by Roxie Rivera
"Yes."
"But he's in prison," I sputtered.
Arty shook his head. "He got out this morning."
Why in the world wasn't I told this? Irritated that Nikolai had kept this decision from me, I stabbed my spoon into my yogurt. A thousand arguments against being placed in the care of man with Ten's reputation raced through my mind but I clamped my mouth closed. That was a conversation I would have with Nikolai. Speaking of my husband… "Do you think Nikolai will be back by this afternoon?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. Why?"
"I have an appointment." We were supposed to have our first look at the baby today, and I really, really didn't want to drag a mob captain to my first prenatal visit.
"If the boss isn't back in time, I'll make sure you get there." He finished off his pear. "Is it at the salon?"
"Not exactly," I murmured and tucked into my breakfast.
"You let me know when you're ready to leave. I'll take you." He pushed off the door frame. "Do you want to paint here at the house or do you want to go to the studio?"
"I'll stay here today."
"Okay." He gestured over his shoulder. "I'll be downstairs. Boy and Ilya, one of my other guys, is here. If you need anything, you call for us. Yes?"
"Sure." He started to leave but I stopped him. "Artyom?"
"Yes?"
"I'm going to be totally nosy for a second. You can tell me to mind my own business if you'd like."
He actually laughed and held up the hand that was missing two fingers. "You want to know the story behind this?"
"No!"
"It's all right. Everyone wants to know."
"No, really. I—"
"Luka Beciraj."
I didn't know that name. "Who?"
"You know Besian?"
"A little." I dipped my spoon into the yogurt and stirred it around. "He was at our wedding."
"Luka is his cousin, and he's the big boss over in Tirana. He runs that family with an iron fist."
I didn't know a lot about the Albanian crews, but I did know they were all about their family ties, loyalty and honor.
"I made the mistake of taking something from Luka." Artyom held up his hand. "So he took something from me—with a chisel and a hammer."
My eyes widened at the brutality of it. "Jesus."
His shoulders rolled nonchalantly. "I got off lucky. Two fingers? It's a small price to pay."
"A small price?" I shook my head. "You guys are crazy sometimes. You know that?"
He laughed sadly. "Yes."
I scooped up a spoonful of the yogurt and raspberries. "I was going to ask about the tattoo here." I tapped my finger to indicate which one I meant. "I've never seen a ring tattoo like that one."
He glanced at the asterisk on his hand. "It means I have no father."
I frowned. "That's not what Nikolai or Ivan's orphan tattoos look like."
"They were abandoned. I disowned my father. It's different."
"I see." I suddenly had a sneaking suspicion that the green-eyed captain had a life story similar to mine. More than once, I had dreamed of disowning my own father.
Artyom tapped his knuckles against the door frame. "We'll be downstairs."
Certain the men all had money on the World Cup matches, I waved my hand. "I don't mind if you watch the games."
He grinned. "I was going to ask, but I thought I'd wait until after your breakfast."
Feeling lucky, I asked, "Are the books still open?"
He seemed surprised by the question. I couldn’t blame him. The fact that I sometimes indulged in gambling was one I kept very quiet. He glanced at his watch. "Yes. Why? You want to drop a buck on the chalk? It's Portugal."
I tried to remember all the sports talk from Bianca and Sergei's barbecue. "Make it two."
"You got it."
After Artyom left, I pushed aside thoughts of chisels, hammers and Albanian blood feuds and enjoyed my breakfast. I stopped halfway through to grab my phone. I went straight to the Mexican newspapers I scanned every morning and looked for clues as to why my father would have called and why Nikolai would have left without a word. There were the usual reports of cartel violence, but I didn't see anything that tied back to Houston.
Uneasy and prickling with dread, I finished my breakfast, showered and dressed for the day. I dropped off my tray in the kitchen and handled a bit of housework. We had a housekeeper who came by twice a week, but I rather enjoyed the mundane, quiet tasks. They gave me time to think or unwind.
