3. Timur
TIMUR
I've been on pins and needles all evening after learning that Morin planned the strike we discussed.
I spoke briefly with my brother about this, and he supported my decision to move on this intel as quickly as possible, though I'm sure he was uneasy about it like me.
But we can't wait for the next axe to fall if we see it lined up.
When a man you trust gives you credible information that someone's out to get you, you trust him. And in this case, the man is a friend who goes back decades and his intel is solid. I just wish I'd have gone with them. Maybe I'd have a better grip on my stress level.
As it is, I've been pacing the kitchen waiting for an update while sipping on whiskey.
Last I heard forty minutes ago, they were lining up to move in, and the strike would take out several higher-ups in Mirov's structure.
The very least this would do is send a message, but likely, it would begin to cripple them.
If he moved quickly on the rest of the plan, we could have the entire family wiped out for years.
So when he stalked into my kitchen with a bound woman draped over his shoulder and blood dripping from a cut on her forehead, I was shocked.
"What the hell is this?" I set the glass down hard enough that the whiskey sloshes over the rim.
Morin grins at me, like he's done something clever, and shifts the woman's weight on his shoulder as he walks past me into the living room. "Relax. She's a gift."
"A gift?" I follow him, confused about his "gift" or why he would think I would want a human being at all. And what does he think I'm gonna do with this gift?
"From the raid. We found her at the Mirov meeting spot.
" He drops her onto the couch carelessly, letting her limbs flop around, then cuts the zip ties on her hands and feet.
Her head lolls to the side and I can see the swelling near her hairline where someone or something hit her.
"Look, we didn’t have to keep her around, but you know...
I thought you'd enjoy a romp or something.
She's hot." He shrugs callously, as if I'd ever stoop to raping a woman just to get off.
I narrow my eyes at him and wonder what the fuck goes through his head sometimes.
My pulse climbs, burning through my chest. I haven't felt so angry at him in a long time, and if he hadn’t saved my life, I'd probably have a much less muted response. "A romp?"
"Yeah." He straightens up and wipes his hands on his jacket like he's just finished a task. "Thought you could have some fun. Blow off some steam. You've been wound tight for weeks, Tim. She's pretty, right? Use her, get rid of her, whatever you want."
I am stunned to silence as sheer stupor wraps around my brain, stopping any logical thought from processing for the moment.
Morin walks past me to my kitchen for a drink while I stand over the woman who is slowly coming to on my couch.
She struggles to blink her eyes open, but they shut again instantly, just as he returns with a bottle of my good vodka, taking a swig.
"Get rid of her," I grumble. "I can't believe you thought I'd be like that. Who are you anymore?" The disgust on my face must be obvious because Morin's grin fades.
"Tim—"
"Don't." I hold my hands up, palms out, and he shuts up immediately. "This is not what we do. This is not what I do. You fucking know that."
He stands there glowering angrily at me, but the anger starts to evaporate as he realizes I'm not changing my mind. Then his head hangs and he runs a hand through his hair before his eyes rise to meet mine. "Alright," he says quietly. "I screwed up." His head bobs and he looks back down at her.
"Yeah. You did."
I would tear into him, but my conscience stops me.
Morin exists in a gray area that I've tolerated for years because of the night he saved my life, but I’m starting to think that debt has been too heavy to carry around.
Still, I lug it with me in my mind everywhere I go. I just can't tolerate him sometimes.
Still, it doesn't buy him this. This is unacceptable by any standards, but if Roman heard about it, there'd be hell to pay.
"How'd the raid go?" My anger hasn't cooled at all, but I need this update before he leaves.
"It went seamlessly, buddy. Let me tell you... They never saw us coming. We wiped out every one of the heads... This one" —he throws a thumb over his shoulder— "hid under a table... I can handle her if you want. Just gonna have to be creative now."
"No. Just get out of my house." I glower at him and look at the woman.
One helpless young woman doesn't pose much of a threat yet, though she's probably seen his face and can identify him.
But having murder on my conscience screws with my sleep.
Now that I've seen her face, I have to know whether she's dangerous before I make any rash decisions.
