Chapter Twenty
Leonid
No ambushing.
Fuck...
My hands are tied. An ambush is the organization’s preferred way of dealing with issues. Every time I’ve had to deal with one, I’ve used that method. It worked almost always, except that night in that parking lot. It also failed when I was just a low-ranking member of the Bratva. I had cold feet back then, and my target managed to get away. I was able to catch up to him, though, and this never happened again.
Nonetheless, forty-eight hours after our failed attempt to kill Simeone, I can’t come up with anything better. Maybe I’m too upset—I’m not sure. Perhaps this Italian son of a bitch has caused us so much trouble that I just can’t think straight. I need a fresh pair of eyes on this. Someone with enough experience and a clear head. Had Ivan not been wounded, I would have called him, but he’s still recovering.
The next best thing is Malachi. The head of my security has brains, sure, but he doesn’t have my bond with Ivan. He was upset when he heard of the shooting, but he wouldn’t cry over the loss of Ivan Petrov.
I gaze out over the city lights from the rooftop of the Blue Dolphin Lounge with a glass of vodka in my hand. This setting often helps me take my mind off anything that might trouble me. Taking in the skyline, enjoying the coolness of the air along with my favorite drink can be refreshing.
With vodka moistening my lips, I hear Malachi’s heavy footsteps behind me. With a glance back over my shoulder, I recognize his familiar figure.
“Thanks for coming.” I assume a relaxed tone, the head of my security pacing across the rooftop.
“Anytime, Leonid,” he replies. “How’s Ivan? I’ve only been to see him once.”
“He’s getting better,” I inform. “There’s plenty of vodka inside if you want to help yourself.”
“I’m good, thanks,” he says, holding his hand up to chest height. “So, why did you want to see me?”
“I need your help, Malachi,” I confess, more vodka filling my taste buds. “We tried ambushing Simeone. It didn’t work. Most likely, he’s got a security detail watching over him twenty-four-seven now. How do you take out someone so heavily guarded? By the way, Viktor gave me the green light to kill him and him alone. No one else can die.”
“There are ways to do this, but if you want answers, they’re not ideal,” he warns. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“Yes, I am.” I give an emphatic nod.
“A high-powered rifle is one,” he says, mimicking the movement of bringing such weapon up to his eye. “You pick your spot, depending on the location of your target. You can hit your target from a mile away, but the whole operation can get tricky in a city like Miami. There are just too many obstacles along the way. It can take weeks or even months before your target is in an unobstructed area.”
“That’s not an option,” I reject his idea, his last sentence not convincing me. “It will take too long, and it’s too fucking impersonal. I want to be close when it happens. Go on.”
“How about a little payback?” he suggests, a smile of hesitation forming on his face. “Simeone put a bomb in your car. Why don’t you return the favor? It’s efficient, and if our men get to make that bomb, it will never be traced back to you.”
“I like it, but I want something more personal,” I say, rocks clinking together in my glass. “Finding his body parts all over the road sounds amazing. I just want to look him in the eye as he dies. I’m starting to think I’m asking too much.”
“Not really,” Malachi disagrees. “Simeone’s a henchman, isn’t he? He’s not a Don or anything.”
“Nope,” I confirm, remembering the name of his family. “He answers to Don Giovanni Pistone.”
“Then, he’ll be thrilled if we throw a couple of our sexiest ladies his way.” Malachi’s suggestion intrigues me. I look at him with appreciation, nodding as he continues. “Fuck security details. Two women can get through the toughest sons of bitches on earth. Italian, Russian—doesn’t matter. They can’t resist.”
“That’s a great idea,” I say, holding my empty glass up. “Set it up and get back to me, okay?”
“You got it.”
“Thank you, Malachi,” I say in a much more vibrant tone, already thinking of the moment when our girls lure Simeone.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. He’s already bested you and Ivan twice. There might not be a third time that you survive.
My brain cuts in with a painful reminder. I shouldn’t allow myself to dream of happy outcomes. My enemy has outsmarted me already. He’s scarred me, Clare and Ivan. I need to maintain my focus and be more careful. I just can’t afford any more reckless mistakes. It was mistakes like these that sent me and Clare to the hospital and put Ivan into the hands of Dr. Yuschenko. Despite our misfortunes, we have survived, but this won’t go on forever. I’m sure that Simeone wants to see this through—to put me six feet under for his own reasons.
