If he showed.
CHAPTER 24
Two weeks.
Fourteen dark, endless days.
Three hundred thirty-six lonely hours.
All spent fighting to stay away.
And he’d keep fighting.
Vincente shoved the timeline out of his mind—right off the cliff Fan Boy was standing on the ledge of—and slid out of his truck, not bothering to shut the door. One, he didn’t give a shit; two, he didn’t give a shit; and, three, he’d be back inside the leather confines in a matter of seconds anyway.
He dragged his booted feet to the back door of Rapture, Maksim’s club, and showed his face to the camera anchored above the door. Then waited.
The heavy metal swung wide and Micha’s pale-green eyes flared at the sight he must have made. And then the guy just stared. Vincente wanted to curse. Fucker wasn’t here. Again.
“He here?” he asked anyway.
The sharp shake of that dark-blond head pissed him off.
“Where the fuck is he, Zaretsky? I know you know.”
“Sorry, brother.”
Fuck. Sucked that he respected the guy for his silence. “You tell him I’m looking for him?”
“He knows.”
Vincente nodded and turned away, falling into the truck when he reached it. Shit. Where the hell would Maks go? He thought he knew about all their hideouts, but apparently not, because in all his searching he’d come up with nothing but a whole lot of shit. He’d even given Vasily a call but had regretted it immediately at the concern in the Russian leader’s voice when Vasily had said he was having a hell of a time looking himself.
Vincente started the engine and headed over a couple of blocks.
“You seen Maksim?” he asked ten minutes later as he looked into Sydney Martin’s purple eyes. Those curious peepers blinked a few times at the question, the surprise very much not faked.
“He hasn’t been around. Are you all right?” she added hesitantly.
“You shittin’ me, Martin?” he asked quietly but with an edge.
Her eyebrow twitched. “No, I’m not shitting you, Romani. In fact, I couldn’t care less where your friend is. I have more important things on my mind. And if you know him at all, you should probably have already figured out he’s holed up with his latest woman somewhere probably having a lot of sex. That sounds like him, doesn’t it? Yes. That’s most likely where he is. I’m sure he’ll show up in a day or two with a sore back and walking funny.”
Vincente stood there for a second, shockingly feeling a twinge of humor. It didn’t last. He wished that’s where his friend was. “Maksim shot my redhead in the chest fourteen days ago and hasn’t been seen since. I want to let him know I don’t hate him for it. So, if you do see him, tell him I came by looking for him. Thanks.”
He walked out of Pant, leaving Sydney with her shock.
Another forty minutes on the clock, and he was lying on his back in just his boxers, staring at the darkened ceiling of his bedroom in Forest Hills. Alone. Grieving because of it. But unable to change it.
He’d been staying here since walking away from Nika while she lay in recovery. It had taken a while for Tegan and her team at Coney Island Hospital to finish with her—concussion, GSW, stitches over stitches, bruising, and abrasions. He’d ignored Gabriel calling his name, and as he’d fought through the agony and forced himself to walk out of her room and down that hallway, Lore had paused the conversation he’d been having with two suits and stepped in front of him.
“Going for a walk, V?” He’d bobbed his head left and right to remain in Vincente’s shifting sight. “Want some company?”
Vincente had grabbed him hard by the nape, causing the suits to jump forward, but Lore had quickly put up a hand, telling them to stand down.
“I will never be able to repay you for what you did for me today. You ever need anything and can bring yourself to ask, I’m your guy.” He’d kissed him solidly on both cheeks and carried on to his living death, leaving the hospital amid a flurry of texts and calls he didn’t answer until the following day. Once he was able to open his throat enough to speak, he’d called Gabriel and told him he needed some time and had made it clear he didn’t want to hear a goddamn thing other than updates on Nika’s condition.
