Chapter 5 #2
I grab onto handfuls of fine cotton or whatever the hell his shirt is made of. And lift a leg ready to drive the tip of my gardening boot into flesh when my whole body stiffens.
Wait a freaking minute. I know that voice.
“Let go of me…wait. Let me see your face. Let me…”
I twist in his grip and look up in the limited light.
Ice-blue eyes. The same shade his son inherited. My gaze falls over the same jawline, the same nose and muscular body. Only this russian has dirty blond hair with gray threading through the temples.
The restaurant. Three months ago. “You’re Nikolai's father.”
Dread fills me. My stomach drops to the floor.
"You!" The word comes out scalding hot. I shove against his chest with both palms, the heels of my hands landing hard against his taut pecs.
"Are you here to finish your son's job? Three days of his goons chasing me across Chicago and now Daddy shows up to make sure it sticks?"
Nausea causes me to inhale deeply, but it’s no help. The gurgling acid in my stomach is a clue I already know the answer.
I smack the lightswitch on the wall and the hallway lights up.
His brow creases with what looks like bona fide confusion. His head tilts my way a fraction more and yeah. He looks as confused as I feel.
He says a string of Russian words that has my brows rising and then he translates.
"What are you talking about?"
Ahh.
The confusion in his voice is real in both languages. I can hear it the same way I could hear the detective's bullshit back at the station. The detective was performing a script somebody paid him to memorize. This man is processing information he didn't have five seconds ago.
Trust is a luxury I ran out of days ago. Volkov men are charming. But I learned the hard way that Volkov men lie. The last Volkov I dated tried to make me believe he was good inside and out. I almost believed him.
Mea culpa and all that.
I would be a fool to trust him again or his father given they are both in the murder business.
I open my mouth to tell Daddy Volkov exactly what I think of his entire bloodline, but we’re interrupted by the man who threw me. He’s barreling down the hallway with murder on his face and zero interest in who's holding his target.
“And the hits keep coming.”
Nikolai's father shrugs me off his shoulder with a gentle ease as if he’s handling priceless merchandise. One second I'm pressed against his hard chest and the next I'm behind a wall of muscle acting as a shield.
With trembling fingers, I secure the section of towel tucked between my boobs. My hands tremble so hard it takes multiple tries before I get it to stay put.
“Stay behind me,” Daddy Volkov grumbles and that is all the warning I get before hell breaks loose.
There’s grumbling, broken pieces of Russian words and a lot of grunts carrying over the sickening sounds of fists meeting flesh.
Volkov takes a punch on his forearm, a deflection that redirects the man’s momentum past my bodyguard, and his fist connects with the man's ribs.
Something cracks. Sharp and wet.
I flinch and tuck myself behind the Russian. He’s the lesser of two evils at the moment and I’m not stupid. Stick with the guy not actively trying to kill you. Yet. Maybe he wants me all to himself when he does the deed? I don’t know. But I have to stay alive long enough to find out.
The man doubles over and a knee comes up and meets his face. The sound will live in my memory forever, the definitive crunch of a nose restructuring itself against a kneecap.
My heart holds for a beat.
He hits the wall. Slides down it. Stays down.
Another douche bag comes from the kitchen and this one levels a gun in my direction.
Ohmygodwhatthehellisgoingon is all my brain is screaming when I open my mouth to scream a warning. But Volkov is already turning and closing the distance as if instinct told him there was danger incoming.
His hand catches the gun and his fingers do something fast and vicious that makes the man's grip pop open like a hinge. The gun drops and a swift kick sends it spinning across the kitchen tile.
What comes next isn't a fight. It's swift justice.
Two hits. Three. A fist to the jaw, to the ribs, and another to the temple.
I wince at the burst of shock and pain on the other guy’s face. I’m pretty sure he thought he was coming here to off a weakling woman who had no chance of surviving.
Frankly, I was thinking the same thing.
But my surprise bodyguard is proving us both wrong.
Volkov connects a series of more punches and each one sounds like a butcher beating a pound of flesh.
I duck when a thick fist gets past Volkov, nearly punching me in the face.
Missing his target, the douche swings again and this time he catches Nikolai's father across the jaw.
His head turns by maybe a quarter of an inch. He blinks once. “I’ll give that one to you.” Volkov's voice does not match the murderous expression taking over his face.
