11. Dimitri
11
DIMITRI
I ’m distracted the day after, and the day after that. A week has passed and I can honestly say I still think of Willow in that fucking dress approximately every thirty-seven seconds, which is an improvement.
Honestly, she took me aback. I mean, I get updates. I see pictures. Videos. Plenty of those. I knew what she looks like now. I thought I was prepared for a face-to-face.
What a fucking joke. There’s not a man alive prepared for Willow Brown.
God, that ass.
I need to do something about this. The question is what, exactly.
I’m thoroughly ignoring the report in front of me and pondering my options Saturday morning when my phone vibrates. Not many people can get through, least of all on ring.
I glance at the screen, finding a text from one of my old…friends?
Mikhail Artyomov—Mishka for short—trained with me from age seven to seventeen. He stayed in the life and is a captain, now. We’re still in touch, though rarely in person, and never about anything business related. Although I suppose he works for me—aka, for my wife.
Mishka: Hey, so, I have a bit of a baffling situation here. Not an emergency, so if you’re busy, tell me to fuck off.
It’s highly unusual for Mishka to get in touch with me about what he’d consider “a situation.” I got hitched to a mafia princess to avoid dealing with situations . But I can’t deny the distraction is welcome right now.
Me: Shoot.
I wait as my old friend types a message that will be the length of a three-tome fantasy series going by how long it takes, likely because he writes properly, rather than summarizing, shortening, and using abbreviations like most people do through text—something we have in common.
I don’t doubt he’ll give me a full report; it’s impossible for anyone to go through my phone, or his. I own the server, and it’s better protected than most federal institutions.
Mishka: Well, we cleared up a rival’s turf, at your missus’s order. She got the details; I won’t bore you with them. But turned out, those assholes weren’t just trading flesh, guns, and drugs like we assumed. They organized dog fights. For some reasons they have crate full of tiny dogs, too. You know, the lap kind? I think they used them as bait for training or somewhat. The little things are terrified. There are even puppies. Not sure what to do.
Puppies? I reread the message, baffled. No wonder he contacted me. This is so far from his list of competencies.
I mentally run through my list of contacts. If it had been a West Coast thing I’d know who to call—one of my cousins shacked up with a Goody Two-shoes into rescues, but here?
Me: How many dogs are we talking?
Mishka: A dozen big ones. They’re aggressive toward each other, but not really towards us. I can bring them to the compound temporarily, I guess, so long as we keep them separate. We’ll manage. But the tiny ones, not sure what to do. I don’t want them around the big ones. Ivan said to drown them. I told him I’d drown him if he doesn’t fuck off.
I grimace in distaste.
Me: Feel free to shoot him at your convenience.
Mishka: I would, but your missus is fond of him. So what do I do with the lap dogs? They can’t be around the big ones, and I think they might need some care.
My mind’s stopped racing, as one specific image takes form.
The same girl I always imagine on my sofa, now surrounded by tiny dogs.
It’s bold. She’s pissed at me, and can barely stand to be in my presence right now, if the party’s any indication. But there’s no way the Willow I know can resist puppies.
Me: Bring them here. I have a temporary solution.
Mishka: Yeah?
He seems surprised, and no wonder. I might be the brains, weaving plans, fixing problems, using various contacts to get my way, but I rarely get personally involved in anything.
Mishka: I figured you’d tell me to call the missus.
Yeah, right.
Me: I’m not certain she wouldn’t order you to drown them too.
Mishka: Too true. All right. A bunch of baby Chihuahuas coming your way, I guess. They’ll be at yours in an hour.
It might be the weekend, but when I text my assistant to find me a vet who can be at mine in an hour, I expect him to be on it within minutes. With what I pay him, he’d get back to me in the middle of his wedding if I asked. And indeed, he replies within seconds to let me know he’s on it.
I keep the messaging app open, scrolling to find the open thread, still on that damn enticing invitation from two years ago. There’s a fair chance Willow’s blocked me by now, but just in case she didn’t, I text her.
Me: I have a job for you.
She takes almost as long as Mishka to type a reply. Staring at the screen, I tense, expecting an essay on all the reasons why she wouldn’t do anything for me, as well as an invitation to do something anatomically impossible.
But when her reply comes, it’s just a couple of words.
Willow: A job?
I choose to misunderstand the question.
Me: A gainfully employed activity. Ask your sister, she knows all about working for a living.
She’s faster this time.
Willow: You’re a dick. And why do you have a job for me? Don’t you have people for everything, down to wiping your ass?
I grin at the screen. That’s not a no. And she hasn’t blocked me yet.
Me: This is beyond their scope of capabilities.
Willow: What is it?
She’s curious. Of course she is. I could tell her all about it now, but something makes me want to see if I can get away with teasing her instead.
Me: Come and see.
Willow: Can I ask how long it’ll take at least?
That’s definitely not a no. In fact, it almost sounds like a yes.
I have to think.
Me: The weekend, with a possibility to extend. One thousand a day, cash, non-negotiable.
Willow: All right, I’m in.
Me: So easily convinced. What if I wanted you on your back for forty-eight hours?
