Crooks & Kings: A Wild Bunch Novel

by London Miller

  Christophe had expected to feel some anxiety at what he knew he would find here, but the only emotion he felt was relief.

  He was home.

  It was strange how everything felt so different yet the same. The bikes were still parked in the same spot. The codes still the same. And as he walked from the lift onto the main floor of their place, Thanatos’ shit had still been everywhere.

  He was home.

  Years ago, when they had first moved to New York with Nix, they’d taken up with him since his chateau had plenty of space, but within a couple of weeks, he’d kicked them out and made them find their own place.

  After living together for so long, it had only felt right that they find a place together, and in a city like the Bronx where real estate was fucking tiny, it hadn’t been easy. At least until they’d stumbled across this building with over three floors of converted loft space.

  The place hadn’t come without its own host of problems, but they were used to cots and drafts coming through stone walls, so living there until it was properly renovated hadn’t been a problem.

  It wasn’t long before everything inside had their mark on it—before the place became home—and maybe it was because he was only an hour’s drive away from this place that his apartment had never felt like home.

  He’d missed this.

  Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Christophe started down the hallway, coming up short when he caught sight of his brothers waiting for him with expectant faces.

  Rolling his eyes—he’d known this was inevitable, after all—he waited until he was far enough away from the room Mariya was in before he waved his hand. “Get on with it.”

  “My first question is who the hell is that,” Thanatos said without hesitation.

  “And the second,” Invictus said a second later, “is why is she here?”

  “Quick version? Her husband’s a vor and wants her dead.”

  Tăcut nodded, lifting his hands. That explains the tattoo.

  They were trained to spot things like that, and though they had probably made no mention of it to her, they’d known.

  “So what does that make you? Captain save-a-ho?”

  “There’s a fucking muzzle with your name on it, Vali. Shut up.”

  Only when they were alone did they ever use their names—or when one of them needed a reminder they were an asshole.

  Thanatos had always had a habit of saying shit just to get a rise out of him, and while he didn’t mind when Thanatos would use that particular talent on others, he hated when he used it on him.

  “Seriously,” Thanatos said, sobering. “What’s the deal here? Six months ago, I would have thought nothing of it, but now I’m trying to figure out where your head is at.”

  “Who is she to you?” Invictus asked.

  A month ago, he would have said a friend. His neighbor, even. But now … now, he would be lying to himself if he said she was anything less than the girl he wanted.

  He liked her, and when he closed his eyes at night, she was the last thought in his head before he went to sleep.

  He cared about her, and if he could make this problem disappear for her, he would.

  It was his opportunity to make amends for where he had failed—and because it sounded like this Feliks needed to eat his own fucking teeth.

  He didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Not when he was back at the orphanage, and on the day he’d decided to end his life, Nix had shown up and saved them all, and not now when he had crossed paths with her—a girl who needed help only months after he had failed to help another.

  It had taken every ounce of control inside him not to react to what Mariya had told him.

  She had tried to detach herself from the story she told, from the memories swimming in her eyes as she spoke, but he could see the remembered fear there.

  It had almost sounded as though she were speaking about someone else and not herself.

  Christophe knew all too well what it was like to distance one’s self from the horrors they’d faced—he knew what it was like to escape them too.

  She had done a fairly good job from what he could tell—staying under the radar and not drawing attention to herself—so as he’d told her, something had changed.

  He just didn’t know what yet.

  Then again, ghosts didn’t stay hidden forever no matter how hard they tried—he knew that firsthand.

  Looking back at his brothers, he told them a condensed and edited version of what she had told him, keeping careful control of his temper as he recalled the night she had barely escaped with her life.

  The only thing he wanted to do was comb the streets for Feliks, knowing he was still in the city. It was the easiest, and most straightforward way of handling the Russian, but he had been gone for months, and he knew it wouldn’t be that simple.

  Too many variables hadn’t been accounted for yet, and despite what all Mariya had told him, he still didn’t have enough on the Russian to properly go up against him.

  It had been easier when he wasn’t thinking about it—when he could have still pretended his feelings for her were innocent.

  But it wasn’t that easy anymore.

  “So what’s the plan here?” Invictus asked. “Take out her Russian and what? You’re keeping her?”

  “We’ll take care of the Russian, but before we can do that, we need to know what we’re up against.” He ignored the second part of his inquiry entirely. “Tomorrow, we’ll go by the place and see what we can find.”

  Thanatos frowned. “Why’s he get to have all the fun?”

  “Because you’re getting on my last fucking nerve.”

  Thanatos laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, neică—brother.”

  Thanatos and Invictus didn’t linger much longer, disappearing into their room. They wouldn’t question her presence here, not more than they’d already done, at least.

  Tăcut, on the other hand …

  Tăcut could read him better than anyone. He knew where his mind went and where it didn’t.

  He could still remember the day when he’d been ready to end it all.