Five days ago those had stopped. He’d heard it one too many times: “She’s doing fine, physically.” That physically always stressed. Fuck that. She was better off without him. As he’d known from the beginning, he couldn’t have her. Couldn’t handle it. Had to accept that. Couldn’t ever risk something like what had gone down with Nollan happening to her again. His dazzling redhead had almost died. Hit by a bullet that, had it entered two short inches lower, would have punctured her heart. And he’d have had a front-row-center to see it all go down. And would have had a hand in it. Because of his and his friends’ way of doing things. Agreeing to let Maks set up and prepare that shot, Vincente himself might as well have held the gun.
How was she? he thought for the millionth time. Was she getting better, as Gabriel claimed? Was she in pain? Hurting emotionally as well as physically? Was she having nightmares?
Of course she was. Yes, to all of those things. She was hurting, and he wasn’t there to comfort her. To soothe her and spoil her. To bring her magazines and lattes. To give her a foot massage and hold her close when she woke in the night.
He jerked into a sit and threw his legs over the side of the bed. Holy hell, he was going fucking insane here. He rubbed at his bare chest to loosen the constriction. He’d never get this time back. She’d had to recover without him, and he’d never be able to turn back the clock and change that.
Because you think she has to get used to life without you. And you without her. But that is bullshit!
He shoved his hair back from where it had fallen around his face and ignored Fan Boy. “How the fuck am I going to do this?” he whispered into the quiet.
Didn’t know, but he’d find away. Had to. He squeezed his eyes shut at the knowledge that he’d failed again.
First with Sophia.
Then with Nika. Who he . . . didn’t love like a sister. Not. At. All.
Nika he loved with the whole of his heart and soul. The whole of his body and being. All that he was belonged to her.
And a lot of good that was doing as he sat there and bled to death out of his invisible wounds. Unlike Nika’s very visible ones. He shook his head, bowing it as shame covered him like hot oil, burning, eating through his flesh to sear bone.
After dragging himself to his feet, he went into his closet and donned some sweats and sneakers and then plodded out to the far corner of his living area to where he’d set up a makeshift gym. He strapped on his gloves and started whaling on the heavy bag suspended from the ceiling. The clink-clink of the chain as it was jerked this way and that was familiar, but not as soothing as it most times was.
He had to face it. He hadn’t found Nollan in time. Had only found him at all because the bastard had given himself away. A malevolent darkness beat through Vincente as an image of his redhead in Nollan’s arms speared his brain again. The damage done to her had been massive. All because she’d left them behind to deal with that fuck on her own, the way she’d been used to doing. She’d sacrificed herself for Caleb, over and over again, because she loved her brother.
And she loved him.
He nailed the bag harder, sweat popping up on his brow.
Hearing those words from her had been as astounding as they’d been tragic. He hadn’t deserved them. Might have, if he was the man she needed. But he wasn’t. How could a life with him be what was right for her? She’d be in another cage. Like Eva was. Sure, Gabriel tried his best to cover his wife’s limitations with I’ll-come-with-because-I-want-us-to-be-together, but the truth was, the boss just couldn’t handle his wife being anywhere on her own in case someone got to her. Eva
was restricted in her freedom, and that wasn’t going to change. And would only get worse once she had their kid. She wouldn’t be able to take the baby out and go into the city for a day of shopping. Not unless she had two or more of the boys on their ass, armed and ready to kill anyone who dared approach them. Was that what Nika needed? Could she thrive in that smothering atmosphere?
Fuck no.
What if he hadn’t been so distracted by their personal relationship? Could he have prevented what happened to her? What if he’d gone harder after Nollan? Done more? What if . . . ?
He blinked. The what-ifs were starting already?
Add them to Sophia’s list and he’d be kept more than busy imagining all the shit he could’ve done differently.
Holy fuck, he had to give this a rest, clear his head enough to function within his circle of society again. Gabriel was being as generous as he could, giving him this time, but shit was happening within the organization that needed Vincente’s attention. Aside from so much else, G wanted his brother found, and Vincente—because Maksim was MIA—had been given the job.
