Chapter 6
I almost kissed her
Declan
Fuck. I almost kissed this woman.
If she hadn’t stepped away, clearly not wanting my attention, I’m not sure I could have resisted kissing her. My ninjitsu training with Master Yi didn’t prepare me for fighting the urge to bend a curvaceous older woman over my knee and spank that sass right out of her.
I hope my erection isn’t obvious.
It’ll make the proximity I’m enforcing with her more awkward than it needs to be. I need her to feel comfortable with me invading her space, and instead of being standoffish and appearing disinterested, I grabbed her and almost kissed her.
I can’t do that again. I consider apologizing, but I REALLY can’t have her asking about my drag bag either. This situation is less than ideal, but I had no choice when she hit me with her car. She ought to have run me over and kept driving.
I sit on my hands and turn toward the television.
People are gathering in the city’s square, presumably for a march toward the Crossbow mansion.
There’s another group of people forming around the hospital.
There could be clashes now. Not everyone hated my dad.
He funded certain groups for years who have supported his rule for no other than reason than to gain access to privileges afforded only to the wealthy.
“The cops will restrict access to Selnoa General. Emergencies only.”
“You think so?” she asks.
“Mmhm.”
“They’ve never done that before.”
“Because a violent kingpin who ruled over the city has never been presumed dead before. The city has a procedure for how to handle gatherings around Selnoa General.”
She’s quiet, standing in the middle of the room watching TV. “How do you know that?”
I shrug. “It’s a publicly accessible city policy. You can get the books from the library.”
“Who reads that, though?”
Another shrug. “Me.”
“Meanwhile, most people read thrillers. Or romance. Or watch movies.”
“I read thrillers,” I counter. Sparring with this woman is thrilling. She’s sassy but not obnoxious or deliberately offensive. I really like how she challenges me. I shouldn’t like her, but she makes it impossible not to. I think she’s cute and kind, and her sass is just frosting on the cake.
“For the purpose of our argument, ‘most people’ would mean your average accountant who works nine-to-five and has two cats waiting for him at home. Or a hairdresser who recently got divorced. Or a college student who doesn’t want to live with her mom and works three jobs just to have her own apartment, even though Mom has an apartment and a spare bedroom.
That’s most people. What do you do to fit the mold? ”
Not a damn thing. “Is your ex-husband an accountant?”
Dina sighs. “No. He’s a lawyer.”
I make a face. Ouch. She’s fighting a lawyer in court.
“Yeah.”
I pull my bottom lip through my teeth. “Are you afraid you’ll lose everything to him?”
“Yes.” Her shoulders slump, then she throws up her hands. “I have no idea why I just told you that, but I’m terrified he’ll put me on the street. Or rather, back living with my dad.”
I offer her the bar chair where I propped my leg.
She refuses. “My lawyer thinks we can beat him. But I’m not sure.
Sergei is bullish, and his case about how I spent a decade at home with Chi-chi while he made the money I used to open the salon entitles him to ownership.
It’s complicated. I never expected him to want to take the salon from me, but he cheated with my friend, who just wants me to move out of Selnoa and find another city to call home. ”
“But you don’t want to go anywhere?”
“No! I love Selnoa. I’m going to grow old here.”
“Maybe they would like to move elsewhere?” I suggest, then wince when I imagine looking at a couple I never met through the scope of my rifle.
First and foremost, she has no idea what I actually mean by that, and the fact I mentioned it bothers me because I can make this departure permanent, and she’ll never have to deal with the ex or his new girlfriend again. But just because I can, it doesn’t mean I should.
“They might leave because of his debts.”
“Who owns his debts?” Even the banks are owned by someone who is connected with someone else. It’s all inside Massio’s network here in the city. Massio’s death will change everything. There’s lots of money at stake which is up for grabs now.
“I think it’s this guy Gino who works for a guy named Fabio who works or worked for Crossbow.”
