Chapter 38 – Ilya
T he water in the sink ran pink as it diluted the crimson stains. The last capo was a messy little shit, deciding to squirm out of my hold more than once. I had to resort to using a knife. But at last, he was gone.
The phone in my duffel bag played a new melody.
I froze, my ears straining to catch the notes.
It couldn’t be.
No one else had that tone.
What are you doing? Answer her, you idiot!
I scrambled across the room, tearing the zipper open, snatching the phone from the inside, and stabbing at the screen. The moisture on my fingers made the contact slippery. Once. Twice! On the third try, it connected.
“Hello,” I gasped. “Izzy?”
“Phantom! Hi, um…are you okay?” Laughter mixed with uncertainty in her voice.
I cleared my throat. “I just got home.”
“Oh, home,” she breathed. “Oh, okay, never mind. Have a dog for me at Byron’s.”
“What?” And then it dawned on me. “I’m at my flat. Here. In Jersey.”
This time her relief was palpable. “I thought home meant Chicago.”
Not without you, rusalka. “So…you like Byron’s?” I asked by way of distracting her.
“It’s the thing I miss most about the Windy City. Best hot dogs imaginable.”
“We’ll have to go,” I mused and sat on the bed. There might be DNA from my unwashed, sullied clothing. I was pretty sure the stain on my leg, from where the capo leaked on me, was still wet. I looked. Sure enough. There was blood on the duvet. Screw it, I’d burn anything fibrous before I left town.
“Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Isabella said, voice becoming suddenly businesslike.
“Do tell.” Apprehension clawed inside me. She didn’t seem opposed to me massacring her entire organization, but the topic of what came after hadn’t been discussed.
Her long exhale blew against the mouthpiece. My skin craved to feel it, straining toward the intangible sound.
“I want a proper date, Ilya.”
I blinked. “Okay.”
That could mean so many things. Most guys did the typical dinner, maybe catching a show. Under the current circumstances, it would be difficult but not impossible. Given everything we’d been through, however, that typical dinner show nonsense wasn’t going to cut it for me. Unless she expressly wanted it. Even then I would pull out every stop and flare to make it the most Isabella-approved dinner show imaginable and—
“I can’t pilfer the food, but if you brought a picnic basket,” she suggested timidly, “we could meet up in the woods. Have a meal. Talk.”
I held my breath waiting for more.
She seemed to be waiting too.
“Yes?” I finally whispered, unable to take the suspense a moment longer.
“So I was hoping this could be more of a first date—and I know we’ve screwed up the order! If we do more than kiss, I guess that’s fine too, but I want to know you, Ilya,” she said in a rush. “You know so much about me. I want to get to know you. So talking, eating, maybe a little kissing. Does that sound good to you?”
While she sounded nervous, I began to sweat. I hadn’t considered this. I thought she would see by my actions that I was sincere. That she could learn to trust me. And she did. We wouldn’t be at this point in our relationship if she didn’t.
But opening up to her?
I can do it. For her, I would bare my soul, gnarled, ugly, and scarred though it might be.
“Anything in particular that you’re hungry for?” I asked gruffly.
Relief washed through her voice. “Bring me something you enjoy eating.”
Food was energy. I ate because once there was nothing to eat. What did I like?
Lemon tarts. I liked lemon tarts. Where the fuck does one find those?
“I’ll see you around two a.m.?” my little siren confirmed.
“I’ll be there,” I promised, because nothing short of Kingdom Come would stop me from answering her sweet call.