He thought about Gabriel for a second. Guy was the shit. They were on the same wavelength, as always. His friend identified completely with what love meant in Vincente’s world.
Thank fuck he had his boys, he thought not for the first time throughout this ordeal. Alek had also been a help, even if to just come over and sit with him in silence as they both wallowed in their misery over a nice bottle of red. Fucking guy. Vincente didn’t know how he did it, going through his days so normally without his woman.
Alek had walked away from Sacha to protect her from the mafia life, too, and he’d been barely surviving for a fucking year now. Twelve months, to Vincente’s fourteen days. How did the guy do it?
He stopped drilling the bag for a second and caught it from swinging away from him, leaning on it as he panted. Where the fuck was Maks? Shit just wasn’t right with only the three of them around. From the time Vasily had brought the big guy back with him from Russia, they’d been a quad.
He went back to it, connecting a series of quick jabs and sneaky lefts. Before anything, he had to get Maksim back. Let the guy know things were good between them.
Vincente continued his workout, burying his knuckles into the canvas and sand, imaging Nollan’s face. Trying not to feel so robbed that delivering death to the motherfucker had indeed been stolen from him by circumstance.
Just like his chance at happiness.
Nika sat on the edge of Vincente’s bed, the left side of her chest aching only mildly thanks to the painkillers Tegan had her on.
Her mind wasn’t on her injury, though. It was on the stubborn ass she’d fallen in love with. Where was he? she wondered as she had been doing for weeks now. Was he alone? Could he be with another woman?
Had he decided that being with Nika was more trouble than it was worth? After all, their entire courtship—if it could even be called that—had been one life-threatening situation after another.
And after losing Sophia . . .
She shook off the thought and ran her good hand through her hair. Of course he wasn’t with another woman. He loved her. Had said he couldn’t live without her. Vincente was her man just as much as she was his woman. He just needed to come to his senses and accept it. Soon. Because her patience was wearing thin.
She sighed as the bedroom door opened; the distraction was a welcome one. Especially when the first to come through was Charlie, who bounded into the center of the room, tail whipping, ears flapping. He spotted her and barreled over, leaping up like a lunatic to scratch at her jeans as he begged for a stroke. She obliged.
“I swear that kid eats like he’s never been fed before,” Eva muttered as she sailed in. “Never seen anything like it.” She had a plate with two sandwiches in one hand and a large shopping bag in the other. She offered the plate to Nika and laid the bag gently on the bed. “Still nothing?” she asked as she did every day.
Nika shook her head. “I swear to God when I get my hands on him, after I behave rather indecently for a minute or two, I’m going to kill him.”
“I’d like to be around for that.”
They both looked over to see Gabriel stride in, Jakson Trisko behind him. The bodyguard she’d met briefly in Seattle the day she and Vincente had shared their first kiss had arrived the day before. He was still the hard-bodied, angry-looking man with the scarred face she remembered. He placed the two large potted plants he was carrying against the wall and left with a nod in her direction.
“The killing part,” he specified with a raised hand and a straight face. “Seems the stubborn ass is in need of a push, and I know just who to bring in to give it to him.” Another bag gingerly joined the one on the bed, this one tinkling and clinking slightly. “Show me where you want them.”
Nika headed for the corner of the bedroom. “What’s the plan?” she asked curiously.
Gabriel ignored her and gave his wife a kiss on the corner of her mouth. “You were curious about Maksim’s club? Looks like you’re going to see it tonight.” To Nika he said, “You up for socializing in a public place?”
She nodded around her trepidation. She hadn’t been out of the house since they’d brought her home from the hospital twelve days ago. “Sure.”
“You uncomfortable around dancers that may or may not be fully clothed? Very classy, but still.”
“Uh, are you forgetting who my brother is, Gabriel? Take a stroll through the clubhouse and it’s rare not to see some girl in a tank and panties—if they’re even wearing that much—getting her man a drink or sustenance from the kitchen.”