“Massio Crossbow owned most people’s debts,” I say.
“Owned? We don’t even know for sure that he’s dead yet. The stations speculate all the time. The news lies. Crossbow owns two of our TV news stations. Not the one we’re watching, but it’s just a matter of time before he bankrupts them, then buys them too.”
“He’s dead,” I say.
She side-eyes me. “How can you be sure?”
“The stations are just waiting for the coroner to confirm the death and maybe give them the information on how Massio died. It’s standard procedure.”
Dina looks skeptical. “You read that at the library too?”
No, but I nod anyway.
“In that case, I’m not sure what will happen to Sergei’s debt. A discharge? What do the books say?”
A smile on her face tells me she’s not buying my library lies, but I’m thrilled she’s going on with it for the sake of our conversation.
“The debt gets transferred to whoever takes over Crossbow’s empire.
When a powerful leader, a dictator, if you will, dies suddenly and without a will or designated successors, it leaves a power vacuum.
Selnoa’s finest will compete for the throne. ”
“One of those finest probably shot him, then.”
Nah. That shit was personal. “Probably.”
“I’m sure whoever did it will come away as the new king. Why else risk it, you know?” Dina grabs her purse. “We’ll need popcorn. It goes with the developing events, so I’m off to grab supplies. What do you need?”
I shake my head. “No supply run today. The gatherings might turn into riots.”
“That’s even more of a reason to get supplies. People will march through this street on their way to the Minister’s Hall.”
I run a hand over the top of my head, interlocking my fingers behind my neck. “You can go to the grocery store downstairs, where you know everyone, and stay within the visual parameter of the apartment.”
“That’s nice. What do you mean by visual parameter?”
“I need to be able to see you.”
“While I grocery shop?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Do you want anything? Chips, chocolate, a ride to the airport?”
I chuckle. “I’ll take something sweet. Maybe a peach I can bite into.”
What was that? My pickup line? For fuck’s sake.
Luckily, Dina is a decent human who didn’t get my awful double meaning.
“I’ll get us a bottle of wine.”
Not sure alcohol is the best idea. “What kind of wine?”
“Red. I was going to do steak for dinner.”
“Perfect.”
Dina closes the door with a thud. Doesn’t lock it. I would have locked it. Maybe she hopes I’ll leave. I would if I could. I stare at the thawed bag of peas, but it can’t reduce my swelling overnight.
The ankle will be worse before it gets better.
I’m also becoming dizzy, which is a very bad sign given how, upon exiting my position, I hit my head multiple times.
The cut on my temple is closed for now, but if I sleep on it, it will reopen easily. I need to stitch it up before bed. My emergency kit, packed in the compartment under the rifle, is limited. I can only carry so much.
When I stand up and the apartment tilts, I give myself a moment to stabilize. It takes me longer than I’d like to regain my balance.
I unzip the main compartment of my bag and take out my rifle. Unlike in the movies, I didn’t have time to dismantle it before I exited the nest. Imagine if a sniper had to reset and assemble the rifle over and over again as he was running away, trying to keep himself alive. He’d never make it.
The movies make it look cool. Nah, this job is messy.
I weed through chaos, trying to make sense of it, anticipating the moves of thousands of armed men and women searching for me while also making sure I don’t hurt bystanders in the process.
And I can’t carry anything identifiable with me in case I’m found.
This is to protect my family. Nothing cool about that, I assure you.
Dina’s apartment is small. Since I’m as fast as an average turtle now, I limp to her bedroom window (because I can’t use the terrace) from where I can see her on the street just in time as she accepts the bags the grocery clerk hands her through the kiosk window.
My father didn’t allow any large grocery chains from other countries to infiltrate the city.
This is because foreign corporations wouldn’t pay him restitution. This policy kept the grocery business in the hands of families who have owned businesses for generations. Some bad dealings ultimately turn out to be beneficial for the people.
I grab my rifle for a longer-range look down the street. Left clear.
