Chapter 38 Willow
WILLOW
Armed with the new information Victor has uncovered, the Voronin brothers leap into action.
Breakfast is officially over as Victor takes his computer upstairs and practically barricades himself in his room to do research, trying to hunt down as much as he can about Ilya Petrov.
Malice and Ransom don’t have the resources that he does, or the neurotic aptitude to use them, so they do their recon by more conventional means, sifting through rumors and calling in a few favors to see if there’s anything they can learn on the street about this guy without drawing attention to themselves.
They spend the rest of the day on that, and I make myself scarce, not wanting to get into the middle of it and risk interrupting any of them.
As conflicted as I feel about leaving and this all possibly being over soon, I know it’s important for them to do this and do it right. Because if Ilya comes for them before they can get to him, then it could be ugly. There are three of them, and I’m sure they fight well together… but still.
I don’t want to see any of them hurt.
For my part, I try not to think too much. I hang out in Ransom’s room for a while, playing on my phone, then I spend a bit of time hunting down the pieces of clothing and things that have ended up scattered throughout the warehouse.
I take a shower in their bathroom later in the afternoon, running my fingers over their products on the shelves, taking in the little things that stand out for each of them, as if I’m trying to make sure the memories stay in my head.
All of this has been so chaotic and strange, and I can’t deny that a part of me is worried that I’ll go back to my regular life and realize this was all a dream or something.
Before, it would have felt like a blessing to discover this was all some nightmare that I could wake up from as if it had never happened. But now…
Now, I think I might miss them. Miss this.
I’m dressed and dry, sitting cross legged on Ransom’s bed when he pokes his head into the room.
It’s early evening by now, and my stomach growls, reminding me that after my banana and peanut butter sandwich, I only had an apple for lunch since I didn’t want to disturb Malice and Ransom, who were working in the kitchen for a good chunk of the day.
Ransom grins at the sound, cocking an eyebrow as he glances at my belly.
“Hey, look at that. Perfect timing,” he says. “We ordered a bunch of food to celebrate.”
“What are we celebrating?” I ask, getting up to follow him downstairs.
“We have a name to go with the face, and we’re working on a plan to take Ilya out,” he answers. “That’s reason enough.”
We walk into the kitchen, and the smell of the food makes my stomach growl even louder. There’s a huge spread laid out on the countertops, and I can tell just from the various scents that they’ve gotten dishes from my favorite Indian place.
There’s a big platter of samosas, containers of tikka masala, korma, and butter chicken, and a plate that’s full of nothing but garlic naan. It makes my mouth water just looking at it all, and I shoot Victor a glance, knowing it had to have been him who picked this.
He’s the one who knows everything about me, and he probably saw me order from this place when he was watching me on the cameras.
The last time I had it was the night I finally decided to start spending their money, and I can remember rationalizing to myself that I deserved a treat after everything these men had put me through.
It seems fitting in a weird way that we’re having it now.
For some reason, I’m not even really freaked out or pissed off by the idea that Victor used his spying to find out what food I like. It’s almost… sweet, in an odd way.
In a very Victor way, I guess.
“Don’t just stare at it,” Malice grumbles, kicking a chair out from the kitchen table for me. “Eat it. It’s gonna get cold.”
“Okay,” I say, smiling and taking my seat.
Victor passes out plates, and we all load them up with everything, scooping rice from the big container in the center of the counter, then adding the different kinds of curry and grabbing naan.
Everything smells amazing, and I tuck into the food happily, making a soft noise of enjoyment at the spicy, savory flavor.
As we eat, I find myself glancing around the table, watching each of the men as they talk easily amongst themselves.
I can clearly picture the three of them having meals like this before.
Maybe not this food specifically, but ordering pizza or something, passing the box around and filling their plates.
Like a unit.
Like a family.
Vic said it’s better to be alone than to be with someone who would hurt you, and after hearing Malice’s story about their dad, I understand why.
But the truth is, I don’t think he’ll ever have to be alone—not as long as the two men sitting across the table from him are still alive.
They’ll have his back no matter what, and that’s not something a lot of people can say.
The brothers are each so different, but those differences only seem to bind them closer together, rather than forcing them apart.
