Chapter Twelve
In which Violet relishes the foreign feeling of being cared for.
Violet…
Larry did not handle it well when he found out why I was in hiding with Rose and Iris.
"I'm going to fucking kill him."
I've seen my best friend hysterical with rage, cold with fury, sobbing and heartbroken after a terrible breakup, but I've never heard that strange, flat tone before.
"You don't have to worry about that," I say. "I'm sure karma will get him." Best friend or not I was not going to admit to him that I had hired Roman to kill Jack. I wasn't going to put the burden of that secrecy on him.
***
Roman had pulled me into his office in the morning, with an uncharacteristically grave expression. He told me that Jack had disappeared and shook his head at my hopeful thought that maybe he did die that night.
"No. His body would turn up if that was the case. The corpse would act as a cautionary tale to not fuck with the Bianchi Mafia. Likely mutilated."
***
"How are you going to handle this?" Larry asks.
"I've got a couple of friends helping me," I say carefully.
"There should be a tall, tattooed guy, probably with a slight Russian accent who goes by the name of Ioann showing up for the horde of paperwork I need for that grant proposal.
I can also take care of timesheets, and payroll from here.
Do you have enough volunteers to man all the reading groups? "
"Don't stress about that," Larry says. "I can worry about manpower. The kids are already asking about you, though. What should I say?"
I laugh bleakly. "Tell them I'm on vacation." It's not funny at all because Larry knows I haven't gone on vacation since… Somewhere in my early teens, I think.
"Sadly, they'll probably be happy about that," Larry says. "Everyone knows what a creepy workaholic you are."
"Your honesty is so refreshing," I say sourly, rubbing my forehead. I'm watching Rose and Iris play pool with Deven, one of Roman's guards who, for a tattooed killer, already looks thoroughly outnumbered by the two of them.
"What can I bring you?" Larry asks. "Tell me where you are, I can drop by with your favorite marzipan candies and the nauseating cotton-candy flavored Boba drinks the girls love."
"Let's not risk it," I say, thinking longingly of the marzipan candies that Mrs. Oleksy makes at her bakery around the corner from the shelter.
What I wouldn't do for a box of those right now…
I cave, my deep-seated need to not cause additional work losing to the lure of marzipan. "I hate to ask this, but maybe you could run down and grab a box and give it to the Russian who will be picking up my paperwork?"
There's silence and then I hear loud applause. "Sweet zombie jesus, you're actually doing something self-indulgent?" Larry cackles. "Who the fuck are you and where is my friend Saint Violet?"
"Yeah, that's very funny." If Larry knew I was spending my retirement fund on a murder for hire, I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be attaching "Saint" to the front of my name anymore. Though it might almost be worth it so he would stop with that irritating nickname.
"All right," he says, "marzipan candy and paperwork will be all stacked up and ready to go within the hour." I hear him shut the door of my office and his tone shifts. "Be honest with me. Are you in danger?"
"It's worse than we thought," I say. I have to be as honest as I can be with him. Larry always knows when I'm lying. "Going into hiding like this feels like overkill, but it's Rose and Iris, you know?"
"I get it," he says, his tone warming up again.
"Look, in the end, these are just pampered little country club fucks, and no matter what Jackie boy is up to, it's not like they can kidnap you or anything.
" He laughs heartily, the sound dying off as he realizes I'm not joining in.
"Oh, holy shit." he says, voice hushed. "You know they always say it's the white-collar criminals that are the real monsters.
At least those organized crime guys are honest about what they're doing, huh? "
I want to say that the Bratva assassin I hired swooped in and saved us when Jack's murder went wrong. That he'd opened his home to us, enduring the efforts of my sisters to seduce his guards. Instead, I say, "Cheer me up before we hang up. What does your shirt say today?"
"It's a picture of a rooster and it's saying 'F-caw-f'."
"What?"
He makes a noise like a rooster. "F-caw-f!"
I burst into laughter, repeating it back, "F-caw-f, Larry honey!"
With another rude rooster noise, he disconnects the call.
***
It's close to midnight when Roman returns home.
I look up from my makeshift office in his library and jump half a foot when I see him leaning against the doorway, arms folded, watching me.
He's rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, brazenly displayed his arm porn again, damn him.
As he shifts, I watch the scales of that dragon tattoo on his forearm move and glitter in the light.
"How many tattoos do you have?"
His brow elegantly arches. "Well, hello to you too."
"I'm sorry" I sigh. "I've been working on this grant proposal for seven hours and I'm questioning all my life choices that have led me to this moment. Apparently, I have lost my social skills in the process."
"No problem," he chuckles, walking over to me.
He's wearing dark jeans, tight against his muscled thighs and it's pouring gasoline over my ovaries, which have been deep in hibernation, and lighting them on fire.
