Chapter 16
Alexei
I follow her into the small studio and stop dead in the doorway, jaw tightening in anger. Someone tossed her apartment. “What happened?”
Her eyes dart to the door. I position myself more firmly between her and the exit. She’s not going anywhere.
“R-robbery. Last week. Haven’t had time to clean up.”
If the situation weren’t so serious, the transparent lie would amuse me. The destruction is fresh. There’s no dust on the debris. No one has walked paths through this mess. Her panic is too raw, too immediate for this to have happened a week ago.
This wasn’t a junkie hunting for cash or electronics to fence.
Stuffing exploding from torn cushions. Emptied drawers. Well-worn, inexpensive clothing and an absurd number of socks blanketing the floor. Glass glittering from shattered frames.
This wasn’t random.
Whoever created this mess was either searching for a specific object or sending a message.
I venture deeper into the apartment, navigating around the wreckage. The tiny studio is barely large enough for the futon, small table, and kitchenette. The bathroom door hangs open, revealing more chaos inside. Even her shower curtain is ripped down.
My gaze slides to the far corner, where what’s left of a small workspace sits. Someone flipped the table, and colorful shards of ceramic and tile litter the floor. Unfamiliar tools lie scattered among the debris.
“Didn’t peg you for an artist.”
She startles, as if surprised I’d notice such a detail amid the destruction. Her knuckles go white around the photo in her hand. “I’m not. Just a hobby.”
Another lie. Just like last night. This little cocktail waitress is involved in more than she’s willing to admit.
I circle the perimeter of the tiny place, soaking in the details that tell her story more honestly than her words.
Cheap—and now destroyed—assemble-it-yourself furniture.
A pile of textbooks on nursing that probably belong to her sister.
A lack of personal photos, aside from the one she’s clutching and the few shattered frames on the floor.
The absence of anything expensive or unnecessary. No TV. Few decorative knickknacks.
Just the essentials and her art supplies.
A flash of orange in my periphery, near the bathroom doorway, snags my attention. I instinctively reach for my gun before freezing.
A fluffy cat slinks out from underneath the bed, eyeing me warily before darting across the room to wind around Aurora’s ankles.
“Pixie!” Relief floods her voice as she scoops up the tabby, cradling the creature against her chest like a shield. “I thought they’d hurt you.” She clutches the cat tighter, its orange fur stark against the maid costume. The purring feline doesn’t seem to mind as it rubs its head under her chin.
Silence stretches between us as I soak in the scene. Aurora stares back, head lifting in defiance even as her fingers tremble against the cat’s fur. This woman fascinates me. Terrified but still fighting. Still lying to my face when she’s well aware of what I could do to her.
Is she protecting someone? Hiding information? Both?
I should push. Demand the truth. Intimidate her until she breaks and confesses everything. That’s what Roman would expect. What the old Alexei would have done without hesitation. What I still do to anyone other than her.
But I don’t want her broken. Not like this. Not devastated by the ruins of the life she clearly worked so hard to build. She’s already hanging by a thread. If I push too much, I may never get the full truth.
So instead, I nod, temporarily accepting the lie. “Some robbery.”
Relief flashes across her face, replaced by wariness. She has to know I don’t believe her. Her eyes narrow as if she’s trying to read my intentions.
Good luck with that, lyubimaya.
I stride toward the cheap particleboard bookshelf, which is toppled onto the floor and surrounded by a scattered collection of worn books.
The titles reveal more of Aurora than she probably realizes. Self-help books on dealing with anxiety and grief. A thick paperback about the marvels of positive thinking. A battered copy of The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up that clearly didn’t take.
She’s a living, breathing contradiction.
Messy but with carefully organized books. Struggling financially but spending money on art supplies. Afraid of me but still defiant.
My hand settles on a massive volume. Unlike the other books, this one, a large hardcover coffee table book with a glossy jacket showing ancient marble statues and temple columns, looks expensive. The Glory of Rome and Greece: Art, Architecture, and Warriors Through the Ages.
I pull the volume out, the heft substantial in my hands. Given the steep price stamped on the dust jacket, the book seems like an odd impulse buy for a cocktail waitress on a budget. A gift, perhaps, or a scrupulously saved-for indulgence.
“No!” She darts forward with her cat still clutched to her chest and snatches the book from my hands with surprising force. “Don’t touch that.”
Her overreaction heightens my curiosity. I study her face as she juggles the awkward weight of both cat and giant tome. The feline, clearly unhappy with this new arrangement, squirms against her grip.
I nod toward the book. “Something special about centurions?”
Her eyes spark with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “It’s none of your business.”
The cat twists in her arms and leaps to the floor. Freed from one burden, she hugs the book tighter to her chest, like it’s precious. Not just a book but a talisman. A connection to someone.
My curiosity sharpens. I want to know why this particular book matters so much. Want to know everything about this woman who’s rapidly becoming an obsession I can’t afford but also can’t shake. “The Romans built their empire on blood. On conquest and subjugation. Not so different from my world.”
She flinches. “I wouldn’t know about your world.”
“Seems like you’re learning.” I gesture toward the destruction around us. “Fast.”
I move away from the bookshelf to continue my circuit of the tiny apartment. There’s not much to see beyond what I’ve already observed. Cheap furniture and minimal possessions all destroyed with methodical precision. But the details paint their own story.
A stack of past-due notices on the kitchenette counter, half hidden under shattered plates.
Old sneakers by the door, the soles nearly worn through.
A bottle of generic pain reliever next to a jar of multivitamins on the bathroom counter.
The basic necessities. No luxuries. A few articles of clothing still hang inside the closet, all fabrics showing signs of wear.
