The Hollow: Preacher Brothers, 4

by Snow, Jenika

  I changed my name, completely altered my look, and prayed like hell enough time had passed that Maximillian and the bratva’s interest in me would’ve become nonexistent.

  Once I made it out of Russia, I settled down in New York temporarily. It was safer to hide out for a while after arriving, not making constant moves, keeping my carbon footprint down. So for the last month, I’d been staying in this shitty-ass motel, looking at the stranger in the mirror day in and day out. The takeout was getting old, the delivery pizza stale. With only five channels on the outdated TV in front of the bed, I was getting well acquainted with the public access soap operas. And all the while, all I could think about was Frankie.

  I wanted to reach out to him so badly, not even sure if the number I had—his from five years prior—was even still registered to him.

  I’d picked up the off-yellow landline on the chipped and scarred bedside table more times than I could count, started dialing his number, but then quickly hung up the phone. I needed to wait, bide my time. I needed to make sure I was safe as I could be, given the circumstances, before I reached out. I didn’t even know if he lived in the same area, the same house, but it was the only starting point I had, so that’s where I was ultimately headed.

  I sat on the bed, the frame creaking, the springs from the mattress digging into my ass. This place was a shithole, but it was obscure. I looked at my small bag filled with a change of clothes, my money, passport, and anything else worth a damn that was set by the motel room door. Although I’d been here for the last month, I was always ready to leave at the drop of a hat. Fear did that to a person.

  Before I left Russia, Vlad, the man who’d been helping me at the safehouse, had given me a slip of paper that had a phone number on it. He told me when I was secure enough, felt safe, that I could reach out to Marina. But he said it was a one-off, that the number was for a burner, and that after that one call had been made, the phone would be thrown away and that was that.

  I wanted to call that number so many times, to check in on her. Although I knew Marina could handle herself, that she’d survived many things, I couldn’t help but worry. So much worrying.

  She’d become like a mother figure to me. That staple in my life, that strength I felt from her, was what I desperately wanted and needed right now. But it wasn’t safe. I didn’t feel like it was anyway. Maybe I never would. Maybe I’d never call that number.

  I pulled my knees up to my chest, resting my head back on the wall, staring at the TV, which was currently off. I was lonely, not just in the general sense because I was here by myself, but deep down, in the pit of my stomach, in the very heart of my soul.

  If I were being honest with myself, I could admit I’d been lonely for the last five years, the moment my father ripped me away from Frankie, took away my future, tried to force me into something that would never make me happy. I had no emotions that he was dead—not happiness, not sadness... nothing. I just felt that everything was different now.

  I didn’t know if that was for the better or the worse.

  I didn’t know if I’d ever see Frankie again, if I’d make it to him, if we’d ever be able to reconnect and have a life together. But I knew I had to try.

  I knew I had to try with everything in me, because I had nothing else to lose.

  9

  Frankie

  I leaned against the kitchen counter and listened as Dom and Cullen went over the plan for our next heist. I was only mildly paying attention, although I knew this was important. It was hard to focus when all I wanted to do was go home and crash. My knuckles were bruised and scabbed over from the fight with that junkie, even though I couldn’t really qualify it as an actual fight. I allowed him one hit before I took his ass down.

  Wilder had the fridge open and was bent over, shuffling around for more beers. I knew I sure as hell could use a new one. I picked up the bottle that was a quarter full of dark ale. It had been sitting on the counter for the past twenty minutes and was no doubt warm and flat as fuck.

  “Fuck, we’re out of beer,” Wilder muttered before straightening and closing the fridge. He turned around and scowled. “That’s unacceptable for planning shit.”

  Cullen and Dom stopped talking and looked over at Wilder, and I couldn’t help but feel my lips twitch in amusement. There was something about Wilder that got under their skin, but it had the opposite effect on me. I found his antics hilarious as hell. Maybe it was because we were the youngest out of the four brothers, or maybe it was because we were twins.

  Maybe it was just because Dom and Cullen were too serious all the time. Even though they had women of their own, it was still like they had a stick up their ass, serious and no-fucking-around attitudes. It made for extensive and prolonged planning.

  “I think we can manage without getting drunk while we’re trying to pull off a fucking heist, Wilder.”

  I felt my lips twitching even more.

  I scrubbed a hand over my face and internally told myself to man the fuck up and focus. There was no room for error, not even a fraction of time for a fuck up. We had to be on board completely, in sync, because if not, this whole thing would go to hell and we'd be behind bars, or worse, dead and buried in the ground.

  Although that had always been the plan, that we wouldn’t go down without a fight, because my brothers had women of their own now, people they had to look after aside from themselves, it did drastically change things. It changed how people felt about life.

  It put things into perspective, and I could understand that. I knew I’d do anything to protect Nadja. I knew I’d do anything to go home to her.

  “Wilder, let’s just focus on this so we can nail it down.”

  My twin looked at me, his scowl deepening, but he finally nodded, understanding the sooner we got this over with, the sooner we could all go back to what we were doing.

