23. Whos the boss?
Chapter 23
Who's the boss?
TOMER
W ith my fingers flying across my laptop keys, I sit on top of the covers with my back against the headboard. My sugar bear cuddles beside me, always keeping a hand or leg on me.
She’s still afraid I’ll leave her side.
Even in her sleep, her fear persists.
I stop typing and brush the hair back from her face.
For a long time, I watch her sleep, blissfully content, soaking up the simple joy of her presence. As hopeful as I may be that her love for me will be able to weather the looming turmoil, I’m acutely aware I’m always one misstep away from losing her. A single slipup about her father or another revelation about how fucked-up I am could be the tipping point.
After tucking her hair behind her ear, I draw the backs of my knuckles over her cheek. A sense of awe fills me, making my chest tighten. I sweep my gaze down her nude frame, basking in how ethereal she looks entangled with my gray sheets. Such a striking contrast to her fair skin.
The marks those monsters gave her are fading. Some scars will remain.
Yet she’ll always be perfect in my eyes.
Once we passed out in satiated bliss from our morning activities —as unexpected as they were pleasurable — I napped for about an hour before the insistent need for justice woke me. I cleaned us up, got dressed, and then returned here to work.
Our house guests will probably wake up soon. With everyone else sleeping, I figure it’s a good time to check up on shit at Redleg and hunt down trafficking scum.
Klein and I exchanged a few messages this morning. He and Mia are still uncertain who hacked her security system on the night of Lettie’s rescue. With enemies capable of something that tricky, I’m even more relieved about the rotation of Redleg guards around here.
Idly, I wonder if Leo, Sawyer, and Shep felt this way when the Redleg contingent rallied to protect their partners. I didn’t think I’d ever be on this side of the arrangement.
It’s . . . unsettling. Yet no less powerful.
My remorse over not being there for my team is festering, burrowing into my stomach. It hits me hardest at times like these—when the house is quiet and Lettie is resting.
I haven’t been away from my Redleg peers since its inception. No vacation. No sick days except when my appendix ruptured. Even when I’m physically out of the office, I’m on-call, often working remotely. I take the odd day off but rarely go more than a few hours without working on something .
For years.
It’s probably unhealthy to work so much. Yet it’s all I’ve known.
Without question, Lettie is the most important part of my life, and I will not abandon her when she needs me. But I would be lying if I said I wasn’t conflicted about not being there for my coworkers.
Big Al, especially.
Those men and women have kept me going for a long time. Redleg’s the only place where I’ve felt needed. Truly needed. Valuable.
Worthy.
If Bask is where I go to feel normal, Redleg is where I go to find purpose.
At least it was that way until Violet fluttered into my life and made me want more. Not only to get more out of life but to be more.
And to love, experiencing love in return.
She became my purpose.
No matter how uncomfortable it feels to take a step back from Redleg, nothing could hurt worse than not being here for Lettie.
Glancing down at her, I find myself drawn to touch her again. Afraid to wake her, I resist the urge. She looks so peaceful.
During her interview with the detectives, she revealed how terrifying it was to sleep at that fucking house. Exhausted and longing for respite while dreading the nightmares that would surely come once she surrendered to the tug of night. Equally fearful of how she’d be awakened.
Her description drove a familiar blade straight into my chest.
Without knowing it, she gave words to some of my earliest memories in life.
As if sensing how much I need a distraction, Lettie sighs and adjusts her position, shimmying nearer to me.
I relish the closeness.
Luckily, there’s been no sign of sleep terrors for Lettie. If only her waking hours were as forgiving.
If there were a program I could implant in her brain to delete her memories of that trauma, I would do it without hesitation. Even if doing so meant she wouldn’t remember me either.
Since I can’t do that, I return my attention to my laptop to resume tackling the things I have the power to accomplish.
Over the next hour, I learn quite a bit.
Davidov was arrested yesterday. A victim named Sabrina, who’s staying at the women’s shelter funded by the Langleys, eagerly came forward to identify him as one of the men who assaulted her at the prep house. With hers and Lettie’s statements identifying him as the man who drugged her, Patterson was able to charge Davidov, getting him out of Redleg custody.
