says.
Slumping back, I take in everyone at the table—sipping drinks and shoveling food into their mouths. My brothers. My family. All of whom I would die for. This marriage is a little like that. I’m surrendering for the good of the Bratva; for the good of my family and it hurts a little less.