But today I couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was happening.
Alone in my home studio, I perched on a stool and stared at the two finished canvases and the blank one that sat on my center easel. I wasn't sure where the hell I was going with this new collection. Find something to say.
God, there was so much I wanted to say. I just didn't know how to do it. Layers, mixed media, vibrant colors—there were so many choices. I needed a cohesive vision. My other collections had all come together so easily, but this one? No, this one evaded me.
Rather than attempting a new painting, I opened one of my favorite art books and studied the pages of oil paintings completed only with palette knives. The technique had long fascinated me, and I had been incorporating it in my work for some time now. I selected a trio of colors and squeezed small dollops on a palette so I could practice different strokes and layers.
I kept glancing at my phone, checking the time and expecting a message or phone call from Nikolai. Biting my lip, I decided to send him a text instead of calling. My finger hovered over the screen for a few seconds before typing in a message.
V: Doctor's office in one hour. Call me!
When I didn't hear from him after fifteen minutes, I debated whether to cancel the appointment or go on my own. We needed to keep our pregnancy quiet, but I also needed to start my prenatal care. My hand drifted to my stomach, and I bit my lip. I had to make a decision—and I was choosing the health of the baby. We were leaving for London in a few days, and I needed to know everything was all right.
I cleaned up my mess and looked for Arty. He sat forward on the edge of a couch in the media room and watched a soccer match. Boychenko leaned against the opposite wall and split his attention between the front yard and the television. He seemed tense, and it occurred to me that Arty had years of practice playing cool and dealing with the blowback of this life. Whatever problem had dragged Nikolai out of bed so early clearly had Boy rattled.
"Artyom?"
He instantly muted the television and rose to his feet. "What can I do for you?"
"That appointment? I need to leave soon."
"Sure." He glanced at Boy. "Get Ilya. You'll follow us."
Boy nodded and left to find the guard who was probably hanging around the backyard. Arty switched off the TV. "Which vehicle would like to take?"
"Parking is going to be a nightmare unless we valet."
"Valet? Where are we going? A hotel?"
I swallowed anxiously. "No, you're taking me to the hospital. The new women's hospital downtown," I clarified.
"Hospital?" Concern darkened his face. "Are you all right?"
I touched his arm. "I'm fine." I lowered my voice. "I'm pregnant."
"Pregnant? But that's fantastic! Congratulations!" He looked as if wanted to hug me but held back. His expression quickly turned more serious. "Oh, but this is a very bad time for—" He stopped suddenly. "I mean—shit. What I mean is—"
"I know what you meant," I interjected. "We've had the same thought."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Boy and Ilya? I trust them, but two mouths means two more chances for the news to get out. I assume that you and the boss want this quiet until things settle down."
"That's the idea."
"I'll tell them to stay here. You and I will leave in the Land Rover, but we'll switch to one of the fleet cars we keep in the parking lots around town. No one will be able to follow us that way. I'll make sure that your trip today is as secret as poss
ible."
I clasped his hand and smiled warmly. "Thank you."
"It's my job." He touched my shoulder. "Let's go."
Half an hour and a vehicle switch later, we were riding an elevator up to my obstetrician's office. I gripped the handle of my purse and wondered where Nikolai was. I had texted him four more times during the drive and still there was no response. My emotions were all over the place. Anger, annoyance, frustration.
"He'll be here," Arty assured me as we reached the office door. "He's probably running a few minutes late. As soon as I see him, I'll send him inside to find you."
"You don't have to wait out here." He seemed hesitant to follow me inside the office. I didn't blame him. It was a strange situation. "It might be a while."
"I'll wait. It's no problem."
"All right."
Inside the office, I checked in and took the stack of paperwork to an open chair. Balancing the clipboard on my lap, I filled out the pages of medical history and insurance information. I couldn’t fill in all of Nikolai's medical history so I had to leave spots blank. They still hadn’t called me back by the time I had finished the paperwork so I fished my phone from my purse and texted him again.
