Chapter 33
Alexei
The front of Reznik Select Cuts gleams under fluorescent lights like a clean, bright lie.
Behind the pristine glass counter, cuts of meat sandwiched between sheets of butcher paper are arranged with artistic precision.
Hooks hanging behind the counter display a variety of link sausages.
A chalkboard on the back wall shares the daily specials.
The customers never see what happens in the back. The blood, the bones, the guts.
Just like my business. Pretty storefronts mask ugly realities.
But none of it touches me today. Not after that incredible night Aurora and I shared.
I need to invite my sister over more often.
I nod at the stocky bald man in the white apron behind the counter, and he gestures toward the back without a word.
He knows who I am and why I’m here. While we’re not close to the Reznik Bratva that runs this butcher shop, our Pakhans have a working relationship.
That’s why I rarely venture into this part of town.
When I do, I carry extra weapons.
As I push through the swinging door, a blast of cold, dry air, heavy with the coppery tang of blood and the astringent burn of bleach, hits me.
Leaning against a massive steel table and wearing a thick black apron, Ilya Reznik is the epitome of nonchalance. “Alexei.” His pale brown hair might be called blond if it weren’t buzzed short. “Been a while.”
I keep my distance while scanning the room for threats. “Not long enough.”
His laugh bounces off the silver surfaces. “Still the charmer. Congratulations on the engagement, by the way. Surprised everyone. The girl must be something special.”
I ignore the bait. “You know why I’m here.”
“Benny. Yeah, he came to us. Said MJ was onto something.” He shrugs like we’re discussing the weather instead of my dead brother. “Wanted to sell his information.”
“What information?” I keep my voice flat, though my hands itch to close around this fucker’s throat.
“Intel about your family’s past.” Ilya offers a lazy half wave. Though the man exudes sloth and ineffectiveness, he’s always on top of things. “He said we could use it against you.”
His eyes find mine, testing for a reaction.
I give him nothing. “What was it?”
“No clue.” Ilya’s gaze never leaves mine as he wipes the blood from a wicked meat cleaver and places it at the end of a row of knives. “Benny just said that MJ had a valuable lead.”
“Valuable?” Genuine astonishment fissures my control. Sounds like the lead was based on bullshit. “That could mean anything.”
“Exactly.” He rolls his watery blue eyes to indicate his own disbelief. “He’d have done better trying to sell that story to Hollywood. We told him to get lost. Little bitch said he was going to the Falcones next. Like that’s a threat.” His laugh is dismissive. “Loser. Glad someone dropped him.”
“Is that all?” Surely there must be more.
The air shifts as the door opens behind me.
“That’s it. I stopped listening once I knew he was full of shit.” Ilya peers over my shoulder, flat chin jutting up. “Once again, congrats on the engagement. But I’ve got work to do.”
“I appreciate the help.”
I leave without another word, passing one of Ilya’s men as he hovers just inside the door.
Maybe Benny was a liar, but even rumors can get people killed.
Which means my next target is clear.
ALEXEI
By ten that night, I know all about Gio Falcone’s routine.
Where he lives. Which gym he frequents. What time he gets his cappuccino.
Which barista he flirts with. The information flows in through my network, surveillance photos, credit card records, and traffic cam footage.
The modern world leaves no hiding places for men like us.
We exist in shadows, yes, but a thousand digital eyes capture those shadows.
Which is why I never stick to a predictable schedule.
The next morning dawns chilly and gray. I park across from Gio’s preferred coffee shop. The neighborhood is upscale, old money Chicago posing as New York.
Gio arrives at seven-fifteen, dressed down in pricey designer casual.
I observe through the window as he orders and flirts.
When he exits with his cup in hand, I block his path. “Gio. Fancy running into you here.”
His mouth gapes open before a wide smile spreads across his face like oil on water. “What a surprise.” He claps my shoulder, all fake cordiality and exaggerated joy. “Alexei fucking Kozlov! Good to see you, man. It’s been a while.”
I force myself to return the smile and play this game of feigned amity. “Been busy.”
“I heard. Engaged, man. That’s huge.” He sips his cappuccino, foam clinging to his upper lip. “Who’s the lucky lady?”
“Someone special. Listen, I’m trying to track down some information about a guy. Benny Parker. Ever talk to him?”
Confusion flickers across Gio’s face a beat too slowly. “Benny?”
I examine every micro-expression. “He was MJ’s cellmate in prison.”
“If you say so. Is this family business? Sorry, Lexei. Never met the guy.” Gio sips more of his cappuccino. “Who said I knew him?”
His voice is just a shade too casual.
I shrug. “Word on the street is he wanted to sell you information.”
“Ah. The street.” Gio nods sagely. “Well, they got it wrong this time.” He claps my shoulder again. “Though I am sorry about your brother. That was rough. If you ever need to talk…”
I pretend to accept the condolences and lies. “Appreciate it.” I move aside, allowing him to pass. “Take care, Gio.”
“You too. And congrats again on the engagement.”
I linger as he marches away, my friendly facade never slipping.
The flash of panic in his eyes when I mentioned Benny remains stamped in my mind.
ALEXEI
Frustration coils like a viper in my gut during my return trip to the loft. Gio lied to my face. He knows more about Benny than he admitted…maybe even about MJ.
