by SR Jones
She’s uncomfortable with the thought, it’s as clear as day, and once more suspicion raises its ugly head. I’ve already searched her room, but I was quick. This time I will be more thorough.
I’m waiting for her to argue, but she simply sighs and sags more as if the last tiny bit of fight has left her. “Stop calling me little one; I’m hardly that small.”
“You are. I bet you aren’t much more than five-feet-one or two, and you weigh nothing. You’re like … what is her name, the little woman from the fairy-tale?”
She frowns as she thinks about it, but then I remember.
“Thumbelina,” I tell her.
“Oh my God, I’m not that small.” She pouts, and it’s pretty on her.
“Give me your wrist.” I grab the first-aid kit from under the sink and pull out anti-bacterial spray, along with plasters, bandages, and cotton pads.
When I return, she has her arm held out, inner wrist up for me to reach. It’s such a soft piece of vulnerable skin. I take her pale, slender limb in my big, tan hand, and for some reason, I can’t resist stroking my thumb over the inside of her wrist just once. The softness is a velvet lure, calling me to explore more and caress her all over.
Jerking my hand away, I take the antibacterial spray and squirt a few pumps over her wound, irrigating it. She winces.
“If you were trying to kill yourself, it would have taken hours with a broken bit of plastic fork. In fact, unless you’re made of sterner stuff than most human beings, you’d have given up way before you did any real damage.”
“Thanks for the advice; next time I’ll make sure to use a sharp knife.”
“Thanks for the head’s up; kitchen’s out of bounds for you then.” I bite back a smile at her thunderous expression.
I’m dying to ask her why the change. Why the transformation from dowdy waitress no one notices with her hair slicked back and her faux pallor, to the sexy waif in front of me. I can’t, though. Any interrogation will have to wait until tomorrow.
I could tell her I followed her and saw her go about her day all pretty, with her shiny light hair and her sexy body not hidden the way she does at work, but I think I’ll keep that information to myself for now. Play my cards close to my chest. For some reason, Violet has spent the best part of her time working at the restaurant hiding her beauty, only to decide in recent days to let it shine. It’s suspicious.
She’s giving me a headache.
I’m looking forward to a few days at the country house. I always enjoy being there. The space, the quiet. It’s my fortress. Allyov doesn’t know where it is; although, I’m sure if he did enough digging, he could find it. I own it through a shell company, so no one can easily get the address. It’s my bolt hole from the world. Once Alesso has done his thing, I’ll take little miss pouty here, and Justina, and we’ll go for a nice break.
I don’t currently have anyone on Allyov’s shit list to beat any sense into, or worse, so Allyov shouldn’t mind me leaving for a few days. Particularly not if I tell him I’m going to take my new toy. He can always reach me if he needs me. I have two phones he can get me on, and he also has Justina’s number.
After I have cleaned the wound, I bandage and tape it. “There, you’ll survive.”
“Unfortunately,” she says.
“If you really want to die, I can make it quick and painless for you.”
Her eyes widen, and her breathing quickens to the point of panic. The pulse in her throat jumps, fluttering against the skin there. I get the urge to lick it. To put my tongue against where all her fear and terror are hammering a desperate beat against her flesh.
Shit, I’m a sick fuck. Instead, I tip her chin up with my index finger. “Don’t keep making idle threats about wanting to die, if you don’t mean it. You should be fighting to survive, not giving up at the first hurdle.”
She pisses me off, the way she’s behaving. It would be better if she clawed and hissed and lashed out. Not that she’d do me any harm, but it’d be better. This reminds me far too much of another girl, a long time ago.
“Some things are worse than death,” she says.
“Life is precious,” I tell her, wanting to make her believe it.
“Then why do you go around snuffing it out?”
For a moment, my hand itches to slap her. When I drag my gaze to hers though, I see there’s something there I’m not expecting. Genuine curiosity. She’s not simply running her mouth off. She wants to know.