Willow: You definitely have people for that.
Me: I’ll send my driver to yours in two hours.
I stare at the screen for longer than I care to admit. She’s coming here. To my house. This feels somehow both much too soon and far too late. And inevitable.
You’re not keeping her here, I remind myself. She’s only coming for the puppies.
Fuck.
The puppies are chaos. Tiny, fragile, and somewhat endearing balls of fur running all over the place. Ben, my assistant, has the foresight to arrive with supplies, and set up a puppy pen without which I would have lost my sanity—along with my mohair rug, in all honesty.
The vet he contacted comes along soon after to examine all of the pups.
“This one’s the mom,” she says, pointing to a white short-haired, five-pound, underweight thing. “They’re all old enough to have been weaned, but I don’t think their…previous owners bothered to transition them to puppy food yet. I don’t think any of them have been trained much, but they’re all relatively young. Underfed, but otherwise healthy. I’ll prescribe you a nutrition paste to supplement their diet.”
“Can you recommend someone who can help?” I ask. “A rescue or some such.”
She nods. “I’ll leave you a few names. But many rescues around the city are overwhelmed. The puppies should be adopted out easily enough, but the chances aren’t good for older, untrained Chihuahuas—especially skinny, unkempt ones.”
She’s trying very hard not to look too judgmental, but given her mouth is pressed in a thin line, I clearly read the unsaid, you’d be a dick to drop them off at a shelter where they’d just die.
I run my hand through my hair, sighing. “Someone’s coming to help. Any minute now. While they’re sick, they can stay, I guess. But I’ll need those names to know what to do with them after they’ve recovered. I’m not a dog person. A friend just found these and brought them to me. I want to help, but I’m away from home about eighteen hours per day.”
She nods, mollified. “I see. Well, it’s very generous of you to take on over half a dozen dogs out of the blue. I’d say, make sure the little ones are on solids, try to housebreak the three adults, and it should be relatively easy to have them adopted.”
I’m about to ask how long it’ll take when I hear my main door slide open.
“Your coat, miss?” I hear Charles ask.
“Oh, thank you, Charles.”
I’m fully aware that the vet is talking, but my attention is on the two sets of footsteps approaching.
And then all of a sudden, she’s here, in my lounge.
I watch her in silence as her eyes go from me, to the vet, and then, a squeak calls her attention to the puppies.
I would let those tiny rats pee on my afghan any day to see that smile, and the way her eyes widen with pure joy. “Oh my god, look at them! Aren’t they adorable?”
She’s adorable, and I’m not the only one thinking it: the vet’s smiling for the first time. “I take it that’s your help for the puppies?”
The vet wisely gives up on trying to talk to me, approaching Willow instead.
And I just watch.
She’s wearing thick tights, and an A-line dress with a sweetheart neckline, like a pinup. It does nothing to hide her mouthwatering curves, though the outfit, on anyone else, would look reserved. Classic. On her, it’s sinful.
Her halo of fiery hair is tied in a high ponytail, and my eyes keep returning to her neck, long and straight. She has poise. None of that slouching so many people are prone to.
The vet reiterates the care instructions she gave, and unlike me, Willow attentively listens to all of it.
I decide to make myself useful, brewing a round of coffee for everyone present, though I’m loath to leave the lounge for even a moment. Then, as they’re still chatting, I open my computer and pretend to get some work done.
The vet was stiff with me, but she opens up to Willow. She’s impossible to resist. She’s telling her about the shelter her office often works with, and how desperate they are for help—fosters, food, blankets, volunteers.
“It’s depressing, honestly. This time of the year, thousands of homes will get a new puppy, and so many are going to end up back in a shelter by September, when they’re no longer deemed cute by irresponsible owners who haven’t done anything to train them. My staff and I do what we can in our free time, but it’s never enough.”
After a while, I can’t take it. “I’ll send a donation if you leave the details with Ben,” I interject.
Both women look up, like they’d completely forgotten I was even there.
“Oh, thank you. I wasn’t angling for a donation, just venting.” She flushes a little, shyly.
I can tell she’s telling the truth: Willow’s simply easy to open up to, so she was unloading her personal worries.
“You should,” I say. “Angle for donations from wealthy clients, if things are that dire.” With a shrug, I add, “Why not organize a fundraiser to help? I know plenty of people happy to be seen giving money.”
“We don’t all have those kinds of contacts,” she replies briskly.
Back to judgmental. I am no Willow.
“Well, he does,” Willows tells the vet with a grin. “So, bug him. Clearly, he has a soft spot for puppies.”
I walked into that one, didn’t I? Intervening to make sure no one drowned the puppies—and inadvertently scoring an excuse to have her in my flat—doesn’t exactly make me a stray mutt advocate. I meant it when I offered a donation, and I had every plan of being generous, but there’s a very big difference between signing a check and helping with fundraising efforts. One costs money. The other costs time, which is infinitely more valuable.
But Willow Brown is staring at me with those baby blue eyes, so what choice do I have?
“Ben can help you coordinate something. He’ll handle the guest list.”
Fuck.