19. Emzee
EMZEECHAPTER 19
W hen I stormed out of Ford’s apartment, it didn’t occur to me for a second to head back to my own place.
Instead, I marched straight out of the building and down the street, not slowing down until I found myself in the Prohibition Era-themed cocktail lounge on the corner.
It was the perfect place to curl up in a booth and brood.
Nothing but dim lights, dark wood, exposed brick, and pressed tin ceiling tiles as far as the eye could see.
It was also pleasantly uncrowded this early in the evening, with maybe a dozen people total.
Sidling up to the bar, I looked up at the chalkboard menu.
That was when it hit me all over again—I couldn’t drink.
But no one could stop me from sitting at the bar and having the same kind of good think I’d be having if I was able to order one of the cleverly named concoctions.
“Welcome. What can I get you?” the bartender, a cute tattooed guy wearing a period-appropriate hat and suspenders, asked me.
I glanced at the menu again, wishing so badly that I could order a Bee’s Knees or a Hanky Panky or even the Sweet Fallen Angel.
Pretty much everything was made with gin.
Alas.
“Can I just get a soda with lime, please?” I asked.
The bartender made the kind of face that said, “if you’re not drinking, why are you taking up a bar stool?”
After everything I’d just been through, I wasn’t about to be intimidated by this asshole.
So I smiled, exactly the kind of smile Claudia would use to get her way—playful, flirtatious, and with just a hint of apology—and crooked my finger at him in a “come hither” gesture.
It worked like a charm.
He leaned over the bar, closer to me.
“I really, really want to try one of these drinks,” I told him.
I might have even batted my eyelashes a little.
“But…?” he said, clearly interested in my answer.
I pouted. “But I’m still on antibiotics for this sinus infection I’m getting over, and the two don’t mix.” There was no way I was telling him about being pregnant, not with all the questions that might entail (or worse: pity).
“But since I’m just dyyyyying for a drink, I thought I’d do a good deed and pay for the next round for everyone else sitting at the bar. Anonymously, of course.”
His eyes lit up and he straightened.
“Of course,” he said.
“I totally get it.”
Placated, he made me my soda first and then got orders from the other people at the bar.
Then he came back in front of me to mix them all.
He was showing off for me, flipping the bottles he poured from and shaking the cocktail shaker like he was in a movie.
As he continued to perform, I smiled at him, grateful for the distraction.
But even as I looked on, I was drifting off in my mind.
To the reality I couldn’t deny I had made for myself.
This divorce was really going to happen, I was really going to be a single mom, and it was really looking like Claudia was going to be my baby’s stepmother.
Thank God I’d already had years of practice holding back my intense dislike of her behind bland smiles.
I felt like such an idiot thinking that Ford had actually changed.
Believing him when he said he loved me and wanted to build a family.
I should have known better.
The bar wasn’t crowded, which is why I was surprised when a man slid into the seat right next to mine.
There were plenty of stools available farther down.
Stirring my soda and lime, I hoped I wasn’t about to get hit on.
I really wasn’t in the mood.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that he was built like a brick house, overly large for the suit he was in and straining the fabric in the shoulders and arms. It was an expensive suit, though, and it impeccably matched the flashy Ferragamo shoes he was wearing.
“What are you drinking?” the man asked.
Damn. Called it. I turned toward him and noticed that he wasn’t bad looking.
Not that it mattered.
I wasn’t in the headspace to entertain revenge-flirting at the moment.
“Just a soda and lime,” I said, trying to give off a polite but disinterested vibe.
“Would be better with a little…Stolichnaya,” he suggested.
“Mind if I join you?”
Making a big show of looking at my watch, I said, “I’m flattered, but I’ve actually got to run soon. I’m not really looking for company.”
Just then the bartender came over, and my new friend ordered a Stoli on the rocks.
The bartender poured it out in front of Mr. Stoli, who was quick to take an appreciative gulp before slapping a hundred dollar bill on the bar.
“We’d like some privacy,” he told the bartender, who took the money and sidled as far away down the bar as possible.
What the hell?
“I should really be going,” I said.
The man smiled. “Few things in life are better than good vodka and good company.”
“Right. Well, enjoy it. The vodka, I mean.” I tried to sound chirpy as I started to ease off my stool, but before I could get my feet on solid ground, his hand clamped around my upper arm.