“The people I … snuff out deserve it. It wasn’t always the case, but it is now.”
“When wasn’t it the case?” Her voice is small but curious, asking a question she’s not sure she wants the answer to.
“A long time ago, I was in the military. Although most of the time you try only to take the lives of the enemy, there are times others get hurt.”
“Collateral damage?” she asks.
I nod once, done with this conversation.
“Come on. You need to go to bed and sleep. Tomorrow we will go to the country. You will like it there.”
“A better class of prison,” she says. Not a question, a statement.
“Yes,” I reply because I’m not about to bullshit her and tell her she’s not a prisoner. “A nicer place for your incarceration.”
I take her hand in mine, so small and cool, and I realize it’s a mistake. It makes me want to wrap her in my arms and soothe her. I can’t though, because the truth is, she’s collateral damage now.
She’s been used in a game by Allyov, placed on the board, but she’s not a pawn. A pawn has moves it can make, whereas little Thumbelina here has none.
When we reach her room, I open the door and gesture for her to go inside. She does and when I take out the key her eyes widen.
“I don’t like being locked in, feeling trapped.”
“Sorry, little one, I have no choice. There’s a phone in the drawer by the bed. It has two pre-programmed buttons and no way to get an outside line. One is my cell phone; the other is Justina’s. You can call either of us anytime if you need anything, but I must lock this door. It’s as much for your safety as to make sure you don’t go causing trouble.”
“You’ve kept prisoners in here before?” Her voice rises as if she’s starting to panic.
“No. The phone is there for guests, in case they need anything. I’ve never needed to use the lock before, but surely you understand I cannot allow you to go wandering around the house?”
“Am I going to be locked in when we go to the country too?”
I shake my head. There, I can simply lock her out of the few places I don’t want her poking her pretty little upturned nose. “No, you won’t be locked in there.”
“So … it’s only for tonight?”
I see it then. How close she is to breaking. Again, I get the unfamiliar ache somewhere in my breastbone. A need to hold her and take her terror away. But I can’t; me holding her will only ramp her fear levels up to ten.
“It’s only for tonight.”
She sighs and nods. “Okay.”
“Goodnight.” I close the door and lock it.
Not wanting to go downstairs yet and deal with the stragglers still left at the party, I head to my room. Taking my phone out, I make a call to Alessandro.
“Yes,” he says on the second ring.
“Can you get there first thing to do the sweep? I want to be away from here as soon as possible.”
“Nay,” he says, which is his native Greek for yes.
“Efharisto.” I thank him in Greek, and he chuckles as I hang up.
He’s an interesting character. His father made millions as a professional gambler, but Alessandro didn’t want anything to do with that. He went into the special forces in Greece, the mountain division, trained hard and did well. Then his father got in deep with some nasty people. Alesso ended up doing them a whole string of favors in order to get his father off the hook and keep his family safe. Over time, he became so entwined with them, he effectively became a
mobster.
I trust him and Damen because they’re like me. Ex-military, with a code. Of sorts. The third guy they do a lot of work with, Markos, I don’t know. From the little information I garnered about him, he came up as a street hoodlum and ended up working with Damen and Alesso until he became part of their crew.
Only Alesso gets to go sweep my house, though. None of the others know where it is, and I would never give them the keys. The only other person I might trust with such information about me is Reece.
He’s British, ex-Special Boat Service, and a whole lot else. We found ourselves captured together at one point, on a dark-ops mission. He saved my life, I helped save his, and since then we’ve done one another a few favors. Those favors bind us.
He’s on the right side of the law, and I am most definitely not, but we have an understanding.
For a moment, I wonder whether I should call him and send Violet to stay with him, but I dismiss the idea immediately. It would put him in danger. Plus, he’s always heading off somewhere, either with work or on his own to climb some mountain or other. No, the safest place for sweet little Violet is with me, and if the thought makes my dick twitch, sue me.
