Crooks & Kings: A Wild Bunch Novel

by London Miller

  “The only one of us who is.”

  “And this one?” she asked, pointing at the smiley face on his bicep before her thoughts could get her down.

  “Tăcut.”

  “Thanatos, Invictus, and Tăcut?” she asked. “And you’re Fang. Does everyone in your life have another name they go by?”

  His smile was rueful. “More than likely.”

  “You didn’t tell me about this one,” she said, tracing the outline of the star on his shoulder. This one was the most faded.

  “He died,” Christophe confessed softly, gently wrapping his hand around hers and dropping them both into his lap.

  “What was his name?”

  “Sebastian.”

  “He didn’t get a cool nickname?” she asked, trying to cheer him back up.

  “He never got the chance.”

  The sadness in his voice made her hurt for him. Though there seemed to be a lot of love for his brothers, a sadness about him made her wonder about his childhood.

  Had it been happy and filled with joy?

  Or something darker?

  “What are they like, your brothers?”

  “Thanatos and Invictus … think of them as Thing 1 and Thing 2. Where you find one, you’ll find the other. Thanatos is a little shit, and Invictus is a little more serious. They balance each other out.”

  She took a moment to walk over to the kitchen to set her plate in the sink as he spoke, eyes darting around his apartment, trying to get a better idea of him as she did.

  “Tăcut … he keeps us all in line,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Even you?” she asked glancing at him.

  “He’s my conscience.”

  A response to that was on the tip of her tongue until she glanced over at the nightstand once she walked back over where the drawer was open, and she caught a peek of color inside.

  “What’s this?” she asked, gaze never straying from the mask she picked up, feeling the surprising weight to it before running her fingers along the front of it.

  It was a terrifying looking thing, the paint on it made to resemble a melting skull, but beyond that, there were nicks in it, deep grooves and scratches as though someone had scraped something sharp along the front of it.

  When Christophe didn’t answer right away, she turned to glance at him over her shoulder. He was staring at it with an odd sort of look, as though it held both wondrous and painful memories.

  “Don’t people use these for paintball?” she asked, vaguely thinking she might have seen something similar on the internet.

  Her question seemed to snap him out of his thoughts, but she didn’t understand the soft chuckle and smile accompanying it. “That’s one use, yeah.”

  She went to put the mask back in the drawer when she saw what the mask had been sitting on top of. She had seen plenty of guns over the years, though no one had needed to use one around her, but this was one of the biggest she had ever seen.

  The barrel was slightly longer, she thought, than the average one she had seen, with three grooves along the bottom near the trigger.

  Guns didn’t bother her, but it did make her blink in surprise.

  “Protection,” Christophe called from the bed as if he knew what held her attention.

  “But what do you need protection from?” she asked, turning away after she’d placed his mask back.

  Christophe was eyeing her a bit differently now, as though trying to gauge her reaction to it. “We all need protection from something, yes?”

  She didn’t like how pointed the question felt. “Do you think I need protection from something, Fang?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “No.”

  He studied her a moment before he moved his plate aside and grabbed her, pulling her down until she was straddling his lap.

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  She put her hand on the center of his chest and tried to push him away. “Who says I’m afraid?”

  He smiled gently, trying to appear non-threatening, but as his hands skimmed down her arms until he was holding her wrists, she felt trapped.

  She attempted to pull away, not liking the feeling, but he held fast.

  Those brown eyes of his settled on her face, reading what she didn’t want him to see.

  Was it that clear? Did he see what she was running from?

  “We recognize our own, don’t we?” he asked. “The wraiths of the world hiding in plain sight.” He searched her face. “Who are you running from—the Russians?”

  She’d meant to temper her reaction and not show the effect his words had on her, but she knew she was going to have to stay away from him. He could see too much—everything she wasn’t saying, everything she wouldn’t even allow herself to think about.

  Raw panic crawled over her nerve endings, and the last thing she wanted to do was talk about this, especially while he was holding her against him and wouldn’t let go.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” she confessed with a shake of her head. “Leave—”

  “Women don’t usually have those stars, no? They’re for the men—they depict rank,” he said, his words making her freeze in place. “So why do you have one?”

  The question was troubling him, she could see that, but she only cared that he knew to ask at all.

  This time, she didn’t sit idly when his hold tightened on her wrists, she used every bit of strength she possessed to pull away.

  “Who are you?”

  She scrambled off his lap, backing away once he got up too, but he didn’t come any closer, merely held his hands up, palms out as though they might help him appear non-threatening.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question,” she snapped back.

  He wasn’t supposed to know what it meant. It was just like any other star, but it was clear he knew it was more than that.

  “I’m not one of your vory.”

  “But you know of them … you know of me.”

  She was seconds from full-blown panic, her eyes skirting to the door to gauge the distance.

  “I asked myself,” he went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “why would a girl like you have this inked on them—unless it was forced on you.”

