Chapter 8 Rem
REM
Lena is talking to the Russian when I get to the bar. He says something and she tips her head back and laughs, her thick braid sliding down her back and her eyes crinkling in delight. If she’s thrown by the vicious scar bisecting the left side of his face, she gives no hint of it.
Maybe she’s faking it. Maybe she’s not. Either way, the sight of her enjoying herself with him makes my trigger finger twitchy.
“Single malt, rocks.” She jumps at my voice, shocked by my arrival at her workplace. The hand she’s using to pour a glass of wine wobbles, but she masks her reaction quickly. Not a single drop spilled.
Steady under pressure. That’s my girl.
The thought stops me dead.
Lena Haywood isn’t my girl. Our engagement is a means to an end. She’s a job at best. At worst, she’s a danger to everything I value in this world, the thing I’d give my life for: my family.
Lena ignores my drink order, giving me a fuck off glare as she slides a glass of wine to the Arkhangel.
I catch a flash of her left hand as she moves behind the bar.
The diamond I put there a few hours ago winks back at me.
Her look of defiance combined with my mark of possession on her body—it’s a one-two punch that makes my heart pound and my cock hard.
The need to kiss that defiance off her face hits me so hard I can taste it. Hell, the need to taste her mouth for any reason is quickly becoming an obsession. I really could use that stiff drink.
“Excuse me, but I think you’re making our charming bartender uncomfortable with your staring.”
I turn to the source of the comment and find the Russian looking between me and Lena. His expression is neutral but the hardness in his eyes is unmistakable. As is his interest in Lena.
He’s resting one elbow on the bar, the fingers of that hand playing with the wine glass stem as if his only care in the world is his next sip.
But the Arkhangel has moved his other hand to his hip and is slowly sliding it under his jacket and behind his back to where his gun is strapped.
He stares me dead in the face as he does it, his head tipping in Lena’s direction like a neon fucking arrow.
“Perhaps,” he drawls, accent barely noticeable, “you should take your drink and go. Let me resume my conversation with the lovely Ms. Haywood.”
He knows her name. The hitman is here for Lena, and he wants me to know it. Now he’s just waiting to see what I’m going to do about it.
I prop a hip against the bar, mimicking his casual stance. Staking a claim. “Ah, but I’m still waiting for my drink. Though”—I catch Lena’s attention—“I’m changing my order. Dirty martini, olives.”
The fact that she’s still wearing the ring apparently means nothing; the look Lena gives me is pure disgust. She doesn’t want me here, that much is crystal clear. But I don’t want her vanishing with the Arkhangel, so she’s just going to have to deal.
The Russian and I go back to our standoff but there’s no movement on the other side of the bar. Her lack of obedience in this moment of all fucking moments makes me see red. “Jesus, Lena,” I growl, not breaking eye contact with the man in front of me. “Just give me the fucking drink.”
From the corner of my eye, I see her cross her arms and glare. “Jesus, Rem,” she spits back, taking liberties only Johnny would dare. “Only after you say the magic fucking word.”
I’ve never seen a hitman lose his cool on the job.
Then again, if I’m piecing the last twenty-four hours together correctly, I’ve never seen a hitman of the Arkhangel’s caliber miss his target either.
Apparently, it’s a day of firsts because Lena’s comment cracks the Russian’s composure and he chokes on his wine.
Horrified, Lena apologizes and hands him a napkin. I grab her hand as she pulls it back across the bar and give her a look that I hope is clear enough for her to understand. “Lena, my drink. Please.”
“Fine, whatever.”
“Oh, bratan, I like her.” The asshole is smiling at me. Smiling.
“She’s not yours to like, figlio di puttana.”
“That, my friend, is up for discussion.”
I take a step forward, palm wrapping around the knife concealed at the small of my back. I’m packing as well, but I prefer a blade in close quarters. Far less noisy, far more efficient.
The Russian just rolls his eyes at me, making a show of bringing his concealed hand out into the open and taking another sip of wine. “Relax, bratan. I’ll promise to play nice if you do too.”
I grip the hilt of my knife tighter, ready to tell him to fuck off without using so many words, when Lena places my drink on the bar. No smile, no enjoy, sir, or any of the pleasantries she gifts the other customers.
I curse myself for caring, toss back the foul drink in one gulp and grab the little stick of olives from the empty glass. Four stabbed on a metal pick.
I crush an olive between my teeth. “I think we’ve lost something in the translation. I’m struggling to believe you came here, let me see that ugly mug of yours, just to play nice.”
The Archangel shrugs. “Believe what you want. But I did. And to enjoy the performance, of course.” He flicks his eyes between me and Lena, and I know he’s not talking about the music.
I slip another olive into my mouth. Two down, two to go.
A woman in a deep-plunge dress sidles up to the Russian, brushing his arm as she waves down Lena.
He stiffens at the contact. He’s a man who doesn’t appreciate people encroaching on his space, no matter how perky their tits are.
He moves away from the woman trying to make a move on him.
It puts him within arm’s reach of Lena, who is twisting a corkscrew into the top of a wine bottle.
Her hand slips and she jerks forward slightly.
I see the pain that darts across her face. Hear her quick intake of breath. Despite her efforts to hide her reaction, I know she’s hurting.
Lena was shot last night. She should be in bed, resting. Not working on her feet for hours on end.
Why does she have to make things so difficult?
Despite everything I said to Johnny earlier, I’d much rather Lena was locked in a bedroom right now.