As for additional evidence to make the charges stick, Mia’s got it well in hand. She covertly fed Detective Patterson the steps he’d need to take to recreate the evidence she previously found. Now, the prosecution will have the victims’ testimonies plus all the social media photos and videos, including the one showing him pouring something into Lettie’s drink and another with him helping her leave the bar. That should take care of him.
Unless the mole at the FBI fucks us over.
Should that occur, I have no qualms about hunting him down to administer my own justice, which is precisely how I’ll be handling his partner—Yev. After what I saw on that video, he’s all mine. What’s one more on the MFKL?
Unfortunately, I’m not much closer to identifying the upper echelon in Lenkov’s organization with respect to the trafficking ring. But I’ll get there.
Once I find these lowlifes, I’ll decide whether I handle them myself or turn them over to the cops. I want to see what happens with the mole on the task force first. I also need time to vet Detective Patterson’s new partner, a female detective by the name of Daisy Salgado. Before I go handing over these traffickers, I need to ensure she’s not in Lenkov’s pocket. However, given the tender approach she had with Lettie yesterday during her interview, I suspect she’ll be a strong ally for Redleg.
I’m elbow-deep researching one of the men inside the house on the night of the raid, when Lettie stirs beside me.
A startled gasp passes her delicate lips.
Shifting my focus away from my screen, my stomach sinks at the terrified expression on Lettie’s face. Jaw gaping, she stares at my laptop, where a photo of the fucker is displayed.
Shit . I should’ve shielded it from her view or closed it when she first started waking. Fucking hindsight.
“That’s him.” Her voice trembles, but there are hints of strength braided in her tone.
“That’s who, baby?”
“Skidmark,” she answers.
I close the lid to my computer so she doesn’t have to look at the hideous face of one of the men who violated her.
Kadin Dean.
Can’t wait until his heart stops beating.
The name she said reverberates around my mind, making me double back. Thus far, I haven’t uncovered anything to lead me to believe he goes by Skidmark. Although, it is fitting for a shit stain on the underwear of life like him.
Now I can’t help but wonder what other intel Lettie might have. I don’t fault her for not telling me everything. More than most, I know how hard it is to talk about our deepest wounds.
All week, I’ve avoided peppering her with questions, preferring to let her decide what she shares with me and when. From what I observed during her interview with the cops, I figured she was holding something back. Not out of malice but self-preservation. The cops didn’t press her too much, which I appreciated. Yet I saw her tells.
I wonder if she’s ready to talk about it.
Only one way to find out.
“Sugar bear, is that what he goes by?”
A bratty grin tickles the corners of her mouth. “Not officially. It’s what I called him. Inside my head. I had names for them all. Skidmark. Creepy. Weasel. And a few others that don’t bear repeating.”
Her tone doesn’t reveal much about her mental state, leaving me unsure if I should drop the topic or ask a follow-up question.
Instead of guessing, I’ll ask her. “Lettie, do you?—”
Our words trip over each other. “Skidmark called the shots.” She grows introspective, her smirk fading and her eyes becoming unfocused. “Well, that’s not entirely true. He was only in charge when...” Her words trail off, and her face blanches as if she’s seen a ghost.
After blinking a half dozen times, her eyes go vacant. A cloud of sadness sails behind her irises.
Curiosity gets the better of me, along with a fervent desire to find out what’s made her react this strongly, so I gently urge her to continue. “When what, sweetness?”
Repeatedly, she shakes her head in a scant wobble. The movement is so damn subtle I almost miss it. With her next breath, she dispels a lungful of trepidation, mashes her eyes closed, and flops her head back on her pillow. “I need to tell you about this. But you’re gonna be mad.”
Mad at her? That’s absurd.
I tell her as much. “No. Not a chance, sugar.”
Immediately discarding my assertion, she scoffs, “But I didn’t tell you who...” Words fail her, disappearing off her tongue.