Clare
“Thank you, Clare.”
I must have heard the same three words twenty times over the past couple of days.
Not that I’m complaining. Helping out Ivan has given me something to do. I no longer have to find ways to cope with boredom. Spending time with him is nice. I just wish he wasn’t recovering. The wound in his shoulder hasn’t healed yet, which doesn’t allow much room for anything naughty. Had he been healthy, I know I would have found at least one way of making his stay here much spicier.
For now, however, all I can do is cook for him and watch some TV with him. While these activities are not my idea of a blast, I’m not going to complain. Ivan’s been through trauma. How’s and why’s are of no interest to me. I’m going to help him in any way that I can and get to know him in the process.
Get to know him?
I wished myself good luck with that on the first morning of his stay.
He’s hurt, yes, but he doesn’t have brain damage. Ivan is still the same man, shrouded in mystery. I might know what he does for a living, but he keeps any details of whatever he’s been doing out there to himself.
My first few conversations with him proved that beyond doubt. Nevertheless, I didn’t pressure him into disclosing more. I respected his wish to retain his privacy because I was quite sure he’d think I’m just a pain in the ass otherwise. I don’t want him to consider me a nuisance. More than that, an argument with him would not make things easier for either of us. There was a good chance I’d go back to my bedroom and be bored out of my mind. Again.
On the other hand, he’d be all alone in that basement, having to rely on a handful of his men for everything. They may be good at guarding this place, but according to Ivan, they’re useless at cooking.
We have just watched an episode of “Daredevil” together when he leaves the comfort of his bed. He saunters away, keeping his head down. Straightaway, he sparks my curiosity. The Ivan I know is a proud man. He walks with his chest out and his head held high.
I follow him through the basement door and turn left—he’s not on the staircase to my right. Lush sunlight is coming through the skylight in the corner. Ivan is standing just inches behind that patch of light, his wistful gaze indicative of his emotions.
“You miss being out there,” I say, my slow footsteps hardly audible. “Don’t you?”
“I can make a world of difference on the outside, Clare,” he maintains, not bothering to throw a glance my way. “In here? I’m pretty much dead weight.”
“Don’t talk like that,” I say. “You’re not dead weight—you just got hurt.”
“It should never have happened,” he says, his voice coming out lazier than usual.
“Well, you’re human, aren’t you?” I say, pitching my voice higher. “We make mistakes, Ivan. It’s in our nature.”
“I’m not drowning in guilt, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “I fucked up, but nobody else got hurt but me. I just want to get back out there. To get back in the game. Leonid’s all alone. He needs me.”
“I know,” I tell him, making my voice sound sweeter. “He’ll have you in a day or two. In the meantime, can you keep a girl company?”
“Not just any girl,” he says in an emphatic tone, his sexy smile putting naughty ideas in my ahead once more. “Just the one you see in the mirror.”
“You’re sweet.” He closes the gap between us. “By the way, maybe you should consider doing this more often.”
“What are you talking about?” he asks, eyeing me with curiosity.
“The opening up thing,” I explain, my heart singing in my chest. “I mean, what would you have done if I hadn’t followed you here? Just brood alone with no one to share this stuff with? That’s not healthy.”
He gives a brief laugh, his fingers nudging my wrist. “If you say so.”
His huge figure towers over me; temptation is knocking on my door. I can’t wait for him to be the same, generous lover that makes my body throb with need. Sadly, I know I can’t have him. Not without risking breaking the stitches and plunging him back into the embrace of pain.
So, I take what I can... I stroke the top of his hands before curling my arms around his neck. He pins me up against the wall and claims my mouth with tenderness, cupping my forearms. Little by little, his fingers travel up my arms and my shoulders until they stop at my jaw. Caressing my skin, he nips at my lower lip.
I inch back, my exhale breezing around his neck. “You’re playing with fire, Mr. Petrov.”
“Don’t blame me,” he says, his voice little more than a whisper. “Your lips are delicious.”
“Let’s get you back to bed,” I suggest, my core protesting at the thought of not being touched by him.
He accepts with a nod, and we make our way back to the hall.
For all my disappointment, something good came out of this. At last, he shared his frustration with me. If someone told me this just three days ago, I would have laughed in their faces. Ivan doesn’t do sharing—it’s not his style. For the moment, I’m happy that he let me in. Intimacy can wait until he’s mended.