I stiffened immediately.
“Let me go.”
“We need to talk,” he said, his voice low.
It wasn’t a request. It was a threat.
He tugged the lapel of his jacket aside so I could see the black grip of what had to be a handgun tucked into a holster under his arm.
Then he raised his brows to make sure I understood, because I’d obviously been a little slow on the uptake.
Nodding carefully, I settled back on the stool.
“Good girl,” he said.
I’d been too distracted before to notice that this was not a guy who’d walked into a bar to flirt.
Too self-absorbed in my personal pity party to be suspicious when he took an immediate interest in me.
But everything was clicking now.
The reason his suit was so tight was because he was packing a lot of muscle under there.
A lot of muscle. His choice of vodka—a very obvious Russian brand—and the fact that he’d just flashed a weapon at me were all obvious signs: he worked for the Bratva.
Which meant that he was sitting next to me for a reason.
And it couldn’t be a good one.
Adrenaline rushed through me, and I could feel my armpits start to prickle with nervous perspiration.
It wasn’t just my life at stake right now—it was my baby’s.
Not to mention, my entire family.
I had no idea what this guy wanted, and no idea how to handle him.
I was fucking terrified.
But I knew panicking wouldn’t accomplish anything.
Luckily, I was well practiced at disguising my feelings, navigating stressful situations, and keeping my composure around powerful men.
And beyond the mandatory etiquette lessons that had been forced on me as a child, I’d spent years honing my survival skills.
My instincts quickly took over.
Rolling my eyes theatrically at him, I said, “Fine. You win. Why don’t you get another drink and grab us a booth? I’m going to the ladies’ room,” slurring my words just enough to seem convincing.
Before he could respond, I got up, making a point to stumble a little on my way across the room, knowing that he was watching me.
I had to appear drunk, like someone who might take an extra-long time in the bathroom.
But the moment the bathroom door closed, before the stall was even locked behind me, I had my phone in my hand.
I tried to think fast. Who could I call?
My first thought was Stefan, but he was in another state and he’d just had a fucking baby.
The last thing I wanted to do was ruin his new daddy glow by telling him that some meathead from the Russian mob had cornered me in a bar.
So I called Luka instead.
He wasn’t in the same state either, but maybe he would know what to do.
He’d definitely been in a lot more shady situations in his life than Stefan ever had.
“He what ?” my brother practically shouted when I told him about the guy at the bar and how he’d flashed his gun at me.
“He kept it inside his jacket,” I told him.
“I’m fine.”
“Jesus, nothing about this is fine!” Luka said.
“We need to get you out of there. Can you call the cops?”
I sighed.
“Even if they show up in time to arrest the guy, which I doubt, it’ll just make things worse for us later. They’ll keep sending people. It’s the mob , Luka.”
“Okay okay okay,” he said.
“We can figure something out. Let’s just think this through.”
“Luka, we don’t have time! I can’t hide in this bathroom forever—he’s bound to get suspicious and come after me. There’s nothing you can do from Chicago.”
We both knew it.
So instead of listening to him spitball ideas, I made him promise not to tell Stefan and then hung up and scrolled through my contacts, looking for the only other person I knew in the city who wouldn’t be put out at having to rescue me out of the blue.
Andrew.
“Emzee, what’s up?” Andrew asked when he picked up the phone.
“I’m in trouble,” I told him.
“Like, code red, nine-one-one emergency-level trouble, except I can’t actually call the police.”
“Okay,” he said calmly.
“Where are you?”
I couldn’t give him the specific details—i.e.
, that I was being followed by the Russian mob—but I did tell him which bar I was at and that a real creep had been hitting on me and was possibly armed and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“So I need to get out of here, stat,” I finished.
Thankfully, Andrew had a plan.
“I know the bar you’re at. There’s a back door past the bathrooms that opens into the alley, so you need to sneak out that way and then hang a right toward Metropolitan. About three doors down, you’ll see a place called Café Cuba that has a rear entrance. Grab a table in there, by the kitchens, and I’ll text you when I pull into the alley. You can duck right into my back seat.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get home safe.”
When I got to the café, I called Luka, who stayed on the phone with me until Andrew arrived.
As we drove back to my place, I couldn’t stop thinking about the baby…
and how much danger my whole family was in.
We had to find a way to pay off the Bratva, and fast.
Our lives depended on it.