The next day I get to Violet’s place early. She told me her landlord lives in the building, on the ground floor, so I pay him a visit first.
He opens the door with the bleary red eyes of a heavy drinker.
“What do you want?” He’s surly and pissed. Probably woke him from a deep, alcohol-induced sleep.
“I’m paying the rent for Violet Johnson for the next three months,” I tell him, taking my wallet out of my pocket and pulling a pile of bills out.
His eyes widen at the money, but then narrow. “Why? What’s going on? Where’s Violet?”
“She’s going to be staying with me. We’re seeing one another,” I lie.
He snorts. “Sorry, but you don’t look like her type.”
“What’s her type?” I ask, curious if he’s seen her with anyone.
“Wouldn’t know, she lives like a nun that girl, but you’re. Not. It.” He bites off the last three words and then smiles, pleased with himself.
I grind my teeth and manage to convince myself throat punching him is a waste of time and effort, luckily for him.
“Your people skills are shitty; she is with me, and I am paying her rent. I’m going to get her stuff.”
“I have a duty to my tenants to make sure they’re safe. How do I know you’re who you say you are? I think I should call the police.”
I stare at him, not needing this shit. “Look, I have three months’ rent for her, cash. Either take it, let me go get her stuff, or … call the police. I pay you nothing, and you will have to find a new tenant … with no notice. This way, you get three months in advance and no hassle.”
He stares at the money in my hand and licks his lips. His concern for Violet is short lived. With a nod, he takes the money, counting it as I turn and head to the stairs.
Once inside her small room, I look around, letting myself take in the atmosphere of where she lived once more. It’s small but bright, and something about it strikes me as sad. Tiny, hot, airless, and yet she’s tried to make it into a home. Whereas my huge house in the city is full of beautiful things but oddly sterile in comparison.
I’ve brought a couple large, empty bags with me, and I open them and begin to put some of her things in them. There are a few pictures of her. One of her with an older man; her father I presume, from the way he has his arm around her. He seems oddly familiar, but as I stare at the picture, I can’t place him. His heavy beard, mostly grey, hides much of his lower face, and his eyes are hidden as he looks down at his daughter, crinkled with a deep smile. I decide I’m being a paranoid fucker and don’t know him. Still, I take the picture and wrap it in one of her sweaters to keep it safe.
Then I grab her clothes. When I get to her underwear drawer, I notice most of it is practical. Cotton panties and bras, along with those bra tops women wear when doing sports. There’s nothing sexy. Only one set borders on sensual, a pair of silk panties in pale cream with a matching bra.
After I’ve packed her clothes, I head over to her bookshelf. I’m sure she’ll want her books, but I can’t take them all, so I grab a few. Some because they look well read, and I assume they are favorites, and others because the titles or covers stand out.
I have a massive library at my country home, and if she wants anything else, I’ll order it for her. Opening the bathroom door, I pack her few toiletries. They’re all in plastic containers, and most of them look like cheap brands, from my limited knowledge. I’ll get Justina to order Violet some of the good stuff. Although, if she’s going to keep on with the half-hearted cutting attempts, I’ll have to decant everything into plastic bottles.
Back in her room, I pack the Russian dolls too; maybe they will give her comfort. Something to remind her of this little nest she calls home, along with the photographs and few books. She won’t need any of the things from the kitchen area, and so other than having a good nosy around, checking every fucking drawer, nook, and cranny, I’m done.
Once I’m finished, I hoist the now full bags over my shoulders, and go out her door, taking care to lock it and check it, and then jog down the stairs.
I’m in my car driving back when my phone rings; using my hands-free I answer it.
“All clear.” Alesso doesn’t mess about with chit-chat.
“Good, and thank you. I owe you one.”
“No problemo,” he says. The phrase makes me smile. It reminds me of a few sunny weeks I spent in Corfu with Alesso and his family. Happy times. One of the few times in my life I truly relaxed. Let go and stopped being hypervigilant.