Or maybe they’re getting clogged in her throat. The confidence she had only a second ago while denying my ability to withhold my anger has vanished.
Whatever she’s about to say is gonna be a gut punch. And potentially a junk punch.
Inherently, I know I need to hear this—whatever it is. Quite possibly, it’s more significant than anything else she’s said since I carried her out of that place.
“Lettie, no matter what you say or don’t say, I won’t be upset with you. I promise.”
Opening her eyes, she scoots closer, burrowing against my chest while remaining reclined on her side. “You’re misunderstanding me. I’m not worried about you being mad at me. ”
Shit.
A minute ago, she was serene, sleeping peacefully. All it took was a glimpse of my screen to shatter her tranquility. One look of something I should have never let her see. No matter what I do, I keep upsetting her.
I don’t even need my father’s memory to castigate me for this.
“Lettie, this is important, isn’t it?”
Her grip around me tightens. “I think it is. Particularly since you’re helping the cops find the men responsible.” Her shaky breath against my chest signals her trepidation, and my gut sinks like a boulder. “It’s not only that, though. I-I-I need you to know what happened so you can help me figure out what he meant. I won’t be able to get over any of this until we talk this out. And dammit , I want to move on—especially from this. But I’m... babe, I’m utterly terrified of what might happen when I tell you this part. That’s why I haven’t talked about it yet.”
My pulse goes haywire. I could swear it’s starting and stopping every few seconds.
Out of everything she’s revealed thus far about what happened to her, this is somehow heavier. Denser . The sheer idea of telling me makes her look like she’s weighed down, struggling to rid herself of the burden.
I know that look.
From somewhere deep inside me, I channel a calmness I do not feel. “What are you scared of?”
A morose chuckle shakes her chest. “About this? Absolutely everything. Your reaction. How horrific it’ll be to relive it. The consequences I’ll face for lying to the cops. And worst of all, if what he said is true, I’m petrified about what will happen. To me. My family.” In a barely audible whisper, she adds, “And to us.”
I’m terrified now too.
In the service, there was an expression I heard a time or two. When you’re going through hell, keep on going.
Never has it been more apropos.
No matter how much it hurts or how much I bleed. No matter how much we burn, we must keep going.
Gathering my courage and steeling my resolve, I softly lift her chin with my thumb and forefinger, encouraging her to look at me. “Lettie, you don’t need to be scared to tell me anything. Ever. I won’t be mad. It won’t change my feelings for you. No matter what it is, I’ll handle the fallout. I’ll fix it. I swear to you.”
It’s a vow to myself as much as her.
She exhales a jagged breath like the oxygen scrapes her chest on the way out. Before speaking, she sits up. Looking around the bed, she grabs her tank top and tosses it on.
We’re no longer touching. Her shoulders are square to mine. We’re eye to eye.
Despite it being only a few inches, the distance between us is a vast chasm. The morbid side of me wonders if I’m about to fall, tumbling down the crag.
With unwavering strength and a raised chin, she holds my stare. “That man, Skidmark, was in charge at the house. He decided everything. When we slept. If we ate. If we were allowed water or to use the restroom.” Her face contorts, and she practically spits out the rest. “Whose turn it was. He was in charge, so you definitely need to find him.” She gulps. “However...” Pausing, she raises her pointer finger and closes her eyes. When they open again, they’re darker. Colder. “There’s someone else. Skidmark was only in charge when the real boss wasn’t there. Of all of them, he’s the one you need to stop. He needs to pay for what he’s done.”
I should have known Lettie would have the answers. She’s never failed to surprise me with what she’s capable of accomplishing. Why should this be any different?
More than likely, the real boss is Lenkov. Although, I can’t see him going into that prep house. Seems beneath him.
“Who is the real boss, Lettie baby?”
She doesn’t answer right away, which gives me far too much time to consider other possibilities.
Usually Lettie’s a fast talker, probably a byproduct of her ADHD. Lots of thoughts, most of them flying out before she can synthesize them. Not the case today.
Every word she delivers is thick with meaning.
