Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
VIVIAN
“What the… Jace!” I shriek when he picks me up, hugging me like a doll against his chest, trying to shield my body with his as he rushes me back inside The Mercier.
Jace turns to the concierge. “Security exit. Now.”
The concierge rushes. “Right this way.”
“Put me down!” Yes, I’m still dangling in Jace’s grasp while guests turn, gawking at us.
“Viv, rarely will I say this, but shut up.”
“Oh, okay. Sure. Why use my feet when you’re around?”
The concierge keeps glancing back at us, leading us through a labyrinth of hallways and downstairs—yes, Jace is still carrying me—so I let myself noodle in his arms because we’ve gone way past ridiculous to oh well.
I huff. “I’m assuming there’ll be an explanation for this?”
Jace doesn’t even break a sweat. “I’m rushing you through the bowels of a five-star hotel to escape into a hidden alley. Take a guess. Hint: we’re not going on our honeymoon.”
Our honeymoon?
Now is not the time to swoon for one with him… but I do.
“This way, sir.” The concierge quickly taps a code into the keypad of an unmarked white door, then swings it open. The smell of mildew hits us like a bomb. “This is the owner’s secret security exit.”
“Where will it take us?” Jace demands.
“It’s an old rum-runner’s tunnel, sir. Follow it to the end, take a right, and climb up the ladder. The code is 739. The iron gate will open behind a church on King Street.”
Jace sets me down, grabbing my hand, and tugging me along so fast I barely have time to turn around and shout, “Thank you, Percy!”
The concierge waves before shutting the metal door. With a heavy clang, it closes as dim, waterproof emergency lights flicker on, illuminating brick walls that look centuries old. This tunnel has survived hundreds of years and many hurricanes, but we may not survive it.
Jace’s hand suddenly squeezes mine, sweating and shaking, though he doesn’t stop leading the way.
His claustrophobia.
“We got this.” I urge. “Keep going.”
He doesn’t speak. He keeps guiding me, but after a minute, the deeper we’re into the underground tunnel, his steps falter. Collapsing against the dank brick wall, he’s huffing. Skin clammy. Eyes frantically searching the ceiling with no escape.
“Hey.” I step in front of him, clasping his sweaty face. “Look at me.” He tries but can’t focus. My sweet big guy is four years old again and trapped inside a wooden trunk.
“Jace Ryan.” I pull his sweaty forehead down to meet mine. “Stay with me, please. You’re safe. We’re gonna be okay.”
“That’s not my name.” He huffs.
Okay, I’ll play along. It’s his panic attack, and I just want to help him. “Okay, if you’re talking, you’re breathing, so tell me your name.”
“Jasha Ruslanovich Kholodov.”
He says it with an accent so accurate and thick he’s not hallucinating. He’s Russian. DNA. Criminal. Family. I put it together fast.
Jace is Bratva.
Unfortunately for me, my ex-husband watched John Wick like Keanu Reeves was a cult leader. I had to suffer through way too many Gun-Fu movies.
Fortunately for Jace, I don’t care because I only care about him.
“Okay, Jasha.” I press my forehead to his again, willing his stare to lock on mine. “I’m Vivian Rhiannon Tate.”
He blinks. “Rihanna?”
“No, Rhiannon. I wish I could say I was an R heard you got a hot peach.”
Jace is seeing a new side of me, I know.
The feisty old Vivian from my teen years got tranquilized by a bullshit marriage to a man-child. But now she’s wide awake and wants to take care of her very grown-ass man.
He smirks. “I’m not the only one who’ll be explaining things tonight.”
Tonight?
I don’t know what he’s planning as we climb the ladder and step onto a narrow brick landing before we’re greeted by a modern keypad that clicks the antique gate open.
Clearly, Luca Mercier and his wife, Scarlett, have their security on lock. This shit is covert and clever.
Greeted by fresh air and sunshine, Jace regains his color. He grabs his phone from his jacket and makes a call. “Lock it down,” he barks, then hangs up.
“Lock what down?”
“Delta’s.”
“Is that where we’re going?”
“That’s where we’re staying tonight.”
“Tonight? But Jace, I have to go home, or he’ll—”
His eyebrows lower like a predator. “He’ll eat my fucking fist for breakfast; I don’t care. He’s a tadpole, while we’re swimming with sharks.”
“But I—”
Jace presses a fingertip to my lips. “Viv?”
“Shut up?” I sputter.
He grins. “You said it, not me.”
I roll my eyes before he reaches into his jacket, pulling his gun out of his undercover shoulder holster.
He aims it low with one hand and takes my hand with his other, leading us through a maze of alleys, old carriageways, and even private gardens until we’re standing at the brick wall to the courtyard behind Delta’s.
With a shrill whistle, Jace calls out. It’s immediately mocked by one on the other side of the wall.