As I drive back to my city home, I wonder what Violet will make of my country estate. I find I care.
More than I should.
Chapter 4
Violet
When Andrius returns with my things, I’m relieved to find he has brought clothes, my toiletries, but only a few books.
He hands them to me, tells me to sort through them and pack things I think I will need for a week in the country, and then leaves me alone.
I spent the whole time he was away terrified he’d realize there was a door to the eaves behind the bookshelf in my flat.
I shudder to think of what would happen if he had discovered the hidden space. If he’d moved the shelves and seen the door, opened it, and investigated, he might still have missed the papers of dads I have shoved behind one of the farthest eaves in a carrier bag … but he might not have.
If he’d found those, what would have happened to me? I doubt Andrius would be happy to know a woman whose family was murdered by his boss now lives in his house.
Would Andrius break his rule if he discovered my true identity and kill me, or simply give me to Allyov and tell him who I am? He’d put two and two together and figure out I was either spying on Allyov or intending him harm.
If my identity is discovered, there’s no way Andrius won’t figure out I was somehow planning to get revenge on Allyov. I doubt though, he’d believe my original crazy plan. My stupid plot to make Allyov notice me, fall for me, make me his mistress until I got the perfect opportunity to kill him. With fucking peanut butter!
Only now do I realize how utterly insane my ideas of revenge were. It’s as if when I lost Dad, I lost my mind. Left with no one, having been isolated growing up by my father’s paranoia about our safety, I was utterly alone and broken.
Once I found the papers in my father’s office desk, along with his heart-breaking diary where he talked at length about losing my sister and our mother in the attack, I totally focused on one thing only. Revenge. I couldn’t understand how my father moved here and simply hid. Didn’t try to get justice for my mother and sister.
Determined someone would avenge them, I began to plan and plot. I read everything about Allyov and his criminal enterprise printed and online. Not that there was much to see, but there were the odd small news item
s here and there.
From reading Dad’s diary, I learned Allyov had moved to the U.K. around 2008 and begun to spread his business dealings into British society. When I learned he had legitimate businesses, including a restaurant in the north of England I began to make concrete plans. Dad would have little flights of fancy in his diary, where he got a job as a chef for Allyov and poisoned his food with peanuts, but then he’d write how he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk my safety. I think his diaries were the only way he could expel his grief. He didn’t have anyone to talk to.
In the past year, I took self-defense classes, began to learn Russian, which I picked up easily because the language was familiar to me, and taught myself a few things about Russian culture and society.
Allyov might be Russian, but he has spread his family empire into the Ukraine, parts of Poland, Germany, and now here in the U.K.
Being stuck in this room with nothing to do but think has made me see things in a whole new light. I no longer view my father as a coward, but realize he was a man who had lost everything … everything except his remaining daughter. No wonder my father didn’t go after Allyov; he was more concerned with keeping me safe than getting revenge.
When Dad died, I began to put my plans into action, and it soothed me. The pain of his loss, of being an orphan, with no siblings or family at all, burned so bright within me it physically hurt. I would bend double with the pain, begging for it to go away, and planning my revenge hushed the hurt.
I realize now, over time I became obsessed with Allyov to an unhealthy degree.
I did stupid things, thought I was a heroine out of a Hollywood movie, not a real girl with no genuine experience of the dangerous world she’d immersed herself in.
It’s no one’s fault but my own that I now find myself trapped. Caught in the web Allyov has woven around me. I am lucky, perhaps, that Allyov gave me to Andrius, a man with a code, but above all Andrius is loyal to his boss.
He is Allyov’s best attack dog. No way would he find out my connection to Allyov and not do something about it. The fact he’s back and acting normally, with my clothes, toiletries and a few other personal items, has me so relieved I end up on the toilet with an upset stomach as the stress of the last few hours catches up to me.