  So he didn’t know everything, he was just guessing, but he did know something. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Fang,” she said drawing in a rattling breath. “You should leave it alone.”

  Before he got hurt because of her.

  “Your pulse told me that I do,” he responded evenly, nodding down at her hands. “The second I mentioned it, you nearly had a heart attack. So who do you belong to?”

  Mariya didn’t know why she got so angry at his question, but the moment it was there, hanging between them, she wished he would take it back. “I belong to no one.”

  He seemed determined not to drop it, though, striding over to her until he was all she could focus on. “You didn’t know before, but you do now. I know what the fucking tattoo means. Stop lying to me.”

  “Did you ever stop to consider that maybe it’s not any of your damn business?” she asked.

  “Not for a second. You are my business.” He said it gently, but firmly, as though he didn’t want her to doubt those words, even as he cupped her face and forced her to look at him.

  Momentarily at a loss for words, she could only blink up at him as she digested those words. “What the hell makes you think that?”

  “Because I want you to be.”

  Such beautiful words. “You don’t understand.”

  “Explain it to me.”

  “They would kill you,” she whispered, trying to get him to understand.

  He obviously didn’t understand where these questions would lead. This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted to get close to anyone in the first place.

  But Christophe didn’t balk in the face of death. “They could try.”

  “You don’t know what you’r
e asking for, Fang, and even if you do, I won’t be the one to give it to you.”

  She brushed past him, grabbing her purse and jacket, needing to get away.

  “I’m not asking for them,” he said with all the conviction in the world. “I’m asking for you.”

  But as things stood, he couldn’t have her.

  No matter what she wanted.

  Chapter 7

  July 21, 2017

  Mariya had started to believe she’d finally scared Christophe off.

  She hadn’t seen him at all the night before, and after leaving him in his apartment, she thought she would be happy about it.

  Instead, she had tried to catch glimpses of him, convincing herself that since she didn’t go up to his apartment, she was doing what she was supposed to by avoiding him.

  But it only felt like she denied herself.

  How things had changed. She had gone from seeing him every blue moon to seeing him nearly every day. And while she could freely admit she liked him, what was the point in even contemplating it when it could never happen.

  The other night had frightened her back to her senses because though she had momentarily been afraid of what he was hinting around at, by the end of it, she had known he didn’t know anything incriminating.

  But she couldn’t be sure how he’d react once he knew just how deep her ties were to the Bratva. The few boyfriends she’d had before Feliks thought her being the daughter of a rumored Russian mobster meant a good time, skirting the edge of danger, but that was only until they caught a glimpse of the men they were beneath the suits, and how her world would slowly bleed into theirs.

  The extra security she had always kept around her.

  The special treatment.

  The attention from local police if one was near.

  And the day they met her grandfather, they hadn’t been able to stand the pressure—only two had reached that point before calling it quits.

  And now, with everything the press was reporting—that they were on the cusp of another mafiya war, apparently—Christophe might have thought he was open-minded, but he didn’t understand the gravity of it or else he would have run far, far away by now.

  Glancing at her watch, Mariya watched the hours tick by slowly. She had only been working for a few hours, and she was already ready to go home.

  Since Davie was in the back and she was the only bartender for the night, she prepared herself for a long shift until she heard the doors open and Christophe walked in.

  He looked at her, a challenge in his eyes. Would she avoid him? He was practically asking.

  As he had done many times before, he claimed a stool on her side, but even as she turned away to focus on anything other than him, she could still feel his gaze on her.

  With the bar as empty as it was, she couldn’t avoid him without him realizing she was doing it on purpose.

  As soon as she started in his direction, his gaze snapped up, watching her the entire way.

  Some days, his face was a blank canvas, and she couldn’t read a thing on him, and other days, he was an open book, displaying the hurt, the pain, and the joy he kept bottled up.

  Tonight, though, he was giving her a mixture of all of it.

  Whatever he was feeling, it bled onto his face and down his very body, but she couldn’t read what it was, but it did make the fine hairs along her arms stand up.

  Resting her hands on the bar in front of him, she asked, “Your usual?”

  A corner of his mouth tipped up. “You’re still angry with me?”

  “I was never angry with you.” Not entirely.

  “Vy uvereny v etom, printsessa?—You sure about that, princess?”

  What small smile she was managing to keep up disappeared altogether as she glared at him. No, there was no doubt he knew exactly who she was.

  “Now that you think you have all your answers,” she said, her voice tight, “are you going to order something?”

  “Not everything,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “Believe it or not, I want to help.”

  Mariya didn’t mean to laugh, but she couldn’t believe he was serious. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Then why are you here?” he asked.

  Maybe he had a savior complex, but she had a plan, one she didn’t need him interfering with. Besides, his answer would undoubtedly involve working with law enforcement, and despite her hatred for Feliks, she didn’t trust police any more than she trusted him.