She clearly lives on the financial edge with no safety net. A single missed paycheck away from disaster. And now she’s lost her job at Red Bird’s. Her kakashka former boss told me when I went searching for her at the bar.
The thought sits on my chest like an elephant. I’m the reason she lost her income. One more thing I’ve taken from her, along with her sense of safety, her peace of mind, and her belief in a world where men don’t execute others in alleyways.
“You don’t have much.”
She stiffens, a subtle flush creeping up her neck and into her cheeks. “Not everyone needs much.”
The similarities between us create an uncomfortable resonance. I push the feeling aside to resume my assessment of her living space.
No men’s clothing in the visible wreckage. No sports equipment, no tech gadgets, no typical male possessions. No photos of boyfriends among the shattered frames. No evidence of any man in her life at all.
A glint of broken glass draws my attention to a half-hidden object beneath the overturned coffee table. I bend down, pushing aside the wreckage to reveal a picture frame. The glass is shattered, but the photo inside is intact.
Two women smile up at me, arms tossed around each other’s shoulders, heads tilted together in easy affection. Aurora and a slightly younger girl with auburn hair, brown eyes, and the same curve to her smile. Despite the difference in hair and eye color, the family resemblance is unmistakable.
I straighten, frame in hand, the broken glass tinkling as it plunges to the floor. My chest tightens at their preserved happiness, at the unguarded joy on Aurora’s face, so far from the fear and defiance she shows me now.
The photo was taken outdoors, against the backdrop of a campus building.
The younger of the two wears a Northwestern sweatshirt, her auburn hair caught by the wind.
Aurora stands beside her, pride evident in her posture and in the protective way she leans toward the other young woman.
Without words, this photo tells the story of sacrifice, love, and fierce loyalty. Qualities I understand all too well.
I hold the frame up for Aurora, who’s frozen across the room. “Sister?”
When her eyes lock on the picture in my hand, her face drains of color. “No.”
The desperate lie is a final, futile attempt to shield someone she loves from the danger she finds herself in. From me.
“Yes, she is.”
Her fingers curl around the book until her knuckles turn white. “Leave Samantha out of this.”
I file away the name confirmation, though I already knew it from my brief initial research after she escaped.
Aurora and Samantha Bailey, orphaned young, raised by a grandmother who died a few years ago.
Aurora dropped out of college to care for her sister.
Worked multiple jobs to support her over the years.
Lives in this shithole so Samantha can have a future.
It’s admirable.
Sacrificial.
Something I understand more than she might expect. I’ve sacrificed for my family, too, in different ways. Taken falls. Served time. Protected my brothers and was protected in turn, especially by MJ. Not that sacrifice or family loyalty saved him in the end.
I open my mouth, ready to demand the reason behind the lying.
I’m too slow.
Her expression breaks, the last thread of her control snapping.
The heavy book drops from her arms, thudding against the floor with a finality that echoes through the small studio.
In a wild motion, she lunges for a nearby table lamp, one of the few items still intact, and hurls it directly at my head.
I duck, the lamp sailing past me and shattering against the wall. “What the fuck?”
Before I can straighten, she’s on me, a savage, desperate fury of flying fists and clawing nails.
“No!” Her voice is raw with terror and rage. “No. You can’t hurt her. I won’t let you!”
Her fist connects with my gut, the impact sharper than I expected from her small frame.
I bring my arms up, more to shield myself than to restrain her.
She’s everywhere at once, striking at my chest, my face, my arms, any part of me she can reach.
Not calculated attacks, but the desperate flailing of someone with nothing left to lose.
“You stay away from her!” She punctuates her threat with another blow. “You hear me? Stay the hell away!”
I expected fear when I found her. Tears. Trembling. Even begging. I’ve seen it all before. The way people shatter when cornered by someone like me. But this feral, broken violence catches me off guard. She’s not fighting for herself. Despite knowing she can’t win, she’s fighting for her sister.
Her magnificent fury stirs an unexpected response in me. Respect.
I capture her wrists mid-swing. She struggles against my grip, twisting and jerking, still trying to land blows even with her arms restrained. When that fails, she kicks at my shins while spitting curses.
I tauten my grip. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt your sister.”
“Let go of me!” She jerks against my hold again, tears streaming down her face. “I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll kill you if you touch her!”
I don’t doubt that.
MJ had that same loyalty, that same willingness to sacrifice everything for family. It’s why he took that fall for me and went to prison in my place. Why he died.
I nod in acknowledgment of her warning. “Noted.”
Her chest rises and falls, the costume shifting with each breath.
A thin sheen of sweat glistens on her collarbone, drawing my attention to the delicate hollow at the base of her throat.
I force my gaze back to her face, to those bright green, gold-flecked eyes that still hold defiance despite her physical surrender.
The violence has passed, leaving a strange, saturated silence in its wake. A standoff with no clear victor.
The air between us changes, charged with emotion beyond anger or fear. Primal, electric. Her pupils dilate, and a flush that has nothing to do with her earlier exertion colors her cheeks. She feels this unwanted attraction between us, too, crackling like static before a storm.
I gentle my grip on her wrists without releasing them. “You good now?”
She gives a clipped nod, though her eyes never stray from mine. Recognition passes between us, a silent acknowledgement that this tether we feel is complicated by forces beyond our control.
“You’re never going to leave me alone, are you?” The words are more of a resigned conclusion than a question.
“No.” I release her wrists before raising a hand to brush my knuckles across her cheek and throat. “There are a lot of ways this can go, lyubimaya. All of them end with you in my car. The only question is whether you walk out willingly, or I toss you over my shoulder and carry you.”