“His name. Is. Viktor.” The disdain in her tone sends shards of glass through my veins.
I recognize the name instantly. One of Lenkov’s adult children just torpedoed to the front of the MFKL.
The urge to grab my phone to fire off a message to Mia to see what intel she has on him is almost too much to dismiss. The only thing that stops me is the way Lettie is starting to break down. Saying his name has caused a visceral reaction inside her that she can’t suppress.
Behind the facade she tries to show—a mask of hard-fought confidence and bravery—are memories she never wanted to relive. Yet she’s forcing herself to say it.
She’s so fucking strong. Although I don’t have the right to be proud of her, I am and always will be.
Reaching forward, I offer her my hand by placing it between us on the bed, palm facing up.
She accepts it, lacing her fingers through mine and pulling our joined hands onto her lap.
With renewed strength, she continues. “Viktor is important in the mafia. He’s the son of the head guy. Tasha called him the pack... pack something.”
“Pakhan,” I suggest, head nodding.
She pulses around my hand. “Yes, that’s it.”
My jaw clenches as frustration assaults me. Not at Lettie. But at our supposed informants.
Tasha didn’t volunteer this information to me when I visited her and Savin. Just another morsel of intel they were keeping locked up until they got a deal from the feds. Only this isn’t a morsel but the whole fucking enchilada.
Thanks to my newfound empathy—as inconvenient as it may be—I get why they’d keep that quiet for now.
Still makes me want to beat the fuck out of something.
I shoot a puff of air crisply through my rounded lips and gently urge Lettie to tell me more. “When Tasha told you about Viktor, what all did she say? How does she know he’s in charge?”
“She’s not how I found out he was the one in charge.” She licks her lips, her nervousness spiking. “You see, on the first day I was there, I was pretending to be unconscious and overheard a couple of the men talking. They said the boss was coming to the house. Like it was a big deal. And then Creeper,” she blinks and adds, “Sorry. Davidov called Viktor the baby boss . He doesn’t think too highly of him.”
Vital intel always comes from the inside. Lettie is too smart and a bit too nosy to not have gathered valuable information. As much as I’d love to shield her from any further discussion or thoughts about her time there, her assistance will expedite my efforts immensely. I’m so fucking glad she’s finally sharing this.
And if I’m honest, I’m relieved she’s telling me before she tells the cops. It gives me the opportunity to handle it the way I see fit.
“Did Viktor show up, Lettie?”
Her eye contact slips, tears filling her blue eyes.
A-fucking-gain.
I detest when she cries. Not because I only love her when she’s shiny and happy—much like she once assumed. It’s the sheer agony her tears inflict on me.
And I’m not blaming her for that. Not at all.
Her tears might as well be blades, stabbing me deeper with each one she sheds.
She deserves happiness. All the time.
Nothing but warmth and joy—because that’s what she is.
Thick grains of salt are shoved into the gaping wounds of my soul when she finally quavers, “He did show up.”
Fuck . What did he do to her?
After moving my laptop onto the floor, I pat my thighs, beckoning her. “Can you crawl up here without hurting yourself so I can hold you? If you can’t, I’ll spoon you. I need you closer.”
At this point, I’m unsure if I need to hold her to comfort her or myself.
Perhaps it’s both.
Nodding, she moves swiftly. “I don’t care if it hurts.”
Sweet angel.
Watching her closely, I notice no flinches or outward show of pain as she shimmies onto my lap.
No. All Lettie’s agony resides on the inside, likely overpowering the bruised ribs and other injuries.
Her thighs spread to straddle me, and she rests her arms on my shoulders.
The nerves radiating from her are palpable.
With my hands skimming up and down her back, she takes a few calming breaths. Her delicate fingers tug and stroke the hairline at my nape.
“He was the first one who,” she pauses but holds my eye contact, “assaulted me.”
My tongue sits heavy in my mouth, weighed down with lead.
I can’t swallow.
Can barely breathe.
Her tragic admission lodges a lump in my throat, threatening to shut my windpipe.