In a move faster than I can visually follow, he drives his fist into the douche's sternum so hard I hear the air leave his lungs.
He finishes it with a strike to the throat so exact the man stops breathing. He drops to his knees gasping for air, both hands at his own neck with his eyes blown wide.
Just when I think it’s over, my tiny living room fills with the more dudes jacked up on steroids. I slowly turn on my bare heel and yeah, they have very bad intentions. Instead of looking for me though, it seems their ire is aimed at my bodyguard.
“This is not good,” I murmur sideways to Volkov and he has the audacity to grunt and smile.
“Maybe for you, but I haven’t had this much fun on a Friday for a long time.”
And with that chaos erupts in the middle of my living room. If it isn’t nailed down, it’s in someone’s hands being used as a weapon.
My three-dollar thrifted coffee table. A vase given to me by my mother. Books, a lamp and…
I thrust my hands out and wave them like a madwoman. “Not my Persephone statue, you brute!” I roar at my ex’s father. He puts the porcelain piece down and grabs a marble carved pomegranate instead.
The man crumbles, the fruit does not.
I wince and barely keep my eyes open to witness the would-be killer eat hardwood flooring.
Three men dressed in all black and the size of tanks on human legs form a semi-circle around us.
“Stay behind me at all times.”
I turn wide eyes to the dude standing behind Volkov.
“Yeah, sure. About that. You know they are on this side of you too, right?”
Instead of answering me, the older brute of a man pushes me behind him and takes on the wave of fists and feet flying in his–our–direction.
In seconds the fight moves from my living room into my kitchen.
The whole place looks like a war zone and the man responsible is standing in the middle of it with his breathing barely above resting.
But the other guys are all clutching at various parts of their bodies wondering what the hell hit them.
Not that it matters, but me too. Because I’m starting to think he’s half god.
With eyes wild and muscles bulging, my ex’s father swings left, right. Anyone unfortunate to fall prey to his wrath crumbles to the floor in a bleeding mess.
I shriek when beefy arms snake around my middle and jerk me away.
A second rolling pin sits on the kitchen counter next to a half-full cookie jar. I grab the heavy cat-shaped jar, swing with all my might and land the ceramic cat onto the head of my attacker.
Cookies and cat pieces fall everywhere but not the dude squeezing the life outta me.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” he snarls, sharing his liquor breath with me.
I grab the rolling pin and turn just enough to bring it down on the man's skull with everything I've got.
Two hundred plus pounds drops like a rock. Face first into the hardwood floor.
“Ouch!”
My arms tremble from shoulder to fingertip. My knuckles ache where they gripped too hard. Remnants of soap suds drip down my forehead from my hair and sting my eyes. But I'm still standing.
My bodyguard swings his head around. Cold, blue eyes turn to impenetrable steel. He looks at the rolling pin then the man on the floor before his gaze moves to mine.
Surprise flashes over his expression. “Good girl,” he quips and this time it doesn’t piss me off.
"Get dressed. We're leaving."
I straighten my spine. Square my shoulders.
A soap sud slides down my neck and disappears into the towel.
"How do I know you’re not rescuing me only to off me yourself or sell me to some douche with a fat bank account?
” I shake my head and take a few steps out of his reach.
“Change of plans. I’m going solo.” Trust is a fickle beast. One second you have it, and then it’s gone.
My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter where I left it charging. The screen lights up with my sister's name. Right on time.
Raine.
"Besides, I just got my ride."
I lunge for the phone but the Russian is faster.
He scoops up my phone and me in one move and for the second time tonight, I'm airborne. I fist the back of his shirt and hinge myself around to make sure he hears me.
One arm locks across the back of my thighs, pinning the towel and my dignity down. I’m all about small silver linings, but right now I’d rather have my freedom than my self-respect.
The shipping container with legs grumbles pages of words I don’t understand and probably for the better. He strides through the wreckage of my apartment with determination.
“When I get down from here, buddy, you and I are going to have a face to face.” I hold my false hope of ever besting him, but I’m pretty resourceful. I thunk the sides of my fists against his shoulder blades, but the fucker just grunts and keeps walking.
“Sure, malyshka. We can do that.”
There’s a level of sarcasm in his voice that earns him a fraction of respect. And a whole bunch of ire.
I glance behind me and notice my towel has ridden up to where my ass cheeks poke out. Not great, but I’m more concerned about the revving motors I hear peeling down my quiet street.