Chapter 15
Malachai
He went out drinking and hadn’t come home last night.
I took another sip. Expensive. Aged to perfection. It was what he drank when he finished a job.
I stared at it for a second, wondering how much it cost. Probably a fortune.
I reared my arm back and flung it.
It exploded against the wall, staining it like blood. For a moment, I felt liberated. Like the splatter was proof that I still had some control.
“Alexa, play ‘Sir,No Evil.’”
This song had been on repeat. Alexa was probably tired of me.
The first notes slithered through the silent house. I took another drink and felt the burn in my throat. The liquid fire made me feel reckless.
I rose onto my toes and moved through the foyer in a series of piqué turns, my silk robe fluttering around my legs like smoke.
“But I see no evil… Oh, I see no evil…” I sang to the empty vaulted ceiling, my voice echoing back. I caught my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows—my hair was all over my head.
“Oh, I see another reason for me to believe in the hero…”
I pirouetted into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of vintage Bordeaux from the side door—something he’d been saving for a “special occasion.”
“Special occasion is tonight, Malachai,” I giggled. I also grabbed a $500 bottle of Cristal I’d found tucked in the back. I executed a shaky grand jeté back into the living room.
I set the wine on the sofa table. What else would sound pretty breaking?
I tapped my chin. Cologne.
I glided toward the master suite and snatched three bottles of his signature scent—the ones that smelled like woodsmoke and expensive sins—and clutched them to my chest.
Back in the living room, I lined them up like soldiers on death row. The Bordeaux. The Tom Ford. The Creed. His things. His expensive, pointless things. One by one. Waiting for him to walk through the door.
I found his Timberland boots in the closet. They swallowed my feet. I stomped around in them—bare legs, thong, robe open. I sang louder because this was my favorite part.
The front door clicked open.
Malachai stopped in the doorway. He looked at the broken glass, the wine, the cologne, then at me wearing his boots.
“Are the Russians dead yet?”
“No.”
I picked up another bottle. Whiskey. Reared my arm back and smashed it against the floor.
“Are the Russians dead yet?”
“No.”
Another bottle. Gin. Smash.
“Are. The. Russians. Dead. Yet?”
“No.”
I reached for the last one—his favorite scotch.
He didn’t move to stop me.
“Can I have my phone?”
“No.”
Smash.
Scotch soaked into the rug. The room smelled like a bar fight and a funeral.
I grabbed another bottle.
“I think I’ve been real patient with you, Malachai.”
His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“But you’ve been lying.”
“I’ve been protecting you. That’s not me ly—”
“Don’t.” I pointed the neck of the bottle at him. “Don’t you dare say protecting. You’re not protecting me. You’re trapping me. There’s a difference.”
He didn’t answer.
I raised the bottle.
“Indigo.”
I didn’t lower it.
A voice came from the doorway. “Oh girl, why the fuck are you in a thong and boots? You okay?”
I froze.
Maya stood there grinning, standing just behind Malachai. She took in the broken glass, the wine-soaked rug, and me in a thong and his boots.
Wearing a beige short set with a sleeveless sweatshirt on top, hair in two long braids, and Converse on her feet.
I lowered the bottle slowly.
“You invited her over?” I asked Malachai.
He nodded. “If you would have let me speak before destroying things, you would have known.”
I set the bottle down, smoothed my robe, and tried to look like I hadn’t just destroyed half his liquor collection.
“My bad.”
Maya stepped around him, walking past the broken glass like it wasn’t even there. She stopped in front of me and looked me up and down.
“Girl,” she said. “You look crazy.”
“I feel crazy.”
“Fair.” She glanced back at Malachai. “Can we have a minute?”
He didn’t move.
“A minute,” she repeated, firmer.
He looked at me. I looked at him.
“I’ll be back,” he said, then walked out.
Maya waited until his footsteps faded. Then she grabbed my arm and pulled me to the couch.
“Sit down before you fall down.”
I sat.
“What the hell is going on?” she asked. “I didn’t know what happened after that damn madman drugged you. Raziel had to hold me back when I saw him pull out that needle.”
“Never mind that. His nosy ass will be back soon,” I said, leaning closer. “Tell me you know something. Are the Russians dead?”
Maya shook her head. “I don’t. Kael is the only one Malachai is dealing with, and he hasn’t said anything.”
I shook my head.
“Can I use your phone? I think he’s lying to keep me here.”
“He made me agree to something before I came in. No phone. Sorry.”
I stared at her.
She laughed. “Girl, you know I don’t listen.”
She reached into her bra and pulled out a burner phone—a small, cheap flip phone.
I grabbed it and dialed the number I knew by heart. Maya scooted in to listen. I didn’t care.
Cooly picked up on the second ring. “Yeah.”
“It’s me.”
There was a pause. “You in Florida? I fucking turned over five boroughs looking for you.”
“Yes.”
“You okay?”
“No.”
“What do you need?”
“The Russians. Are they dead?”
“I don’t know. They’ve been quiet. We ain’t had no visitors either. That doesn’t mean they’re dead. Could mean they’re regrouping.”
“So you don’t know.”
“Not yet. But I can find out.”
“How long?”
“A few days. Maybe less.”
“Do it.”
“Indigo.” His voice dropped. “I’ll handle everything myself. You can come back if—”
“I know.”
He let out a long breath. “I’ll call you back on this number in a few days. This phone good?”
“Yeah. If Maya answers, just tell her. I probably can’t keep this phone—my husband’s a nut. I bet he searches me as soon as she leaves.”
He hung up.
I handed the phone back to Maya.
She tucked it into her bra.
“What now?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Wait.”
“And if Malachai’s lying?”
I looked at the broken glass, the wine-soaked rug, and the boots on my feet.
“Then I’ll stab his ass again and go on about my business.”
Maya laughed and stood up, pulling me to my feet.
“You’re a mess,” she said.
“I know.”
She hugged me tight. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
The door clicked.
Malachai stepped back in.
His eyes landed on us—on her arms around me.
He cleared his throat.
Maya didn’t move. She just tightened her hold for a second, then turned her head slowly.
“Why you in here acting like I’m about to steal her coochie or something?” she said, eyebrows raised.
He didn’t react.
“Your car’s here,” he said simply.
Maya rolled her eyes. “Yeah, let me go take this forty-five-minute trip back home in a car with windows tinted so Black I can’t even see out.”
She hugged me one more time, then left.
Malachai walked her out, then came back.
He looked at the mess. The glass. The stained wall. Then at me.
“Did this make you feel better?”
I mocked him. “Did this regulate your emotions?”
Then I answered honestly.
“No.”
He walked to the couch, sat down, and patted the cushion next to him.
I stayed standing.
“Sit down, Indigo.”
“No.”
He looked up at me with those gray eyes—empty and full at the same time.
“Please.”
That hit me right in the chest. I hated how much I liked it when he said that.
I walked over slowly and sat.
He didn’t touch me. Didn’t crowd me.
He just reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and turned the screen toward me.
A picture.
A man. Bloody. Still.
Russian.
“I’m not lying to you,” he said, voice even. “This is one of them.”
My stomach tightened.
“There are more,” he continued. “I am doing what you asked, but it will take time.”
I stared at the screen a second longer, then looked at him.
He held my gaze.
“Can you stop fighting me long enough to see what I’m doing?”