Chapter 6 #2
He stands beside Matvei, wearing a dark suit with his coat open and no mask. The line of his mouth reaches me before the rest of his face does. I know that mouth, the stubble beside it. I know the deep voice and slight accent, the way his words carry without him raising them.
He steps closer, holding out his right hand.
The square black stone catches the morning light.
For a moment I can feel its cool edge against my knuckle at the bar, with music around us and my red costume tail caught beneath my shoe. My stomach turns over. I look from the ring to his uncovered face, trying to fit him into the morning I've just had.
“You.”
He stops close enough that I can touch him. “Yes.”
“They checked us. We didn't get shot.” It seems to be the best answer I can manage.
I put my hand in his before I decide to. His fingers close around mine, warm and firm, and the relief is so abrupt it hurts. My eyes fill. I hate that I'm going to cry now, after keeping myself together in front of the man with the gun.
“Come here,” he says quietly.
I move to the edge of the seat and stand. My knee protests, but he's already there, one hand at my back as I lean into him. The cloth of his jacket presses against my cheek. I can feel him breathing beneath it.
He holds me while I try to stop shaking.
There's no mask between us this time, no music to hide what I sound like. I hear the small, awful catch in my breath and press my forehead harder against his chest.
“Peggy,” I manage.
“She's here.” His hand moves slowly over my back. “I've got both of you.”
I look over my shoulder to make sure. Peggy sits in the car with the bottle between her knees, watching us. She gives me a small nod.
Klim stands at the rear of the car, speaking to Matvei. He wasn't here a minute ago. Both men stop when the stranger lifts his head.
“The one they caught?” he asks.
“With the police,” Klim says. “The other two left in the car.”
“Keep the photographs and the booking with the report.”
Klim nods. He looks at me still holding the stranger's sleeve, then seems to understand the question on my face.
“Tessa, this is Bogdan Volkov. He arranged the protection.”
My fingers go still against the cloth.
Bogdan Volkov.
I've heard the name in clubs, usually from men trying to make themselves sound important.
Lincoln dropped it when he wanted a better table once, then went quiet when the manager asked if he should call him.
People say Volkov runs the local bratva.
They lower their voices when they talk about what happens to men who owe him money.
I ease back just far enough to see his face.
He lets me, although his hand stays at my waist.
“You're Bogdan Volkov.”
“I am.”
The bathroom at the club comes back to me in pieces. The painted skull, the ring, the ease with which he sent the other man away. I'd liked his authority before I had any idea how far it reached.
I look past him at Klim, at Matvei standing beside our car, at another suited man waiting near the street. All of them turned when he spoke.
“The bratva?” I ask.
“Yes.”
He doesn't make me drag the answer out of him. Somehow that makes it harder to put any distance between the man holding me and the name I've just heard.
“Were those men yours?”
His expression changes. His hand stays warm at my back, but his attention fixes on my face so completely that I stop looking toward the street.
“No. They work for Luka Zaitsev. He wants what you recorded. My men were here to keep him away from you.”
I look at the shop's rear door. From here I can't see the broken front window or the cape beneath the attacker's cheek. I can still hear the rail hitting the floor.
“The police already have it.”
“The recording?”
“All of it. Alison took a copy on Sunday. Taking my phone wouldn't have done anything.” My voice cracks on the last word. “He broke our door. He shot at us over something she already has.”
Bogdan's arm tightens around me.
“You did the right thing giving it to her.”
“It didn't stop him.”
“I know.”
He doesn't give me a cheerful answer about the police fixing everything. I let my weight settle against him again, looking down at the hand resting at my waist. I remember wanting him to stay after the party. I didn't picture needing him beside a car while police carried evidence out of our shop.
Klim moves a little closer. “Alison's finished with them for now. She has both numbers. We can take them to the club.”
Bogdan keeps his eyes on mine. “Are you ready to go?”
I glance at Peggy. “We left the last gown.”
The words sound ridiculous as soon as they're out. There's glass in our fitting room and a gun on the floor, and I'm thinking about a dress bag beside the cutting table.
“It stays until the police clear it,” Bogdan says. “We'll replace anything that's damaged.”
He says it without asking the cost. I think of those invoices, of the winter rent they were meant to cover, and the breath I've been holding leaves me in a rush.
“You don't know what our gowns cost.”
His gaze drops to my mouth for the first time. “You told me you'd charge me more.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. It's small and unsteady, but Peggy hears it and her shoulders lower.
He remembers.
I press my fingers against the lapel of his jacket. Beneath them, the cloth is smooth and unmarked. He crossed the city to find me after his men had kept a gunman from reaching us, and now he's offering to buy back the part of my life scattered across the floor.
I want to believe he can.
“I didn't know who you were,” I say.
“I know.”
“You seem very pleased about that.”
“I liked the way you spoke to me.”
His thumb brushes once over my knuckles. The touch is gentle enough to make my throat hurt again. I look at his mouth, then back at his eyes, and for a few seconds I can remember wanting something before I became afraid of everything.
He helps me into the car beside Peggy. This time, when his hand leaves my back, I catch it.
“Are you coming?”
He looks down at our joined hands. “Yes.”
Only then do I move over to make room for him.