V: Doctor's appointment in five minutes. Please call!
But he didn't answer.
A nurse popped her head out of the door that led back to the exam area and called my name. I glanced back at the entrance, expecting to see Nikolai rushing through the door like some scene from a movie, but he wasn't there. With a sad sigh, I followed the nurse to the triage station to be weighed and have my blood pressure and temperature taken. When that was done, I was led to a room and given a gown and a sheet.
Alone in the room, I sat on the edge of the exam table and nervously fidgeted. I tugged the gown tightly closed and used the sheet to cover my legs. My gaze flitted around the room. There were posters about breastfeeding, birth control and the anatomy of pregnancy on the walls. The poster about post-partum depression caught my attention. All those worries and fears bubbled to the surface.
The door opened, and hope flared within me. It was him. It just had to be him, rushing into the room, breathless and apologetic.
But it wasn't Nikolai. It was my doctor.
Plastering a smile on my face, I shook her hand and shoved down the feelings of disappointment and bitterness that threatened to overwhelm me. Where are you?
Chapter Four
Rubbing a hand down his tired face, Nikolai blew out a noisy, frustrated breath before sliding out of the backseat of the SUV. He buttoned his jacket and adjusted his aviator sunglasses, all the while scanning his surroundings like a hawk in search of prey. Flanked by Danny and two others, he grimaced at the muggy heat that greeted him. Even at nine in the morning, the humidity and warmth were oppressive.
Kostya waited for him at the entrance to the climate controlled storage locker. The hard line to the other man's mouth didn't bode well. "They're all inside. I've swept the area and the men for bugs. I've confiscated all the cell phones." He held out his hand and wiggled his fingers. "I need yours."
Nikolai retrieved his phone and handed it over. Kostya switched off the power, peeled a red sticker off his shirt and pressed it onto the phone before dropping it into a bag he carried. "The new guy is here. He came light. No heavies."
New guy? Shit. The lack of sleep over the last few weeks was getting to him. He had completely forgotten that there was a new player in town. His decision to wipe out the Night Wolves after they been caught gathering intel on Vee and had attempted to kill Bianca in her own store had left a power vacuum in the hierarchy of the white supremacist groups.
He didn't like working with them, but it was a necessary evil. Their hatred for others sickened him. Though he was no saint, he had his lines and codes. He didn't touch innocent people—children, wives, girlfriends, parents. That had always been his rule. He didn't cross that line. Ever. But these men who were so twisted up by skin color and religion? They didn't follow those rules. It made them reckless and dangerous and difficult to predict.
But he needed to fill that power slot. It was better to invite in someone with a power structure behind him than to let the smaller gangs around town fight it out on the streets. In some ways, he felt like a bit like the CIA installing and propping up a dictator who would follow the party line.
So overtures had been made and a new man from the main Aryan group out of Dallas had been sent down to Houston. Nikolai couldn’t remember his name. I need more coffee.
As if reading his mind, Kostya said, "His name is James Mueller. They call him the Red Baron." He actually flashed a smile that revealed how stupid he found that nickname. "He's not your typical skinhead loser. I think you might actually like him. You know, except for all that white power bullshit."
"We'll see. Where did you put him?"
Kostya laughed mischievously. "Between Nickel Jackson and Mr. Lu. It's our own little version of the U.N. Security Council in there."
Nikolai chortled at the mental image of a racist sandwiched between a Vietnamese importer and the burly black gangster who ran all the action in the area of the city known as the Bloody Nickel.
"By the way, boss, Julio wants a private meet after the council finishes."
Nikolai groaned. "He's not going to like what he hears."
Kostya shrugged. "I'm just the messenger."
"Where did you seat him?"
"Between Besian and Mr. Lu and across the table from Spider."
Nikolai knew and respected the Calaveras MC vice president. He suspected Spider didn't like this mess any more than he did. That fucking phone call this morning threatened to push the cartel and the MC into a war.
