Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Candy
Three months later…
I smile at the drunk prick currently waving his glass at me as he leers at my chest.
I hate this job. Honestly, I was happier waxing whores’ kitties.
But even when Angel fired me, he helped me find a job that would support me and keep me out of sight.
I’m a waitress at a high-end bar full of rich pricks.
The idea…
This is a place Marco and his cronies would never look for me. It’s not the worst plan. But I felt way safer with Angel and his brothers. Even Rock.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, my face frozen in a polite expression.
“Yeah.” He licks his lips. “I’d like a taste of you.”
Ugh. Gross.
“Sorry. I’m not on the menu,” I say with a little laugh. Like that’s going to make it better.
All his friends, with their sweaters tied around their shoulders, laugh at my joke, but he scowls. “You could be. For me.”
My smile widens and grows brittle. How do I nicely tell this guy he’s not my brand of asshole.
If I’m going to date a selfish jerk, I want him covered in tattoos and marked by the kind of trouble that breaks bones.
I don’t need a spoiled weenie with a credit card.
“It’s against club policy,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Another round?”
I leave the table with a drink order, sighing as I go. Just what those guys need. More liquor. Maybe it’s time to move. Leave the city and start over.
My attachment to New York isn’t healthy. It’s just the place I came when I was a sixteen-year-old runaway.
And honestly, when I had no one, I had the city…
It just feels like home. But that isn’t enough reason to stay. Not anymore.
I give my drink order to the bartender and start for another table.
But that’s when I catch the gaze of three men sitting in the corner.
They don’t fit in here. Their clothes are nice enough, their demeanor quiet, but it’s the cut of their jackets, fitted to display muscles rather than wealth, the shine of their gold jewelry that’s a little too big, too flashy, that makes them stand out.
They look more mob than Upper East Side. These are details that matter. Observing these kinds of things helped me when I was on the street, and when I was at Angel’s whorehouse. I tense now, worried that their presence means something bad for me.
Averting my gaze, I move to my next table.
My hair is longer than I’ve ever kept it, the deep red ombre dye looking almost brunette in the dim light of the club.
My makeup is way more demure as well. It helps with tips that I look fresh and pretty instead of edgy.
I hope I’m not even recognizable as the woman who let Marco bring her to a drop, or the one who thought Vinnie might be her white knight.
An hour later, as my shift is about to end, I watch the three guys file out of the club, a sigh of relief rattling out of my lungs.
I close out my tabs, the bartender politely shooing a few of my more insistent tables out the door.
We break down the bar, wipe down the tables, and then I head out the back.
Walking the short distance to my studio apartment is likely not the best habit, but I like the quiet, and I can’t afford a cab or an Uber.
I walk softly, and having traded out my heels for sneakers, my steps hardly make a sound as I move through the shadows of the night.
But as I turn the final corner to my apartment, I hear a clatter that makes me freeze.
It’s probably an alley cat or some homeless person, but I cock my head, scanning the street anyway.
“Hey, Candy,” an unfamiliar voice calls from the shadows. “Marco has been looking for you.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I don’t think, I just run, sprinting toward the entrance of my apartment.
But I’ve barely made it ten feet when an iron hand locks around my bicep, yanking me off course.
I stumble, trying not to fall, when his other hand locks around my throat like a vise.
I grab at it, trying to loosen the grip, but I can already feel my lungs struggling to draw in air.
“Question,” the male voice whispers in my ear. “Want me to kill you now? Or would you prefer to take your chances with Marco? He’s pretty pissed you’ve stayed hidden for this long.”
I gag, unable to answer when two more men fill my narrowing view.
“Does it have to be one or the other?” I recognize the guy talking from the bar. These are the mob guys who were sitting in the corner.
A tear tracks down my cheek, even as I choke on my own spit.
I knew I was only safe with Angel. So stupid to have blown that up for a one-night stand.
Then again, maybe it’s time to just end my pathetic life already.
The other guy licks his lips as he stares me up and down. “Yeah, Pablo, we could have some fun first.”
Cold dread numbs me, stealing my every thought as I completely freeze. This can’t be happening.
The other guy leers. “As long as she ends up dead—”
But he doesn’t get a chance to finish.
I see the flash of metal and then watch as a blade sinks into his neck.
He drops with a gurgle, even as the other guy spins.
My vision is going black, and I can hardly think, but I hear the other guy drop before I start sinking too.
“You’ve got one second to let her go before I cut off the hand you’re holding her neck with.”
The Russian accent hits my ear, waking me up, as the hand at my throat loosens, air rushing into my lungs as I draw in a gasping breath.
Sver stands in front of me, his shoulders broader than I remember, his stance wide.
He swings the bloody knife in his hand and that’s when the man behind me lets out a blood-curdling scream.
I’m free in a second as I stumble to the ground.
With a quick move that I don’t even understand, Sver catches me before I hit the ground and spins me from in between him and the other man.
Blood is everywhere as he grabs Pablo, pinning him to the wall. It takes no more than two seconds and Pablo’s hands are cuffed behind his back, a gag in his mouth.
“Now…” I hear Sver speak softly into the man’s ear. “The choice is yours. Take me to Marco and live. Or refuse and die next to your friends. Thoughts?”
Take him to Marco?
I stare up at Sver, slowly sinking to the ground, my legs not able to hold me.
“Candy.” Sver gives me a quick glance over his shoulder. “I’m going to need you to get up and take yourself inside.”
“I…” I cry softly. I’m tough. Street tough.
But my hand is currently resting in a pool of blood. “I’m not sure I can.”
“You can, sweet treat. Be a good girl and take yourself up to your apartment and then lock the door.”
Blinking several times, I let out a puff of air and then push up, willing my legs to hold me. When they do, I take a tentative step, my sneaker slipping in the blood. “I’m sorry,” I gasp.
“There is nothing for you to be sorry about, milaya. Take your sneakers off. I’ll take care of them.”
I do as he commands, managing to avoid stepping in any more blood. Then I tiptoe in my socks the hundred yards to my front door.
Somehow the key is still in my pocket, and I pull it out, looking over my shoulder at Sver.
He nods to me. “Inside.”
Pablo has started to struggle, but Sver holds him like he’s a child, not struggling at all, his gaze intent upon me.
“Will I see you again?” I don’t even know if I want to or not.
“Inside,” he commands softly.
I don’t ask any more questions as I insert the key and open the door, racing up the stairs.
But when I make it to my apartment and lock the door, that’s when I notice I’ve gotten blood all over the door handle.
I let out a scream and then race to the sink, washing off the blood as best I can.
And then I sit myself on the tiny kitchen floor, afraid to touch anything else. I look down at my hand, noting that there is blood under my fingernails.
Letting out a small cry, I clasp my hands together and lean my back against the tiny bank of cabinets.
Closing my eyes, I let the tears I’ve been mostly holding in fall down my cheeks.