Wrath

by Lana Pecherczyk

  Katarina’s deep red eyebrow arched. “You expect us to guess that! Pah. You dreaming, girl.”

  A loud knock on the dressing room door had them all jolting with surprise. The door opened to Petyr, one of the bouncers. He stroked his furry mustache, dark eyes roaming the room. “Angel. Boss wants to see you.”

  “Like, actually see me?” Shock washed through Misha while the girls looked her way with sympathy. Nobody came back from seeing the boss without big news. The last time Dimitri saw her in person was two months ago when he’d casually apprised her that the terms of their agreement had changed. She was no longer just a waitress at the club. She was a dancer, and if she wanted her family protection to remain, she wouldn’t complain.

  That knot of anxiety in her chest came back.

  Three

  Two minutes later, Misha trailed Petyr into the cold dungeon—the basement level—and shivered. She hated going down there because she had to pass all the private rooms that nobody was supposed to know about: the illegal gambling rooms, the sex rooms, the… she wasn’t even sure what was in some of them from the sounds that came through the doors. She could have sworn she heard a goat bleat one night. Ew. There were money-counting rooms, storage rooms, and perhaps drug-sorting rooms, but she had the suspicion most of that was done off site. Either way, it was none of her business.

  She was there to pay her debt and keep her family safe.

  Petyr knocked on the door with a gold plaque that said Boss. When they entered, he left Misha and closed the door behind, locking her inside with the Russian mobster who had once been her high school friend.

  She gasped, heart leaping into her throat at the sight of Dimitri pummeling a stranger in the guest chair. Seeing her enter, he held out his finger, then resumed his beating. Trying not to show fear—she should know better by now—she avoided the blood bath in front of her and stood to the side. Stiffen your spine, pretend you’re a proper lady. A Duchess wouldn’t be afraid. She’d cast her aloof gaze over the rest of the room, anywhere but at the grizzly, uncouth sight. The gold caught her attention first. From the set of gold-knuckles on display on his desk, to the trimming on the enormous Anaconda tank filling the wall behind Dimitri’s desk, to the gold-winking gun strapped under his arm holster. It was all designed to intimidate, whether you were a business man, one of his lackeys, or someone like her.

  Misha winced as she heard a bone crunch and forced her eyes somewhere else: the snake behind his desk. Wrapped around a massive tree limb, the beastie stared back with hungry eyes. Rumor had it Dimitri fed the snake bodies of his enemies. Seeing the size of the tank, the jaw, and the man slumped and groaning in the chair, Misha believed it.

  Dimitri was a full head shorter than Misha and had the body of a jockey, but what he lacked in size, he made up in psychopathy. He plucked a napkin from his vest pocket and wiped his red stained hands. “Apologies you had to see that, Misha, but it is what it is.”

  “And what is it, Dimitri?”

  He gave her a solid look. Misha knew that look. Often she’d seen it just before a person was turned into a squealing pulp of a mess like the man wriggling on the chair, struggling to hold on. It was a flat look, empty. It was a look that hid a brain firing at a thousand miles per hour, trying to work out if she was still the friend worried about his day, like she was in high school, or if he had successfully moved himself into the feared category. Definitely the second, but she would never tell him that.

  “It’s what happens when people don’t do as they’re told,” he eventually said.

  “Message received, loud and clear.”

  “Has it, Misha? Has it been received? Because people are talking.” He stepped over the bloody body to get back to his desk. He unclipped his golden gun and placed it inside a drawer. “They are saying I let you get away with too much.” He retrieved a fresh handkerchief from the same drawer and wiped the splattered blood from his boyish face. “They say I am getting soft.”

  Her blood turned to stone.

  “Do you think I am getting soft, Misha?” he asked as he wiped, spreading the cloth around his jaw.

  “No, Dimitri, I don’t.”

  “So why do you allow your family to hire a man to protect them? From me.”

  What? Hire a man? For a moment, guilt pricked her heart, and she felt terrible for neglecting her family over the past few weeks, but… she’d needed a break, damn it. “I-uh... I didn’t know.”

  He stared at her again with those busy empty eyes, and then he poured Scotch into two glasses with an elaborate sigh. “Misha, it’s good to see you. Please sit.”

  “Yes, it has been a few weeks.”

  When she didn’t move to climb over the moaning man, he gave a pointed look at the vacant chair next to the grotesquely filled one.

  “Um.” The man was really injured. Oh God, maybe he was going to end up snake food. “Shouldn’t someone...”

  Dimitri pressed a button on his desktop intercom. “Please remove Mr. Douglas. I am done with him for now.”

  Two-seconds later, the door opened to Petyr’s stern face. He flicked a glance at Misha, then dragged Mr. Douglas out. His body had gone floppy.

  Misha sat down on the maroon leather chair with wooden handles and tried not to wince at the cold seeping through her yoga pants. Was it just the temperature, or was it blood?

  When Dimitri leaned back in his chair, eyes like two beads of black coal, she knew she wouldn’t like what happened next. He liked to play games, to make her do weird things, just because he could. She’d learned a long time ago, that it was safest to just do as she was told.