They are reminding me it's been months, okay, years…
(Okay, let's not count back that far shall we?) Since I've had sex and this man is the living embodiment of sin.
"Are you almost done for the night?" he asks, bracing one hand on the back of my chair and one on the desk. I can feel the heat off his body, his 5 o'clock shadow in fine detail and the firm curve of his jaw.
I've gotta go and get on the treadmill and work off some of this sexual tension before I go up in flames.
"Oh, there's another three or four hours at least," I say.
"That's it. Get your ass up." His large hand reaches down, taking mine.
"Wait, no!" I protest as he hauls me across the room. "This proposal is due in two days!"
"You finished maybe half your sentences in there before zoning out and staring at me," he says heartlessly.
I'm so grateful he thinks it's exhaustion and not my treacherous ovaries demanding an introduction to his dick.
"You'll eat first."
"How do you know I didn't eat?" I counter, enjoying the feeling of his warm hand pulling me into the kitchen.
"When I checked in on the girls - who have decorated my theatre room with popcorn by the way - they said they hadn't seen you leave the library for hours. They're currently picking up popcorn kernels and wiping the chocolate stains off the leather recliners."
"I'm sorry. I usually keep them busy in the summer working at the shelter. They're really good with the kids," I say proudly.
He's pulling one of his chef's neatly labeled trays out of the fridge. "Have you had much Russian food?"
Propping my elbows on the counter and my chin on my hands, I watch him, put it in to heat. "No, other than a classmate of mine at Columbia who used to make blinis for us when he was in a good mood…" My words die off as I watch Roman destroy any control I have left.
He's reaching up to a higher shelf for a plate, and the long line of his body is beautiful.
His powerful chest and shoulders, that narrow waist that a model would murder for.
My gaze drops enough to see the shape of his perfect ass before I hastily look away.
I definitely need some time on the treadmill.
What kind of a sick freak gets turned on looking at a hired killer's ass? Me, I am that sick freak.
Roman, unaware of the profound battle for my self-control, plates the meal, and puts it in front of me.
He takes another bowl from the fridge and adds a dollop of sour cream, adding it to my feast. "This is borscht, cold beet soup.
This luscious dish is Salmon Coulibiac, salmon in puff pastry with rice, mushrooms and eggs.
" The pastry is fluffy and golden, and the heavenly smell of salmon makes me stifle a groan.
"It's the most perfect thing in this room, aside from your exquisite…" Roman's eyes are fixed on my chest. "Exquisite personality," he finishes smoothly. He pours me a glass of wine and gets a tumbler of vodka for himself, before leaning against the sink, watching me eat.
His steady gaze makes me realize I'm gobbling the salmon like a raccoon in a dumpster and I try to slow down. "Um, so what were you up to tonight? Can I ask?"
"Oh, a little of this, a little of that." He gives me his devil's smile again. "I stopped by Sinful Secrets to get an update from my manager. We have a sex auction coming up this weekend and two new experts giving demonstrations on bondage, and another on erotic piercings."
I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth. "What, like nipple piercings?"
Roman chuckles, a raspy little dark laugh that's doing nothing to ease my clamoring lower half. "Oh, sweet Violet, that's just the beginning."
I stuff my forkful of salmon in my mouth to keep from blurting something stupid, like, "Please ravish me here on the counter right now. I mean, after I put the salmon away. I'd be needing that later."
"Is there anything else that you have to sign off on tonight?"
"For the shelter? Yeah payroll. I'll grab it in a minute."
"Don't get up," he says. "Where is it? I'll bring it in."
I'm blissfully savoring the rich taste of the borscht, the cold meaty bite of the beets with the sharp tang of the sour cream.
"On the right corner of the desk," I sigh.
He gives another low chuckle before leaving the kitchen.
I barely notice because I'm having a mini food orgasm and I'm not going to interrupt this moment because this is as close to the real thing that I've had in years. .
Five minutes later, Roman returns with a pile of folders, still straightening the papers.
"A couple of forms fell off the desk, so I put everything back together," he says.
"I think I've got it. This just needs your signature on the bottom of each form, right?
" He puts my wine glass in my right hand and a pen in my left.
"I'll hold the paper steady," he says, humor still painfully evident in his tone.
"Just sip and sign, baby, and then you're done for the night. "
I'm just tired enough that my anal-retentive nature is stuffed in the trunk, pounding with a shrill voice for me to obsess and overcorrect. I ignore it as I sign, enjoying the crisp taste of the red wine on my tongue.
"Good girl." Roman's tone is soothing, his mouth close to my ear, intimate.
"Just three more forms." I finish signing, and he straightens the papers with a click on the granite countertop.
"I'll put these back on your desk," he says.
"Finish your dinner." He lightly kneads the back of my neck before he leaves, and I rest my cheek on my wine glass for a moment, enjoying the foreign sensation of being carried for.