Back in April, the big story around town had been the hit-and-run death of a high school kid leaving a concert up in the The Woodlands. The poor kid had been clipped and dragged by a motorcycle. The rider had jerked the kid free and sped off, leaving him in the middle of the road where he was hit again by a truck.
The cruelty and coldness of that death had bothered Nikolai. Within a day of the story hitting the news, Kostya had quietly informed him that the kid was actually the godson of Julio Jimenez, the Guzman cartel's top guy in the city. Kostya had believed the kid was really his biological son so Nikolai had put out feelers to find the asshole who had killed the boy. It would have been a nice gift to the cartel and a good deed that would buy him some goodwill down the line.
Because of the motorcycle connection, he had specifically asked Romero to get the Calaveras on it. The bastard had sworn up and down that none of the MCs in town had anything to do with it. The rider that night hadn't been wearing a kutte or colors. He was just some random guy on a Harley.
Except that he wasn't.
Romero had been lying through his fucking teeth and had been forced to admit to that this morning. It had been his closest friend Mando Fernandez, the damned sergeant-at-arms for the Calaveras MC, who had killed the kid. He had been doing a bit of freelance work that night so he hadn't been wearing his vest or riding his usual bike. Mando had called Romero the next morning, after the kid's identity was revealed, and Romero had given him orders to keep his trap shut. They had planned to take that secret to the grave.
But someone had found out and told Julio. Now Julio wanted blood. Nikolai didn't blame him. The thought of someone hurting his child was like a spear to the chest. The person who made the mistake of even trying to touch his son or daughter would know a grisly and violent end. He would make sure of it with his bare hands.
As Nikolai entered the storage container for the quarterly council get-together, he still didn’t know what the hell he was going to do about this situation. The fact that Romero had known the whole time rankled him. This was something he had needed to know but his father-in-law had kept him in the dark.
Romero had let this fucking wound fester and rot—and now Nikolai had to decide how far up the limb would be amputated.
He glanced at the guards lining one wall. Each
boss brought one man inside to watch his back. The rest of them remained outside. Even before he opened the door that sealed off the secret chamber portion of the container, he could hear the raised voices from inside. This council had been started to keep the peace and negotiate easements when it came to territories disputes. Usually the meetings were peaceful and short but the summer heat had a way of inflaming tempers. There was a lot of business on the table today, and Nikolai had a bad feeling it was going to be like trying to wrangle cranky toddlers in a daycare center.
He stepped inside the room and swept his gaze around the sparse interior. A round table, some chairs, no windows. He glanced at the familiar faces seated at the table and mentally catalogued their allegiances, strengths and weaknesses. If he didn't get what he wanted through negotiation, he would apply pressure to those weaknesses.
When he dropped down into his chair, Nikolai spotted the cup of coffee waiting for him. Kostya, of course. He took a sip while the room quieted down. The new guy, blond and green-eyed and dressed impeccably in a grey single-breasted suit, looked uncomfortable as Nicky and Mr. Lu leaned across him and hissed at each other. He let his gaze linger on Julio Jimenez who looked unnaturally calm. Spider drummed his fingers on the table and assiduously avoided looking in Julio's direction. Beside him, Besian unwrapped a jawbreaker and popped it into his mouth. They exchanged a look before the Albanian mob boss dropped back into his chair and rolled the hard candy around his mouth.
"All right. Let's get this shit over with," Nikolai stated. He gestured toward the Red Baron. "This is James Mueller. He's with the brotherhood out of Dallas." There were murmurs of introductions around the table. Just in case Mueller had any funny ideas about his position on the totem pole, Nikolai made sure to end them. "He won't have much to say today. He's here to listen."
Mueller simply nodded.
Nikolai tapped his fingers on the plastic lid of his coffee cup. "Who is up first?"
"Me." Julio waved his hand, and Nikolai's stomach clenched as he expected shit to get real and loud fast. "We have an issue that needs to be addressed. It's between me and him."