  Christophe was ready to die.

  He’d made his peace with the idea after days inside the closet, after feeling the sharp pain of another rat biting at his feet.

  But even before now, he’d known this day was inevitable since the first time the professor made him pick up the whip.

  The weight had always felt wrong to him like he shouldn’t be holding it. It didn’t take very long before he realized why, and just what the whip was meant to be used for.

  Before, he hadn’t known whether it would be by one of the instructor’s hands that he took his last breath or by his own, but after years of being beneath their thumbs, he’d long decided he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of being the cause of it.

  His life was no longer theirs to take.

  Now, back in his room after his last punishment, Christophe looked out the small window of his bedroom, trying to count the stars and tapping out a cadence against his leg to keep his mind at ease.

  This was not the time to lose his sanity.

  He needed to have his wits about him if he didn’t want to draw attention to himself and what he had planned.

  Only a few hours ago, he had smuggled a knife from the kitchen, hiding it up the sleeve of his uniform until he was back at his bed where he could stash it in a hole he’d made in the mattress.

  Not even his brothers knew, and he trusted no one more with his secrets, but how could he explain this to them?

  They would want to know why, even if he didn’t have an explanation that felt adequate to say. Or worse, they would want to follow him.

  He was the strong one, they liked to say—the one who kept them all together—but if he showed them this weakness, would they still feel the same way? If they knew the truth, would they still believe in him?

  He didn’t have the heart to tell them he was tired of
it all, not just what was happening to him, but for what they all were made to suffer, especially Sebastian. It had only been mere weeks ago that he’d been beaten so badly, he’d disappeared for an entire week before returning to class. He hadn’t been the same after.

  There was just no more fight in him.

  He wanted it to be over.

  And now, finally, he was getting his wish.

  Christophe’s knife was a rather dull thing—nothing as substantial as a steak knife or anything bigger was ever kept in the school—but when he ran it across the pad of his thumb, watching with rapt fascination as red bloomed, he didn’t doubt it could carry out his purpose.

  Now, the only thing he needed to do was end this, once and for all.

  End his pain and suffering.

  End having to watch his brothers cry and beg and plead.

  End having to watch Tăcut jerk awake at night on soundless screams, his face contorted with pain. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like hearing himself speak in his own head but unable to voice it.

  Christophe was tired of it all.

  Sure that everyone was fast asleep, and the school was finally quiet, he had slipped his hand beneath his bed, feeling the springs and cotton before his fingers touched the cool metal. He hadn’t made a sound when he slipped from the bed and left the room.

  Standing now, he turned it over in his hands, watching the light reflect off the silver, but before he could get too entranced in it, a shadow fell over him, the sudden presence making him startle though he held tight to his weapon.

  After he had lost his voice, Tăcut had seemed to learn how not to make any noise at all. This wouldn’t be the first time Tăcut had snuck up on him, but this would be the first time his company wasn’t welcome.

  “I thought you were asleep,” Christophe said casually, looking back toward their room, sure when he had glanced over that his brother had even been snoring.

  Tăcut gave no indication he had even heard Christophe speak because his gaze was focused solely on the object in his hands—a knife he couldn’t bring himself to hide.

  It’s not what you think, sounded as poor of an excuse in his head as he was sure it would sound aloud, and he knew even if he fixed his mouth to say it, Tăcut wouldn’t believe him anyway.

  He saw through him.

  “I won’t let them take this from me too,” he whispered, knowing Tăcut, if no one else, might understand.

  They had taken so much from them already.

  Tăcut shook his head.

  “What does this one mean?” he asked, not sure.

  It was hard to communicate with him at times—they only had his facial expressions to go by, but Tăcut had become rather good at getting his point across.

  Instead of trying to explain, Tăcut took the knife from him. First, he held it to Christophe’s throat, blinked, and then held it to his own before dropping his arm to his side.

  As he’d thought.

  If he died, one or all would follow.

  But it wasn’t just a fear … it was a promise.

  As Christophe readied to argue, he thought he saw a shadow move …

  Snapped out of the memory by Tăcut snapping his fingers in front of his face, Christophe shook his head. “We should get you like a bell or something.”

  They were all used to his silent, brooding behavior—they didn’t fault him for it—but it was still annoying when he snuck up behind you.

  And it was also because the man shouldn’t have been able to do it. He and Tăcut were around the same height—though Christophe liked to think he was an inch taller—but where he was lean, Tăcut was brawn.

  With his shaved head and penchant for looking annoyed by all things, he could look downright terrifying when he was in the mood.

  When Tăcut leveled a look on him before heading to the kitchen, Christophe sighed and followed. “There’s nothing to discuss.”

  It had taken more than a year for all of them to learn sign language, though Tăcut hadn’t known, at first, that they were doing it.

  One night, Christophe had caught him alone in a room, studying from a book by himself.