  He sucked his teeth, eyes narrowed. “You will wear the devil outfit tonight, I think. It is appropriate, no?”

  She nodded briefly and kept her eyes downcast. When he said nothing else, she lifted her gaze. He’d turned on the two CCTV monitors on his desk and occupied himself with the footage of his club opening. He removed a ledger book from his second drawer and opened it. Occasionally he would flick his eyes to the screens, and then back to the book, no doubt sizing up who owed him what. It was a few minutes before he spoke again.

  “You have not had a drink, Misha. It is rude.”

  She eyed the glass. Okay. It was this game. The “Puppet” game. Wear what I tell you, drink what I tell you, do what I tell you… A trickle of fear lifted into her gullet and she pushed it down with a sip of Scotch. Then she put the glass down. There. You got what you wanted.

  His eyes flashed with pleasure and then went back to his screens. “You say you knew nothing of the man your parents hired. When was the last time you spoke with your family?”

  “Um.” Her mouth went dry as she lied. “It’s been a few weeks.”

  “You know this man put two of my men in the hospital.”

  “No. I didn’t know.”

  Dimitri steepled his fingers as he studied her. “This man is working in your family restaurant, and he refuses to pay us protection money.”

  Could he be speaking about the chef? Had her father found a solution to their “protection” problem without consulting her? She guessed she shouldn’t really be surprised. He knew nothing of her arrangement with Dimitri, and that’s the way she wanted to keep it. Her family were innocent to the dark reality of this world.

  “I’m sorry, this is the first I’m hearing of it.”

  “I want to believe you, Misha, but I know how close you are with your family. Tell me how you do not know about this new development?”

  “I’ve been living in my city apartment and focusing on—” she wanted to say yoga, but somehow, letting him know about that part of her life meant the last vestige of her identity would belong to him. “Here. I’ve been working here and they know nothing about it.”

  Thump!

  Misha jumped as he slammed his hand on the desk, rattling the gold-plated brass knuckles and Scotch glasses.

  “Friends do not lie to each other.”

  “I swear, I knew nothing!”

  �
�Well, you see, we now have a problem. I have hospital bills to cover, and you are already behind in your payments. I look weak. Soft. I am not a soft man.”

  She bit her lip, knowing she’d regret the next words. “Perhaps your protection services are no longer required.”

  Although hope flared momentarily, it was stamped down by the simple flicker of darkness in Dimitri’s eyes.

  “Nyet, Misha. We have been keeping our end of the bargain. There is no trouble at your restaurant when you make payment. But even your job here cannot keep up with the new debt.”

  “I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m giving you everything I earn. I—” a lump formed in her throat. She needed her yoga studio. She would not give it up. It paid for the rent on her city apartment and it kept her sane. She finally had a life outside her family duties. Giving that up would be like giving away her identity.

  “Now, Misha, don’t be sad.” Dimitri’s eyes dulled, but still, she had the sense it was all an act—better than the one she put on stage every night.

  She felt like she was drowning. This was never going to end. He’d always find something else to hold over her. It was hard to believe she ever thought he was a friend. Once he saved her a spot in the cafeteria line, now he extorted money from her. What had happened?

  “Perhaps we can make another arrangement,” he said.

  Bile rose in the back of her throat. She knew what he was going to say.

  He sat back in his chair, never taking his eyes from her. “You will increase your services at the club. There are customers who ask for you, but because of my trust in our arrangement, in our friendship, I have kept them away from you. This can no longer continue. It is well known how you like to play around with all the men in your own time, why not make it official and earn your keep?”

  Revulsion burned in her throat. He thought she was a whore. A man stays strategically single, dates a lot, and he’s called a legend. A woman? Totally unfair.

  As if she’d been dismissed, he went back to inspecting the ledger book. “I will give you until the end of your shift to think about it.”

  What the hell was her other option?

  As if hearing her thoughts he glanced up and added, “If you decide not to expand your services, then you will need to pay your debt.”

  “How much are we talking?”

  He turned the book and pointed at a figure scrawled in blue ink.

  Her heart stopped beating. Forty-five thousand dollars.

  She couldn’t afford that. So, it was either sell her body or… she glanced at his snake flicking its forked tongue and then back at Dimitri’s straight face.

  “You know I always look out for you, like a siostra. Since school I have had your back because you had mine.”

  Misha wanted to laugh in his face. His protection was more like obsession. Having a thick accent and being a little scrawny back then, he hadn’t been a popular kid. Plus, his know-it-all attitude and weird affinity with snakes and crawly things hadn’t done him much good. When no one sat with him, or spoke with him, Misha would always make the time to be nice. She felt sorry for him. He wasn’t quite right in the head, but when her father’s restaurant had first been attacked a few years ago, and Dimitri came around saying he could stop it—she’d felt it was her only option. At first he only expected a free meal or two, but then the attacks on the restaurant escalated, and he wanted more money. Working at his bar was the start, then the dancing, now… it would never end.

  She plastered on the smile she wore every night on stage.

  “End of shift, Misha,” he reminded her. “I will have your answer. And don’t forget”—he met her gaze—“devil.”