  “Either order something or leave,” she said between gritted teeth, ready to turn away the second he said anything that wasn’t a food item or a drink.

  “Beer.”

  “Which one?”

  “Pick one.”

  “Mudak—Asshole,” she muttered walking back, but not before she heard his amused chuckle.

  As she grabbed a random bottle from beneath the bar and popped the top, she walked it back over to him just as a group of four men walked in.

  Over her five months in this place, she had met all sorts of people. Most were decent, ordering their drinks without too much trouble, but occasionally, men like these came in. The ones who were a little too loud and had a tendency to get a little handsy by their third drink.

  They settled at the bar near Christophe, only a few seats down, and though his gaze skimmed over them, narrowing slightly, he dismissed them just as quickly.

  The one in front whistled to get her attention, and if she hadn’t wanted to serve them before, she definitely didn’t want to serve them now.

  She briefly contemplated going to the back to ask Davie to wrangle them, but she could handle this. If she couldn’t manage rude customers, she definitely wouldn’t be able to handle Feliks when the time came.

  “Hi, what can I get—”

  “I’m Mike,” the whistler said, smiling widely as though she’d asked him to introduce himself.

  “Hi, Mike. What can I get you?”

  “You can start us off with a round of tequila shots.”

  Already knowing she was in for a long night, she poured them as quickly as she could and set them down.

  She didn’t complain when they called her back over five minutes later to request more limes, nor when they yelled for her again not even five minutes after that to get their refills.

  She didn’t even complain when the bar slowly emptied out, and they were the last ones standing apart from Christophe.

  Over the course of the night, he’d stayed in the same place, his gaze following her around, and she couldn’t help but notice the way his jaw clenched whenever she went over to Mike and his friends.

  He seemed to grow more annoyed with each passing minute.

  “Bartender!” Mike called, slapping his hand down on the wood and nearly toppling his glass over in the process. “Another round.”

  It was nearing midnight, and she’d had enough. Not only had she already called last call, but he was also obviously blotto. “I’m cutting you off.”

  “Say what?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.

  She detested the belligerent ones, but as Davie finally ventured out from the back, she didn’t worry much about them.

  Especially not with the way Christophe seemed to be studying the pint glass she’d brought him hours ago as though it were the most interesting thing in the world. But he was too tense. Too still.

  “You heard the lass,” Davie called from the other end of the bar where he kept the shotgun he rarely used. “Time’s up.”

  Mike’s face grew red in a rush, but besides a few muttered curses, he grudgingly got to his feet, pulling out his wallet to pay their tab.

  He was turning his back when she walked forward, intending to clear away the glasses and mess they’d left behind, but Mike turned back at the last minute, and grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward him.

  “Next time, don’t—”

  He never got to finish that statement before a stool screeched, and the next thing she knew, Mike’s head was getting slammed onto the bar,
a yelp of pain leaving him as blood ran freely, but a large hand held him in place, the other having hold of the man’s arm, keeping it twisted behind his back.

  She hadn’t even seen Christophe move.

  Mike’s friends realized a moment too late what had happened, and before they could even think to move, Christophe looked back at them. “I wouldn’t.” Maybe it was his tone, or that they were too drunk to know any better, but they didn’t try to help their friend at all. They simply stared.

  His attention back on Mike, he tapped the top of the man’s head. “Apologize to her.”

  “Fuck—” He didn’t finish before he was screaming in pain as Christophe twisted his wrist further, and she was sure if he went a fraction harder, he could break it.

  His voice hadn’t changed, nor did he sound in the least bit winded. “Apologize, or I’ll do more than break your fucking arm.”

  Mike mumbled out an apology between panting breaths.

  Christophe looked up at her. “Yavlyayetsya to, chto dostatochno khorosho—Is that good enough?”

  Too surprised even to form words, she simply nodded.

  He shrugged, looking back down at his captive. “That’s good enough for her. Now, listen closely because I’ll only say this once. When the three idiots behind you take you to the hospital, tell them you have a spiral fracture to your right radius, yes?”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  Christophe answered in the way of giving a brutal jerk of his hands, the man’s screams making Mariya flinch. His job done, he released him, his friends quickly grabbing him and rushing him out.

  There was a moment of silence when she couldn’t help but stare at him, wondering what in the hell had just happened, but Christophe didn’t look bothered at all.

  Still annoyed, though that expression seemed to be for her, but he didn’t look like what he just did bothered him at all.

  “Jaysus Christ, you fuckin’ Russians,” Davie said with a shake of his head, but a hint of satisfaction clung to his words.

  Slapping his own money down on the bar, Christophe didn’t stick around. Instead, he disappeared out the door, leaving her staring after him.

  In the span it took for her to finish at the tavern and get home, Mariya was agitated with herself but more so with Christophe.