  And that meant my brothers being with their women, and me being alone in a house that was too fucking big for just me.

  We all gathered around the kitchen island at the house we grew up in, also known as now fully mine. We decided to plan any new robberies here, because it’s what we’d always done, but also because my brothers didn’t want this shit around their women.

  And I could understand and respect that.

  Cullen’s woman crashed early due to working a late shift at the hospital. Wilder’s female was having a girls’ night out with some coworkers she recently befriended, which in turn had my twin grumpy, because he always wanted to be by her side to protect her. And Dom’s woman was studying for what she called “midterms.” I knew if Dom had his way, she’d be at home twenty-four seven, because that’s where he could make sure she was safe. But he also wanted her to be independent, to have her own life, get the degree she wanted to.

  But all my brothers' significant others were independent as hell. And although Dom, Cullen, and Wilder were possessive, territorial, and alpha as fuck, the fact of the matter was, their women wore the pants in their relationships.

  I would’ve laughed, but hell, Nadja ruled every single part of me, and if she walked right back into my life after all these years, she still would.

  And so I got it. I understood what my brothers were going through, what they felt, even if I didn’t talk about any of it. Even if I kept all my feelings for Nadja to myself because that was safer.

  We circled the island, and I looked down at the map Cullen drafted up. He pointed to the pawn shop we’d be hitting up. I knitted my brows, picturing that part of the city. It was rough as hell, sleazy. It’s where I went to go drinking at Ricky's.

  “Dude, we’re going to hit up Mackerel’s shitty pawn shop?” I looked up at Cullen then at Dom before finally settling on Wilder. “Am I missing something? When has Mackerel had anything but pieces of shit in his shop and probably no more than five hundred bucks in his safe?”

  “McKenzie told me that lately he’s dabbling in other ventures. He now really just uses the shop as a front.” Cullen’s voice was sharp
like a blade, annoyed. He didn’t like when anybody questioned the plans.

  “Yeah, we all know it’s a front, but they don’t bring in nearly enough for us to risk a heist on them.”

  Dom grunted and gave an equally piercing look in my direction. Apparently, I was pissing him off too. “They run crystal out of there,” he spoke, and then the room grew silent, heavy.

  I knew Mackerel’s shop was a front. Pretty much any establishment in that part of town wasn’t all legit, but if they were running meth, I couldn’t imagine it wasn’t tied to something bigger, say like the cartel.

  “So, do we have any other information from Mackenzie other than it’s crystal? Who is the distributor? Who’s calling the shots? We all know Mackerel is dumb as fuck and just the mule. No way anybody would trust him with anything of importance.”

  Wilder chuckled, which only had Dom and Cullen scowling even more.

  “He’s getting a shipment of crystal Saturday night. He only houses it for twelve hours before it’s taken to a safehouse then distributed to dealers. He’s nothing more than a drop-off point.”

  I looked at the map again, seeing the businesses and buildings surrounding it. There was the greasy-ass pizza joint across the street, a less-than-legitimate pharmacy beside Mackerel’s, a shoe repair shop on the other side, and then an apartment building that was on its last legs and catty-corner to the pawn shop.

  “Do we know who he answers to? Who any of them answer to?” I looked up at Cullen, knowing he had all the answers. “Because I sure as fuck am not messing with the cartel, if they even deal with meth, if that’s what we’re talking about.”

  Cullen shook his head. “It’s nothing but a local gang. The shit isn’t even quality.”

  “But they make a killing off of it, selling it to the junkies and college kids who don’t know better,” Dom finished.

  I nodded slowly. “So then why are we hitting it up if it’s shitty crystal?”

  “Because it isn’t the drugs we’re after, but the dealer payments Mackerel collected.”

  All the pieces were falling together, and although I didn’t like risky heists like this, ones that involved drugs, because it was just too uncertain who all the players were, we needed cash flow.

  Everything about me was on edge lately, and the risk high made me feel more than just... breathing.

  “How much are we talking?” Wilder was the one to speak, and I waited for either Dom or Cullen to answer, since they were the ones to know.

  “We’re looking upward of one million.”

  I felt my eyebrows rise at that. Although one million wasn’t a whole lot in the grand scheme of things—not just in terms of an actual heist, but also drug related—it was good enough for us.

  It was enough for us.

  I gave a nod and said, “Good, let’s plan the shit out then.”

  I found that as the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years, I’d become more recluse, angrier, and sought a higher adrenaline rush to feel alive.

  Because without Nadja in my life, nothing satisfied me, and I knew it never would.

  10

  Nadja

  I wasn’t used to my surroundings, and it had nothing to do with being back in the city I’d grown up in, the city I’d fallen in love in. It had everything to do with the fact that I’d never actually been to this part of town, the sleazy, dirty, very unpredictable part.

  My father never allowed it.

  Frankie never wanted me around the grime and dirt of depravity.

  It was an area where people made it no secret they were selling drugs on the corner of streets, or where sex was being solicited to cars driving by. It was an area where filth and cockroaches covered the counters and floors where you lived.