Morin grumbles a few things I don't quite catch, but I'm angry enough with him that I don’t ask him what he said as he stalks to the door. When it closes behind him, I sigh through my nose and stand there, staring at the woman on my couch.
She's small, with dark hair that's matted on one side from the blood, wearing a blouse that's torn at the collar.
And there's debris on her sleeves, whether from the mess she lived through or Morin's trunk.
Her hands are scratched up like she fought someone and it appears she's been crying, red-rimmed eyes and a puffy, red nose.
She wasn't supposed to be part of this. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I have no fucking clue what to do with her, but turning her loose isn't an option right away.
I can't have her running straight to the police to tell them what she's seen, if she's seen anything, and I can't have her ratting Morin out.
I might not like what he's done, but I owe him my life. I have to protect him.
The only option I have is to make her comfortable and take time to find out what she knows and who she is before we decide what to do, and I'm going to have to bring Roman in on this.
So I send my maid a message. She's been sleeping for hours already, but I know she will help me with this.
She's never complained about anything I've asked her to do.
Timur: 12:49AM: Sonya, I'd like your help in the living room, please.
I hit send and drag a chair over from the dining table and sit down next to the couch. Close enough that she'll see me when she wakes up, far enough that she won't feel cornered. I rest my elbows on my knees and wait.
Sonya appears a minute later with tired eyes and glances at the woman, still struggling to pull herself out of her stupor. "Sir?"
"Sonya, please get me some water and tissues. Maybe a bottle of pain medication for our friend." Her eyes shift toward the woman and an expression of concern etches her face.
"Of course, sir," she says, then rushes off to get what I need. I'd have gotten it myself, but with Morin doing heavier tasks, I don't have my right-hand man to wait on me or watch a witness.
When Sonya comes back, setting a tray down with everything on it that I requested, plus a few alcohol wipes, she frowns. "Is everything okay?" she asks, folding her hands in front of herself. She's a mothering type, but some of this stuff is beyond what she should be exposed to.
"It's handled," I tell her. "Thank you."
She nods and leaves without a word. Sonya's seen a lot of things in this house, but she trusts me. We run a clean organization, or as clean as we can manage. I know I'll have her discretion.
When the woman's eyes finally open, she doesn't scream or bolt the way I expect. But her body stiffens and she looks around in fright. She looks disoriented and confused and really scared.
"You're safe," I say. It's the only thing I can think to say that isn't a lie.
Right now, she's as safe as she would be anywhere else.
I have no intention of hurting her or using her in such a crude way like Morin suggested.
He should've just kept this to himself and not involved me.
Now I have to tell Roman what he's done, which will only shed doubt on this mission to remove Mirov and his allies.
She pushes herself up slowly, one hand bracing on the couch cushion while the other goes to her temple. When her fingers come away with blood on them, she stares at it for a second and then looks at me again.
"Where am I?"
"My home. You're not going to be hurt here." She has a pleasant voice when she speaks, though she's shy and a bit quiet. And Morin isn’t wrong. She's beautiful, from her pouty lips to her full, round, perfectly symmetrical face.
"The man who brought me said I was a gift." She winces as she touches her face again, then sucks in a breath through her teeth. I hand her one of the alcohol wipes, which she tears open and dabs at the cut. It's deep, but I don’t think it needs stitches.
"He was wrong to say that. And wrong to bring you here."
She studies my face like she's trying to figure out whether I'm lying. I don't blame her. I wouldn't believe me, either. An hour ago, she probably thought she was living her best life, and now she has no clue where she's at or who I am.
"I'm Kira," she says after a moment, and I don't know why that catches me off guard. Maybe because I expected hysteria and instead, she's introducing herself. Most women would be freaking out, but she's holding herself together cautiously.
"Timur."
I reach forward and slide the glass of water toward her along with the tissues. She lays the soiled alcohol wipe down and dabs her cut with a tissue instead. Then she picks up the water and takes a small sip, testing it like she's not sure she trusts it.
"I don't want water," she says. She sets the glass down and meets my eyes. "Do you have vodka?" When her eyebrows pull together in the center, I chuckle. Either she's been through this before or she is starting to let some of that fear go.