“What is this?” I marvel at the sky. “A bird sanctuary?”
“No.” Jace grins, lacing his fingers together and squatting. “It’s your boarding call over this brick wall. Come on. Up you go.”
My fists land on my waist. “I am not—”
He cocks a brow.
“Fine.” I huff, stepping into his hands like a basket. “I want so much fucking ice cream for this.”
“You got it, Smokeshow.” Lifting me like a balloon as I grab the top of the wall, he praises, “Anything to have your hot ass in my face; just sayin’.”
I could glance back and sass him, but I’m too busy being catapulted over a brick wall and falling into Grant’s waiting arms.
“Pussy falling from the sky!” Grant booms. “My prayers have been answered.”
With a heavy thud, Jace lands on booted feet beside us.
“Who?” Grant asks him as he sets me down.
“One of them.”
“One of who?” Why do I ask? Like either will answer.
Jace points to the roof of the house next to this one and the one across the street. “Snipers,” he tells me. “Up there to protect us from who. Don’t worry. You’re safe.”
I squint, scanning the rooflines. “I don’t see them.”
Jace leans down, whispering, “Hence, snipers.”
Grant chuckles. “Alright. We’re locked down. Let’s go.”
I don’t hate Jace’s new habit of taking my hand. It makes me feel safe.
But I can’t stop my old habit of blurting out questions.
“Did you close Delta’s? Oh my god, what about my client?
Did you upset her? You fucking better not have.
” I stomp up the back wooden stairs to the piazza.
“And what about Stacey? You closed her shop? She’s gonna be pissed.
And then you’ll have to deal with her husbands, and—”
Jace tugs my hand, yanking me so fast, I bounce off his chest with an “umph.”
“Again,” he mutters sweetly, “I don’t want to say it, and I don’t want to waste our first kiss on making your lips stop, but…”
I bat my lashes. “Shut up?”
He snaps his fingers and cutely points at my smile. “You guessed it.”
Leading me inside and up the stairs to my studio, he leaves me standing in the middle of the room while he aims for the windows. Tugging the sheers closed, he draws the rarely used ivory-velvet curtains. “Stay in here.” He marches back toward the door. “We have to meet, then I’ll be back.”
I glance over my shoulder, then back at him. “Oh, I’m sorry. Does someone in here have to obey you?”
He leans on the doorjamb, smiling as he crosses his ankles. “Didn’t know you could be this feisty. Kinda fucking love it.”
“Didn’t know you could be Bratva.” I plop down on the edge of the bed and smile, swinging my sandals. “Kinda better tell me more, or I’m gonna lose my shit.”
Is it possible for him to smile even bigger? Yep. “I’m not Bratva.” I open my mouth to protest the obvious, but he calmly adds, “My shithead father is their Pakhan, their leader. And most of these inked men you’ve seen around here.” He circles his finger. “Are my brothers.”
I got nothing. No tears. No sass. Nothing but shock. “Brothers?” I bleat. “Like Russian nesting dolls, one after another after another after another, brothers?”
“Matryoshka dolls.” Again, his Russian is perfect. Not that I’d know, but I know sexy, and it is.
“How many brothers?”
“Six of us. Counting Nash, who’s not our blood brother, makes seven.”
I raise my index finger. “Pause for mind blown.” I process. “Seven? Seven men? So that’s…” I squint, willing my brain to puzzle this out. “You, Nash, Grant, Nick. And let me guess. That Michael lawyer guy, and—”
“Axel.” Jace crosses his arms, settling into my interrogation. “Michael’s real name is Axel.”
“Okay, Axel and…” I make my memory work. Who’s been here? “The pastor. Rutledge.” I snap my fingers. “Sire! That’s his name: Sire Rutledge. And…” Fuck, I have to use my fingers, counting them. “Who am I missing?”
“Loch: the baby, who’s the biggest.”
My jaw drops. “There’s one bigger than you?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I got an inch on him where it counts.”
“Cute,” I deadpan.
“I am that: the cutest.” He bounces his brows. “Now, if we’re done for now, we have an emergency meeting, then I’ll be back.”
“Okay, Terminator, one more question.”
He pushes off the doorjamb, chuckling, “Shoot.”
I let my chest fall. I let the past hour catch up to me. I let the chaos of this fall away and focus on him. Knowing from this moment forward, Jace will be the rest of my life.
And I’m happy about it.
Though suddenly… I fear how long our lives will be.
“Why are you telling me all of this now?” I ask. “We’ve been best friends for a year; you could’ve trusted me. You could’ve told me.”
He exhales, softening. “Same reason you didn’t tell me about the bribe. I worried you’d judge me.”
“Judge you because your father is Bratva?”
“No, judge me because if I get the chance, I’m gonna fucking kill him.”
He turns to go upstairs, and I don’t dare ask; kill who?
His father or my ex?