Her disobedience must be rubbing off because I can’t stop my brain from thinking about whose bedroom, or what her hair would look like spread out on that bed, or how dark her eyes would get as I sucked those nipples that were so hard for me earlier…
Vaffanculo. No, no. Lena needs to stay in bed to rest. She’s not nearly as efficient tonight as she usually is, her movements behind the bar too slow and stilted to conceal any attempt to slip drugs into women’s drinks.
My supposition that I’d be able to catch her in the act tonight has been blown out of the water by the fact that her injury has knocked her off her game.
Lena needs to recuperate so she can get back to all her nefarious activities and I can clear or condemn her, once and for all.
I grab her elbow, supporting Lena’s right side as she resumes opening the bottle.
Her eyes flash fire at me but she doesn’t pull away. Shit, she must really be hurting.
The Russian is studying her. “Are you alright, malyshka?”
Lena pulls the cork free with a pop, discomfort flashing through her eyes once more. “Yes, fine. Thanks.”
She’s still holding the bottle when the Arkhangel reaches across the bar and wraps his hand around hers.
Lena has been friendly, casually flirty with him since he arrived, either oblivious to or deliberately ignoring the hostilities brewing between him and me.
But her smile drops abruptly as he grinds her fingers between his hand and the hard bottle.
“It’s not polite to lie, dorogaya.” His eyes flick down to her right side, like he can see through her standard-issue catering vest and button-down shirt. “You’re certain you aren’t in pain?”
“Let her go.” I growl, cutting through the growing din of the cocktail chatter around us. The crowd is bigger now, more bodies jostling around us as curtain call approaches.
The Russian shakes his head. Cocky fucker. “But we’re not done our conversation bratan. The lady has yet to answer my question. And I came here especially to ask it.”
“I thought you came here for the performance.”
He chuckles. He watches me drag the final two olives off the pick, laughing more when I swallow them whole.
“You know how busy men like us are, those of us tasked with—what do your people call it, the lupara bianca? Always so much to do, so many people to…um, see. Sometimes we just have to multitask. Time is always of the essence.”
Without warning the Arkhangel jerks Lena forward, the force and angle just right so that her injured side hits the bar. If I needed proof that he was on the other end of the sniper’s scope last night, this is it.
Lena sucks in a startled scream.
The assassin’s eyes never leave mine, not even when I stab the metal cocktail pick deep into the wooden bar a bare millimeter from where he’s resting his free hand.
The fucker is trying to provoke an international mob war. And I thought last night went sideways. “This is you playing nice, huh?”
All pretense of politeness drops from his face and I’m looking at a man I’ve seen in the mirror more times than I can count: a calculated killer. “She’s still alive, isn’t she?”
I’m about to lay into him, mob diplomacy be damned, when Lena cuts in. “Let me go, now. Before I call security.” Her voice is thin but doesn’t waver. The blood has drained from her face but she’s not going to be pushed around. God, the balls on this woman are impressive.
The Russian shifts toward her and, surprise in a long line of them, actually looks ashamed.
“My apologies, dorogaya, I don’t mean to bring you more pain, but I want to make sure you—both of you—understand the reality of the situation.
As charming as your sexually fraught banter is, time is, as I said, of the essence. ”
The wood splinters in the bar as I rip the cocktail pick free.
With one step, I have it against his jugular, my left hand still holding Lena steady by the elbow.
“If expedience is what you’re after, pezzo di merda, I suggest you let go of my fiancée, say what you came to fucking say, then leave. While you still can.”
The Russian’s gaze widens at the word fiancée but, accurately assessing just how close he is to bleeding out all over his tux, he looks me dead on.
Speaks so quietly only I can hear him. “I’ve ignored every rule I follow to be here, bratan, because I think you and I share a code.
One I almost broke last night.” He indicates to Lena.
No women. No children. “I wouldn’t have taken the job if I’d known.
There’s going to be hell to pay when my client realizes I didn’t complete the hit. A first for me, I can assure you.”
He continues, “I don’t care if you believe me or not, but I’m going to say this all the same: this woman you’ve taken under your protection is at the center of a shit storm so large I can’t begin to understand it.
She’s more than a name on a ledger; she’s the eye of the fucking hurricane.
And the time is going to come, sooner rather than later, when neither you nor any amount of luck is going to be able to hold back the people gunning for her. Understand?”
Not even a fucking little bit, but I nod. The Russian releases Lena’s hand and steps back. Her bodyweight sags into my palm and I lower my makeshift weapon, tracking the man’s every move until he’s out of arm’s reach.
The crowd in the lounge is clearing. Somewhere in the back of my racing brain, I hear the theater bell calling everyone to their seats.
As the room empties, so does Lena’s strength. I don’t want to look away from the Arkhangel, but I feel her starting to collapse against the bar.
The man watching us tips a head in her direction, like he’s giving me permission to do what needs to be done. Like I said, cocky fucker.
A quick glance at Lena and I see just how fast she’s fading. I take the most direct route to her, hoisting myself up and over the bar, ignoring the glasses that get knocked down in the process.
Lena doesn’t push me away like I expect. Instead, she leans against my chest, my body between her and the retreating Russian, and lets me rub her back as she catches her breath. This whole thing has shaken us both up.
“I’m getting you the fuck out of here,” I tell her.
“Fine.” Her answer is so faint I have to lean down to hear her. “But you’re taking me home.”
Always so defiant.
“I’ll take you home,” I agree, intentionally omitting whose home we’re going to.
I turn to help her out from behind the bar and find Johnny striding toward us. The Arkhangel is gone. There’s no point tracking him; now that he’s delivered his message he’ll vanish back to whatever hell he came from.
My second-in-command and I share a look. There’s no denying it—this clusterfuck is just getting started.