Chapter Twenty-Seven
In which we ask, “Is that a machete?”
Iris…
"Are you a serial killer?"
Andrey's hand slows, he's been washing my back with a big dollop of body wash and throwing in a little massage for free.
He carried me down from the roof and drew a bath for me in his unfeasibly enormous tub.
I was as limp as a flounder, but he lifted me, stepped into the water and sat down smoothly, still holding my boneless self. Like it was nothing.
The moment I saw him there in the living room, stripping out of his bloody jeans, I knew it was him. The blood-soaked monster from the alleyway who'd given me nightmares for weeks.
So maybe his alarming strength was another sign that I was correct about the serial killer thing. Mind you, I'm still sprawled over him like a starfish and the whole issue should be upsetting me more than it is.
Rose would laugh her ass off and call me "cock drunk," which is essentially accurate.
"You think I'm a serial killer?" His chest against my cheek rumbles nicely as his deep voice asks the question.
"The first time I saw you in the alley behind that club, Dark Matter, I thought you were. You were still holding that gigantic knife. Is that a machete? Do you kill people with a machete?"
"It's a KA-BAR."
"Is that a machete?"
"No, it's much sharper. You could cut through bone with a KA-BAR blade."
"So, you're a serial killer with a KA-BAR."
Improbably, I feel his broad chest rumble with what could be considered a chuckle.
"I'm not a serial killer," Andrey says, the back of his hand trailing down my arm. "Everyone I kill richly deserves it."
Wincing, I turn slightly on his lap, resting on my hip. "You're about to become a State Supreme Court Justice and you're running around shirtless, hacking people up. Isn't the whole midnight vigilante thing incredibly risky, given your new gig?"
"The world is not a fair or just place. I've come to believe that even more so as an attorney.
" His long finger is tapping thoughtfully along the side of the bathtub, and I wait for him to continue, even though it's killing me to not jump in with questions.
I get the feeling that a barrage of those would shut Andrey down, and he'd dismiss me.
And to be honest, I really like the intimacy; the warmth of the tub, lying against his wet skin and examining his tattoos, hearing his deep voice rumble in his chest. Maybe he’s feeling it too and that's why he is willing to talk.
"I am from a criminal organization. It’s never a surprise when bastards like us walk free.
" He pulls my thigh over his lap, settling comfortably.
"However, when I do come across those with power and influence who are so profoundly evil that justice never touches them, it becomes my responsibility to finish them off. The man I killed the night you saw me was in the Red Trade.”
“Red Trade?”
“Human trafficking.”
“Oh.”
"He'd been up on charges four times without a single conviction,” Andrey explains. “He laughed at the D.A. the last time he walked out of the courtroom."
I know the Morozov Bratva’s stance on human trafficking, and how many people they have saved. Technically, I was one of them. "Then I hope you made it very painful," I say. "I hope he suffered."
Andrey's five o'clock shadow rasps against my cheek as he looks down at me. "I find I appreciate this savage side of you," he says.
I trace a line of skulls with my finger that twirl in a macabre dance on his rib cage. Some bursting with flowers in the eye sockets, others with snakes curling through empty jaws. "When did you start?" I ask.
"My third year of law school. I was sitting in on a standard hearing with one of our defense attorneys. We had an employee who'd been caught laundering money. He was sloppy. Still, he was one of ours.
"The case before his was for Martin Fieldman.
He'd just been arrested for running a brothel through his chain of cafés.
He would force the waitresses to wash dishes and serve coffee in the morning, and service men at night.
Two dozen girls, all with the same story.
Consistent testimony, incontrovertible proof. "
His tone is steady as he tells me this horrifying story.
No change in tone or inflection, like he's discussing our dinner menu.
"The judge dismissed the case, stating there wasn't enough evidence when even a third-year law student could see how blindingly clear it was.
That rat fuck winked at the judge, as if to say, 'pleasure doing business with you. '"
"I can't begin to imagine how angry you were," I say.
"Angry?" He looks puzzled. "This isn't about emotion. It's about justice. I learned two useful lessons then. First, how highly useful a crooked judge can be when he’s working for me, and second, if something isn't done right, you have to do it yourself."
This is the most I've ever heard him talk, and I'm mesmerized by the resonance of his voice.
These are horrible stories, and he's still delivering them with that clinical aloofness as he does with everything.
There's something in his energy, though, how it's coiling in his muscles that tells me how angry he is, even if he doesn't see it.
"I was already skilled in torture. It's one of the first talents you learn as a Morozov.
" He's expressionless, like this is simply a fact of life, like my baptism or summer school.
I swallow against my dry throat and it makes a clicky noise.
He glances down, amused. "It was… messy, that first time.
I should have taken more time researching his patterns.
I nearly got caught by his head of security, but not before I left him in a steaming pile of flesh, his intestines scattered everywhere. "
I swallow again. Another clicky noise.
"I've refined my technique since then, of course."
Swinging my leg gingerly over his, I straddle him, my hands on his pectorals and thumbs moving over his wet skin.
"How did it make you feel?" He frowns if he doesn't understand the question.
"I mean, when you left him and all the… uh, intestines there on the floor," I stumble on, "what did you feel?
Vindication? Relief? Did you feel like you delivered justice? "
His sharp black eyes study mine for a minute, and he dips his head slightly, understanding now. "The latter." He pulls me out of the tub and gently towels me dry. His brows draw together when he sees the tinge of red in the water.
"It's nothing," I say. I'm sticky and sore. There are bite marks all over me, and several scratches. I'm not sure why I'm trying to reassure this guy who just railed me so hard that my DNA is embedded in the pool tiles. "It's fine."
Wrapping me in a robe, Andrey brushes my hair until it's dry.
It takes a long time and I don't complain.
It's so nice to feel his hands against me, taking care of me instead of just moving me around like a puppet.
I wasn't sure if he knew how to take care of someone.
"I don't think you've pulled my hair once," I say, almost half asleep.
"I watch you brush your hair," he says. "You start from the bottom and work your way up. Then you flip your hair over and brush it upside down."
He watches me brush my hair? "Is that another one of your analytical things?" I ask. "Like how you evaluate all the angles before you take action?"
Andrey lets go of one section of hair and starts on the next, brushing slowly and releasing the tangles.
"I find you fascinating," he admits, reluctantly, I think.
"Roman said it once about your sister, his fascination 'in all things Violet.
' I never understood what that meant until I encountered you. "
There is so much here in this wholly unexpected avalanche of information that I'm not sure what to do with it. "Well, I appreciate it," I say finally. "It's certainly paying off for me." Another rumble moves through his chest that could be construed as a chuckle.
How did this night go from being terrified that the blood-stained monster in the living room was going to kill me to this patient brushing of my hair?
Even when he was chasing me tonight, silent and bloody, I didn't think he would kill me. It may not have registered at that moment. But part of me always knew he wouldn't hurt me.
When he's put me in bed and lying beside me, I find the courage to ask the obvious question. "Are you going to keep delivering, uh, your kind of justice when you get your Supreme Court nomination?"
"Yes. That will change nothing."
"That's a lot of eyes on you," I say.
"My little flower, there have been eyes on me since the day I was born. It is nothing new." He fits me snugly against his front, arm over my waist. After my husband’s breathing evens out into sleep, I lie awake, watching the moon move through the sky and trying to understand this man.