I enter my home, and that coil of frustration tightens in my gut.
Silence.
Empty space where there should be movement.
Where’s Aurora?
I check the kitchen first, then the guest bedroom, tension building with each vacant area. My gun is in my hand before I consciously decide to draw it.
Then I hear a faint, rhythmic cracking from somewhere below.
The freight elevator descends with agonizing slowness. My muscles tense, ready for whatever awaits. As the doors slide open, music swallows me like a rainstorm in the desert. Female vocals soar over driving percussion in a song about finding happiness at long last.
With goggles strapped to her face and her hair in a messy ponytail, Aurora grips the mallet in one hand and smashes a stack of ugly floral plates.
Shards spray in every direction, reflecting the light streaming through the windows and transforming destruction into a shower of glittering stars.
She isn’t angry.
She’s dancing.
Pixie supervises from a nearby windowsill, her orange tail curled around her paws.
The cat is completely unbothered by the noise, crashes, and flying fragments.
She licks her toes with practiced indifference, then returns to supervising her human with mysterious feline satisfaction.
Even the animal understands what I’m just beginning to comprehend.
Aurora’s destruction isn’t like mine.
Hers results in creation. Rebirth.
I holster my gun, drawn to her like gravity. This is what I do. Break things, hurt people, destroy. But she smashes to build and create. Crafts the shattered, worthless pieces into art.
She spins, using her hammer as a microphone before catching sight of me. Her face lights up from behind the plastic safety goggles. She hits a button on a speaker, lowering the volume enough to be heard without shouting.
“Come here!” She waves me over with the mallet. “I’ve been making so much progress! I’ve almost finished two pieces, and I’m starting a third using those shells we found.”
I obey her command, lured by her enthusiasm, by the life radiating from her in waves. My earlier frustration recedes. “What are you working on now?”
“Breaking shit! Seeing how it falls apart.” She hands me a pair of goggles. “Here, try it. It’s incredibly therapeutic.”
I slip the goggles on, feeling ridiculous.
She shoves a mallet into my hand and arranges three chipped dinner plates on a thick rubber mat. “Just hit them. Not too hard at first. You want breaks, not dust.”
I swing the mallet, reveling in the pleasing crunch as porcelain gives way beneath the blow. The sensation is nothing like crushing bones, yet the release feels familiar. I strike the plates again, a little harder, and watch them splinter into jagged shards.
“Perfect! Now try these.” She sets up a collection of blue glass bottles.
We work side by side, smashing the glass methodically with hammers as she dances in place. She sorts the shattered fragments by color, texture, and potential. I don’t fully understand, but I listen anyway as her hands move. I miss most of the words because I’m too caught up in the wonder of her.
This is all I want. This. With her. Forever.
The thought hits without warning, piercing me like a bullet to the heart.
Despite the shock, I realize it’s true. I want this shared destruction, this creation, this woman with safety goggles and wild hair who rambles on about sea glass and oyster shells like they’re precious gems. I even want the stupid cat in the window and the too-loud music and the warmth blooming in my chest that might be hope.
I interrupt her explanation of grout techniques to say, “I got you into an art show.”
She freezes. “You did what?” Her hands tug at her earlobes. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t possibly have heard you correctly. I thought you said…but I must be mistaken. No one can just…”
“An art show. Juried. Downtown gallery. Someone dropped out. I suggested that you could take their place.” I wave to the creations already sprouting from the plywood canvas.
What I fail to mention is that I paid the artist ten grand to drop out.
A minor detail. “Maybe other people can’t. Kozlovs can. And I did. So you’re in.”
The mallet clatters to the floor. “Oh my god. I can’t believe it.” Her hands fly to her face, pushing the goggles up into her hair. “Are you serious? How? What? When?”
“Next week. Opening night is Friday.” I inspect her works in progress, trying to ignore her excited wiggling. “Do you think you can have a few pieces ready by then?”
She whips around to scan her workspace, clearly pondering and planning. When she swivels back to me, she pushes close, rises on her toes, and presses her lips to mine.
I wrap my arms around her and deepen the kiss. She parts her lips so my tongue can slip inside to tangle with hers. I tug her closer and revel in her body heat as it seeps through my clothing.
For several seconds—or maybe minutes—all rational thought flees, and I lose myself in her. I devour her mouth while her sweet, fruity scent invades my senses. My control begins to fray. This beautiful, maddening woman could do anything right now, and I think I might let her.
Her lips curve into a smile as she cards her fingers through my hair and plants a lingering kiss on the corner of my mouth. “Thank you.”
Kissing Aurora? Pretty fucking certain I just soared past the pearly gates and landed on the streets of gold.
She spins free, her ponytail whacking my chest as she returns to her workstation. “I need to finish the ocean piece.” She’s already picking up tools. “And the broken mirror one. And maybe the butterfly if I can get the wing right…”
She’s talking more to herself than to me, completely absorbed in the possibilities opening before her.
I watch her for a few more minutes. With a stupid grin plastered on my face, I stride toward the elevator and leave her to her creations. I have calls to make and work to do. But right now, the heavy weight that usually crushes my chest feels lighter, and the path seems a little less dark.
Maybe there’s room in my life for more than just breaking things.