“I don’t know how Caleb lives like that,” Eva muttered. “Is Maksim back?” she asked Gabriel, a hopeful note in her voice.
He shook his head. “Not yet. But he’ll show.” He lifted the object Nika had purchased with Eva—and Quan and Jak—during their trip to Westbury Plaza this morning. Who knew Quan and Jak would be such amusing company? The two had certainly drawn their fair share of female attention. “Here?”
“That’s perfect. So, um, will Vincente be at Rapture tonight?”
Eva’s husband turned to her with a pointed look. “I’ll make sure of it.”
Nerves exploded in her stomach, along with an anticipation that was downright knee-weakening.
With a rolling jaw and not much in the way of hope, Vincente once again parked the Kombat in the alley behind Rapture. He once again banged on the back door. And was once again greeted by the sight of Micha.
“Get the fuck in here,” the Russian grumbled, stepping aside.
Looked like his tenacity had paid off. He plowed through the door on a crash course for Maks’s office, and came to an abrupt halt when he saw his intended target. Maksim was indeed there, standing behind his monstrous ebony desk, his odd choice in art showcased behind him. Well, he was swaying more than standing, as though he were on the deck of a ship during one hell of a storm.
“Ah, there’s my man,” the massive Russian slurred. Or that’s what Vincente thought he said. It was barely understandable. Because the guy was totally faced.
Vincente just stared. Maksim didn’t drink more than one finger at a time. Ever. Never ever. He hated not being in complete control of himself at all times. “Hey.” He came fully into the room, guarded.
Micha closed the door, locking them all inside.
Vincente continued to move slowly, wanting to appear relaxed as he inconspicuously took out his cell. He sent a quick text to let the boys know what was going down. “How you doing, my brother?” he inquired as he put his phone away.
A long finger came up to wave, all over the fucking place. “No, no. Don’ ds’rve that title no mor’.” Maks’s words were a confusing mix of Russian and English. But Vincente got it.
And snorted. This man would always deserve that title. He’d saved Vincente’s ass on more than
one occasion, and now he’d saved Nika’s. With that one bullet, despite it going through Nika first, Maks had stolen Nollan’s opportunity to pull the trigger on the gun he’d had pressed to her temple, which certainly would have killed her.
“Yes, you do. You’re my brother, whether you like it or not.” He came up to the desk and put his hands on the surface, leaning over to look the wasted guy right in the rolling eyes. “Nothing will ever change that.”
Maks copied his move, which placed them nose to nose. And, holy hell, the guy smelled like a distillery. “Don’ you fuckn’ dare try absolve me of my spons’bil’ty in this. I know what I did. Even ’f she survived.”
“I’m not trying to absolve shit. You saved my wom—You saved Nika’s life. That’s on you no matter what you say.”
“F’ck you. F’ck you, you son’fabitch.” Maks’s voice cracked at the end, and Vincente couldn’t help but feel bad for what he was about to do. But he pushed anyway.
“You think you owe me for what happened? Fine. You can repay me by accepting my thanks for stepping in when I failed to do what needed doing. Both you and Lore can accept my gratitude. There. We’re even. Feel better?”
Vincente’s head snapped to the side in the next second, a metallic taste coating his tongue, from the right hook he’d just been dealt. The good two-eighty behind that fist stumbled and listed to the side, then slid down the wall to land hard on his stubborn ass.
“Yur’ a f’cking liar! You hate me and won’ me dead fer hurting her. I know y’ do. I know ’cause I’d wan’ you dead if you did that t’ . . . t’ . . . someone like . . . ’stralia. Ya. ’stralia. Not that I feel fer her wha’ you o’viously feel fer Nika,” Maks went on almost unintelligibly. “Bu’ she’s close as I got ri’gh now. Coulda’ used Teg’n, I guess, but I don’ wanna fuck hur.”
The Salvation of Vengeance (Wanted Men #2) Page 36