For the right, I rise on my toes and twist on my good leg like a damn ballerina. Connor would make fun of my wobbling and hopping now. I hope that woo-woo stuff he’s into and the way he thinks he can feel my heartbeat serves to calm him down now.
If Connor thinks I didn’t make it, a dark cloud will form over the city. My brother is unstable. Unhinged. I’m the only one who can keep him in check. Without me, he causes carnage that my uncles punish him for.
After the incident at the bar in Zibtca, where Connor lit a bottle of whiskey and set the entire bar on fire, my uncle Endo told me Connor needs supervision at all times. He’s not allowed to make any more mistakes.
The bar belonged to a client of ours, and no, we don’t do business with that man anymore, which costs us money we don’t need to lose. Endo dislikes losing money. Well, Endo dislikes losing in general.
To be fair, I love winning too, but that’s not why I keep my brother in check.
I’m afraid he’ll go too far and I won’t be able to save him from himself.
Like now. Now I’m afraid of what he’ll do to find me.
But I can’t reach out to him. It’s unsafe.
The lines are monitored, and besides, Dina is someone I don’t want him near.
My family cannot find out I made contact with a civilian.
She should’ve run me over and kept driving.
Once done paying, she turns and walks to the crosswalk and, like a good girl, waits for the pedestrian signal to turn green. A sleek white SUV stops in front of her, blocking my view.
“Move,” I mumble, my hand steady on my weapon, which I’m using only so I can see better.
A man flings open the car door and jumps out. He’s wearing a dark suit, nice leather shoes, and carrying a white folder.
Dina rounds the vehicle, trying to pass, but the man blocks her way. He moves forward so that she has to step back and out of the way behind the SUV.
I can’t see them.
“Move,” I say again, as if he can hear my order.
Dina emerges from behind the car, again carrying her grocery bags. The man follows her. He appears to be shouting at her while waving the folder above her head. In the middle of the street, Dina turns and shouts back.
Luckily, the pedestrian signal is still green. Stay green, my man. Stay green.
The man opens the folder and yanks out a paper. His red face tells me he’s angry, and he’s hovering over her.
The green pedestrian signal counts down. Five, four, three…
I open the window and push the barrel through it.
“Don’t touch her,” I say. “Do not touch.” My vision blurs.
I blink. Not cleared. The pedestrian light turns red, and cars honk for the couple to move along.
Dina tries to cross, but the guy catches her by the elbow, causing her grocery bag to rip.
The potatoes fall out of the bag and roll out, along with the onions.
He starts moving his hands, and papers from the folder fly away. Dina is in his face now, arguing back.
I tap the trigger guard, stroking it as I try to get a clear shot. But she’s too close, and I’m dizzy with blurry vision. Dina steps back, and I have a shot. It’s not a clear shot, but I could take it.
I’m not considering taking out a random civilian, am I?
Am I?
A cop car pulls up, and I sit back and wipe the sweat off my brow, but keep watching.
The cop separates the two, and it doesn’t seem like the cop wants an explanation from the guy because the guy with the folder gets sent off in his fancy white SUV, whose license plate I memorize as he peels away, tires screeching.
The grocery clerk, a dark-haired man in his fifties wearing a red apron and carrying a spare bag for Dina, approaches her. She takes the bag, and the three of them, the cop, the clerk, and Dina, pick up the stray potatoes and the onions that have rolled down the street. The cars wait.
Once Dina gets her groceries, I expect her to finally cross the street and go up the stairs. But once she crosses, she puts the bag down and leans against the cop’s car. The cop joins her. He offers her something.
I try to make out what it is. Ah, a cigarette.
What’s this guy doing? What’s she doing? Taking a break?
Typical Selnoans. “Take your time,” I mumble. “Argue with angry men. Chat with cops.” I suppress an eye roll and continue to watch. For twenty minutes, because that’s how long it takes Dina to return home.