Not only is Lenkov profiting off the trafficking, his son is partaking in it.
I don’t know why it’s such a surprise. After all, I heard the story about Nikolai Lenkov impregnating Savin’s sister, one of their captives. The rotten apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Morbid curiosity, coupled with a burgeoning desire to fuel my blood lust, spurs me to prod her some. “He likes to be first?”
Her chin wobbles, and a deluge of tears fills her eyes. In no time at all, they overflow and pour down her cheeks in rivulets. She buries her face into my neck and cries, her shoulders shaking with the force of her silent sobs.
Despite not intending my question to be any more upsetting than the rest of this conversation, I’m startled and a touch bewildered by her drastic and woeful reaction.
All I can do is hold her.
That’s it.
Could anything ever ease such brutal agony?
My vision grows cloudy with unshed tears. In the back of my mind, I hear my father’s not-so-veiled threats, reminding me that boys don’t cry. And if they do, there are consequences.
Painful ones.
Closing my eyes, I fill my lungs and force the emotion deep into my gut, where it’ll rot like a rancid corpse.
Unsure where to go from here, I simply stroke her hair and wait for her to speak. If she can’t continue, so be it. If she needs time, I’ll give it to her. It’s all at her pace.
Unlike those monsters, I won’t force her to do a fucking thing.
Eventually, her tears dry, and she pulls back to hold my gaze. “He didn’t,” she clears her throat, “He didn’t want to be first with all the girls. Only me.”
Bypassing my ears, her words slam straight into my soul, knocking the wind out of me.
The truth doesn’t always set you free.
It hunts you in the night, stalking you like prey. Once it finally catches you, it never lets you escape its clutches.
All week long, I’ve hid from this realization. Ignored it. Batted it away. Denied it because I knew— I fucking knew —it would kill me.
But the truth caught up to me.
It always does.
Lettie’s abduction wasn’t a random act. She wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong fucking time.
She was targeted. For a reason.
Because of me.
A sense of déjà vu floods me, drowning me without a drop of water.
This isn’t the first time someone or something I’ve loved suffered due to my existence in their life.
My dog.
My mother.
And now my Lettie.
“Because of me.” My tone is layered with razors, maliciously slicing their way out of my throat. “They took you. Because. Of me.”
Every line on her precious face turns downward, her features sagging under the weight of immeasurable sadness. The heartbreak woven into her sobs smothers me, and I snap my mouth shut before I say anything else.
However, the words I hold back sail through my mind without interference.
They beat you because of me.
Burned you.
Whipped you.
They . . . violated you because of me.
Bile rises from my gut as those words—and the meaning behind them—reverberate inside my skull.
My vision hazes in and out.
A dull blade stabs its way into my chest, then simultaneously slices me up and down, butchering me from my skull to my toes.
At least I was able to bite my tongue. She doesn’t need to hear those words. She fucking lived it already.
Because of me.
True to her gracious heart, Violet attempts to soften the blow. “It’s not your fault. He may have said that, but most of what he told me doesn’t make sense. It was probably all bullshit. I don’t believe him.”
I shake my head, ready to refute her words.
She’s having none of it. With more determination than I’ve seen before, she cups my cheeks and lowers her face, leaving no space between us. “Listen to me right now. I only told you this so you can figure out what’s happening and go after the right people. I don’t believe—not for a damn minute—that you were the cause of this. And even if you were, I would still choose to be with you.”
There’s no way this beautiful soul could possibly mean those words.
Nobody would ever choose to suffer the way she did for someone like me.
Overlooking her white lies, which she’s only telling to ease my guilt, I focus on something else she said.
If it’s what I think it is, she would undoubtedly choose another life.
“What else did he say that doesn’t make sense?”
The silence falls like the dark of night, snuffing out all light.
I don’t want to hear the answer. I know I don’t.
But there’s no stopping in the middle of hell.
Reluctantly, I prod her to continue, adding a pulse of my hands around her waist. “What else, Lettie? What else did he say?”
She swallows audibly and licks her lips.
“Did you know my father?”