  Where I lived now.

  At least for the time being.

  I closed the front door to the apartment I was renting by the week. I dropped my bag by my feet, the sound echoing and seeming especially loud. Thankfully, the apartment was fully furnished, even if the items were disgusting, aged, and worn.

  This was like a palace compared to what my life could be like. Six feet in the ground or worse... tied to Maximillian.

  I walked over to the lone window in the one-room apartment and leaned against the frame. The landlord said it was painted shut, but if it got to stifling, I could always go down to Leo’s corner store and pick up a box fan. I had to snort at that. Although beggars couldn’t be choosers. I’d be safe here. Ambiguous, anonymous.

  Despite it being a weekday and pretty late, the streets were pretty packed, cars and taxis moving back and forth, businesses open, dingy lit storefronts showing the shitty items they had for sale. There was a pizza place across the street, probably the worst slice I would ever have, but I liked that it was convenient, easy access. I was all about that.

  I’d seen a small grocery store on the corner, if it could even be called that. It was probably mainly prepackaged, processed food, but I like the convenience. This was definitely a shitty area, but things were so crammed together that it made everything easy access.

  I closed my eyes and lifted my hand to rub them. I was so tired, exhausted down to the bone.

  I turned away from the window and looked at the bed. It was nothing but a mattress on a box spring, and the stains on what was once probably white made it now dingy and disgusting-looking. Thankfully, after the piece of shit motel I’d been staying in prior to this place, I invested in a pair of cheap sheets.

  I was insane for coming back to town, but it was as if this magnet was pulling me to Frankie. It was so damn crazy, not just because of my circumstances with the bratva, but because it had been years since I’d seen Frankie.

  I grabbed the sheets I had shoved in my bag, walked over to the bed, and made it quickly before sitting down. It creaked painfully, protesting, and despite it being an awful mattress and no doubt I’d be sore as hell come morning, it felt good to just sit here and do nothing.

  I didn’t even bother taking my shoes off. I’d gotten into the habit of being ready at any given moment. My fear was too real, another person in me, one I’d grown accustomed to for the last few months.

  I lay back and pulled the sheet up to my chin just as I heard a car alarm go off right outside and people scream at each other somewhere in the building. The walls were paper-thin, the sound of rodents scurrying around plain as day. I stared at the ceiling, the shadows too dark to make out anything more than the water stains that made intermittent dark blots.

  I would have cried in this moment if not for the fact that my tears had long since dried up.

  I was on my own, or maybe not. Maybe Frankie was waiting for me like I waited for him, my heart always his.

  Or maybe these were the delusions of a very broken, lonely girl.

  11

  Frankie

  I sat in the van off the side road of where Mackerel’s was located. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, feeling anxious and not knowing why. The blood rushed through my veins, my heart a war drum in my chest. I couldn’t even blame this feeling on the job. I never felt this way before we did one.

  I just felt... uneasy.

  I was the getaway, and although I preferred to be in on the action, a hands-on type of guy when we did a heist, I didn’t mind this one instance just hanging back.

  All day, I felt off, as if something were going to happen, something big. The other shoe to drop. I’d brought it up to Wilder, and he blamed it on the job, told me to chill the fuck out and keep my head on straight. But on his face, I could see he was confused, a little worried even, because I never got this way. I was always calm and collected, cool and organized. I had my shit together.

  He worried I’d fuck this up. And I couldn’t blame him, because I worried about that too.

  I exhaled and curled my hands around the leather of the wheel even tighter, my knuckles turning white momentarily before I forced myself to loosen my grip.

  I focused on the greasy pi
zza joint, seeing dirty and questionable people coming in and out, stumbling because they were drunk or high—hell, probably both.

  I turned my focus to the laundromat directly beside that, the windows old-looking, foggy and cracked. The light inside flickered, needing to be changed, giving this almost ominous appearance to the interior of the place. There was only one person inside, a woman who had her hair piled high on her head like a rat’s nest. She kept flinging her arms back and forth, as if tweaking, pacing in front of the washer, the clothes inside turning in the circular window in front. It was impressive she was tweaking yet still doing laundry. Comical even.

  This place had my skin crawling, which was almost ironic given the fact that it wasn’t like we had a childhood that was any better than this.

  I started looking at the other businesses, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel and trying to stay calm, focused. I kept telling myself everything was fine, that it was just one of those moments where I was feeling on edge. I blamed it on the fact that I’d been obsessively thinking about Nadja, more than usual.

  Although I thought about her daily, recently she’d been on my mind to the point where I felt it consume me. It was like in the beginning of all this, when I felt frantic, searching and searching, trying to find any little breadcrumbs of information. It had become this obsession with me.

  And I latched onto it, made it my mission, even if all these years had gone by, even if I hadn’t even gotten close to finding out where she was all this time.

  I assumed she went back to Russia, her father carting her off. The very idea that she was already married, possibly had children, forced into a life she didn’t want, infuriated me. It had this possessive and protective instinct in me rising so fiercely I couldn’t even breathe.