  At the time, they had gotten by with Tăcut-speak—their affectionate way of reading his expressions and body language.

  But seeing him trying to learn a better way to communicate—with not just them, but with others as well since they usually had to speak for him—Christophe had decided right then and there to do it with him.

  It hadn’t taken any convincing at all to get Invictus and Thanatos on board.

  Tăcut turned back to face him. You haven’t even looked in the general direction of your old room, he said with a shrug at the end.

  Shit, he’d forgotten who he was dealing with.

  Does she know about Aidra?

  “It never came up.”

  Tăcut shook his head. Bullshit.

  Not entirely. While there had been times when he could have mentioned her, there had never been a time when he needed to. At first, he had assumed it would never get to a point when he would need to bring her up, but then, he’d stopped thinking about it altogether.

  But now, he had no choice.

  She was here, walking around in a space Aidra had once inhabited. Two sides of him warred at the image. He was happy she was here, fucking thrilled actually, but he couldn’t ignore that it almost felt as though she were taking Aidra’s place.

  And maybe, that was why the guilt was resurfacing.

  So what was it about her?

  Suddenly in the mood for a drink, Christophe scrubbed a hand down his face. “What are you on about?”

  She means something to you, no? For you to have brought her here.

  “Of course, she does,” he said with a wave of his hand. That was obvious.

  He had shown her this, introduced her to the most important people in his life, so even a blind man could see he cared about her.

  But that wasn’t what Tăcut wanted to know.

  He wanted to know who she was to him.

  “It’s a job,” he went on. “Call it a favor, if you want.” But the words sounded like a lie before they ever left his mouth.

  It won’t absolve you, you know. Killing her demons won’t bring Aidra back.

  He knew that.

  That wasn’t his intention at all, but the conversation was not one he was in the mood to have. As he’d told Mariya, he now repeated, “We’ll figure out the rest of this shit tomorrow. It’s time to get back to work.”

  As he was turning to leave, he thought he saw the other man smirk.

  Glad you’re back.

  Yeah, he was too.

  Chapter 11

  July 26, 2017

  “What were you expecting to find?” Invictus asked the next morning, his gaze trained on the fleet of black cars across the street and the men going in and out of Christophe’s apartment building.

  Vory, Christophe thought, were easily recognizable. It wasn’t just the tattoos that were a bible of their history, but it was the coldness in their eyes, and the rigid way in which they stood.

  But he didn’t care about any of them—he was too focused on the man standing next to a luxury truck. His stance was a little too casual, his eyes a little too focused, and the scar carved down the length of his face gave him away.

  Most bogeymen didn’t live up to their name—the legend was often more terrifying than the man himself—but seeing him there, Christophe could understand why Mariya would have feared him.

  What Feliks Sokovich lacked in height, he made up for in size. Packed into a tailored suit sans tie with a gold chain glimmering at his throat, he looked more like the mobsters of old, but hopefully, he’d bleed the same.

  He was just another bully who wouldn’t be around much longer.

  Standing next to his truck, Feliks barked orders, rifling through a small box of items one of his men had brought out to him. Pictures, from what he could see, and other little things Christophe remembered seeing around Ma
riya’s place—things he knew she would have wanted.

  “Not this,” Christophe said, finally responding to Invictus’ question. “You don’t go back once the job is done.”

  Feliks had to have known that in the state he’d left Mariya’s apartment, she would have known he was there and wouldn’t have lingered.

  Why was he back now?

  Turning his keys over in his hand, he remained there a while longer, watching the way they moved and analyzing the order of command. Only two addressed Feliks directly—the others merely kept their mouths shut as they did what they were told.

  Christophe would have never been able to manage it. His problem with authority had been the reason he and his brothers hadn’t been able to stick with the Lotus Society for very long.

  “They obviously came back for something, and it wasn’t your girl,” Invictus said with a thoughtful frown.

  Yeah, but the question was what had they returned for?

  Their idling finally drew the men’s attention in their direction, and unable to check the impulse, Christophe gave them all a little wave.

  “We leave you alone for a few months, and you come back ready to start a war with Russians.”

  From his tone, one would have thought that fact upset Invictus, but the slight twitch of his fingers told a different story.

  “Everyone needs a good war to keep things interesting,” Christophe returned with a grin, tucking his hands into his pockets as they started across the street.

  Feliks straightened and watched them approach.

  Was he naturally suspicious, or did he know something Christophe didn’t? It was possible he’d left a shirt or something else at Mariya’s place and had forgotten about it, and depending on how long the man had been here, he might have questioned others in the building.

  Feliks’ men all paused, forgetting their task to watch as their leader stepped onto the sidewalk with the casual ease of a man who thought himself at the top of the food chain.

  Christophe didn’t falter as he walked right up to him. He had spent the better part of a decade learning how to get beneath a man’s skin and force a reaction—he thrived on it.