I watch Victor make neat little quadrants on his plate, keeping all of the curries separate, using the naan to keep from getting anything on his fingers.
Ransom just piles it all on, not seeming to care if the korma touches the tikka masala.
Malice has a samosa in his hand, and he dips it in what I know is the spiciest sauce, biting into it and not flinching.
Ransom goes back for more butter chicken, and some of the sauce drips between his plate and the container on the table.
“Must you?” Vic grimaces, chewing and swallowing his own neat bite.
“Yup. I must,” Ransom replies, but he cleans up the mess with a smile. “You know I’m always the messy one.”
“No you’re not,” Vic counters. “That’s Malice.”
“Fuck off,” Malice grunts, but there’s no heat in it.
“He is, you know. The messy one, I mean,” Ransom says, glancing over at me with amusement dancing in his ocean blue eyes. “There used to be this picture of him in our house growing up. It was Mom’s favorite.”
“Shut the fuck up, Ransom.”
But of course, Ransom doesn’t shut the fuck up. He just grins innocently at his brother. “It’s of him with pudding on his face and hands. Like he just stuck his hands into the bowl and decided to smear it all over his cheeks.”
He mimes the motion, dipping his hands into an invisible bowl of pudding and then rubbing them on his face.
I can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of me at that. It’s so hard to picture with the way Malice is now, and I can only imagine how cute it must have been.
Even Vic smiles a little, just the slight upturn of the corners of his mouth.
“He was very into pudding back then,” he says quietly, glancing at me.
“So? That shit’s good.” Malice shrugs. “But if we wanna talk about embarrassing shit, ask Ransom about his first date.”
The gleeful look on Ransom’s face falls a little, and he shakes his head. “Nah. We don’t have to talk about that.”
“Oh, I think we do,” Malice counters, grinning sharply. “Since you wanna drag shit up. Vic, you do the honors.”
I half expect Victor to decline, but instead, he launches right in.
“Ransom was twelve,” he begins.
“I was thirteen!” Ransom interjects.
Victor shoots him a look. “Ransom was twelve,” he says again, and out of the two of them, I definitely trust Victor to remember the exact age better. “And he was in love. Her name was Niccola, and she had hair like a satin pillowcase.”
“Oh my god.” Ransom groans. “You make one comparison, and it haunts you for your whole fucking life.” He throws up his hands defensively. “That was the softest thing in our house, okay? I had no idea what else to compare it to.”
I laugh, reaching over to pat his shoulder. “It’s very poetic.”
Vic tells the rest of the story, painting a picture of how Ransom asked this girl to go to the movies with him but didn’t think to secure a ride, so they ended up walking for four miles in the rain and missed the movie entirely.
“Her dad picked her up from the theater and definitely did not offer Ransom a ride home,” he finishes.
After a few more stories, the food is mostly gone, and we’re all full and content.
Ransom gets out the whiskey and we pass it around as we keep talking. It burns going down, making me feel a little fuzzy headed from just a few sips, but it also feels good.
I’ve never done anything like this before, just sitting around, telling stories and drinking. The closest thing was that frat party I went to, and I don’t even want to think about how that ended up.
After everything gets cleaned up to Victor’s satisfaction, we move out of the kitchen and settle in the living room.
The whiskey made it out with us, and we keep passing it around, drinking right from the bottle.
Even Victor has a couple of sips, although he does make a face and wipe off the mouth of the bottle every time it comes to him.
With each sip I take, I get a little warmer, a little more buzzy.
I can feel myself getting tipsy, although it’s not just the alcohol making me feel this way.
It’s the atmosphere in the room. It’s the way Ransom leans a little closer than he needs to when he hands me the bottle, his fingers brushing mine and making sparks dance up my arm.
It’s the way Malice’s deep voice rumbles in his chest as he talks, and the way it sounds when he laughs.
It’s the way Victor watches me, glancing my way whenever I bring the bottle to my lips, drinking up the sight just like I’m drinking the whiskey.
When the guys finally move on from telling embarrassing stories about each other, the conversation turns to tattoos.
“Remember Malice’s first one?” Ransom asks.
“The shitty little stick and poke he did in his bedroom?” Vic snorts. “How could I forget? We were so sure it was going to get infected. It was red and ugly for days before it finally started to heal.”