  A curt nod, and then she was out of there. On her way back to the dressing room, she swiped a bottle of vodka from behind the bar and took a few deep swigs. Tonight, she was going to be the very embodiment of her devil costume. Tonight she was going to be someone else. It was the only way to keep smiling.

  Four

  It was pitch black when Wyatt woke in his borrowed bed. His lids snapped open as he lay there, all senses straining because something was off. The wind knocked the windows from the outside. He pushed his sixth sense out to feel for the sin of wrath, but his sin wasn’t like envy or greed—wrath mainly reared its ugly head when shit got real. He sensed nothing but the breeze, his heartbeat, and his ragged breath.

  Then he registered the temperature. Hot, but it wasn’t a hot night. It was he who felt sweaty. Feverish. His skin prickled and warmed as though he’d come down with the flu. Maybe that was why he woke… but he never got sick. None of his siblings did. They were born with resilient immune systems and regenerating cells that healed exponentially, making recovery time short.

  So why was he awake?

  He held his breath, slowed his heart and listened.

  Seconds ticked by.

  Then a woman’s moan hit his ears and everything went on red alert.

  What the actual fuck?

  A shuffle. Something dropped.

  “Where’s the goddamn light?” she hissed through the dark.

  Wyatt tensed. Either he was having a weird dream, or there was a woman in the room with him. Two thunks reverberated on the cheap floating floorboards. Boots? Sliding and scuffling followed. Why would a female be searching his room, and—another soft thud as something fell to the floor—Christ, she was getting undressed!

  Who would be getting undressed? Must be the daughter who used to live there. There being the semi-detached apartment above their suburban home garage. It was only one room, a bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. One bed. Sliding doors opened onto the garage roof that doubled as a balcony with external steps leading down to ground level.

  It had to be her. What was her name, again?

  Movement as his bed dipped and another moan, as though she wasn’t feeling too good.

  He swallowed, mouth dry.

  “Ahh,” she sighed, landing ungracefully, face first onto the pillow beside him, sending a waft of feminine perfume and alcohol into his lungs. “Home at last.”

  She’s drunk.

  Her hand arced out, perhaps to stroke the sheet beside her, but hit his ribs instead. She patted around to test the odd shape her bed had taken. Her soft palm hit his face, his hair… down his naked chest. Wyatt winced and froze, holding his breath as if it would turn him invisible.

  What should he say? He couldn’t say anything! He couldn’t speak.

  She was going to freak.

  But she didn’t. She made an appreciative sound while her hand headed south, bumping low over the ridges of his abdomen, slick with sweat.

  An electric shock sparked between them and they both jackknifed up.

  Fifteen years of martial arts and combat training had him springing to land deftly on his feet, while she stumbled and grabbed her head with a pained groan.

  “Stop spinning, room,” she muttered.

  He turned his side-lamp on but, when his thumb went to depress the switch, he pushed right through it. The damned thing crumbled in his hand like a cookie. Shit.

  She switched her lamp on and the room illuminated.

  Wyatt lost all train of thought as his eyes locked onto her body—pure, lush feminine curves, toned in all the right places—naked except for a dark crop-top and panties. It was the kind of body men would give their left nut to see in the flesh. Blond hair stuck up in a disarray of curls around her head. Wide blue eyes blinked but, where he expected fear, he found desire burning back at him.

  Aw, hell no.

  He scrambled back, hands out, and shook his head. He wanted none of this. No fucking way. He didn’t care how cute she looked, or how many of his atoms were clambering to touch and taste her like—he shook his head to dispel his derailing thoughts. What the hell was wrong with him? No.

  “I like this dream,” she purred and seductively crawled over the mattress toward him.

  He refused to speak, and she made a girly growl of appreciation that shot straight to
his groin like an aphrodisiac. He thickened immediately, and she noticed. She licked her lips, eyeing him at the crotch. When he didn’t move, she glanced up, confused. “You’re so quiet… like a koteczek. Come to Misksha…” She couldn’t say that last word properly and repeated it a few times, then she broke out laughing. “Miscop. Mishko. Mizzzz.” She giggled again. “I’ll get it right at some point. Koteczek, come to Misha.”

  She tripped over her knees, collapsed and rolled off the bed, calling out for her koteczek to come out and play. He didn’t know what the fuck she rambled about, only that he’d better take control of the situation. The last thing he needed was for her father to think he took advantage of her, especially when they were already disagreeing about most other things.

  He should kick her drunk ass out. Surely there was room for her at the main house. It would teach her a lesson for turning up unannounced. But Vooyek would be pissed. He was a good man. Alek was a good kid. In fact, the entire family was decent, even that chatty older sister. He shouldn’t give a shit about the way they ran the restaurant. He should just fix Betty and get the hell out of there, but he couldn’t help inserting his expertize, especially when it came to meal prep. For Christ’s sake, they used instant potato in their kopitka. There was no way in hell, he’d serve that in his restaurant. He’d skin any chef alive if they tried that shit with him. Seriously, fucking Betty Crocker instant potatoes. If it was his—

  It’s not your restaurant, an insidious voice clipped from the back of his mind. You’re only there to earn enough dough to fix Betty, and then you’re out.

  He growled at himself.

  “Ooh koteczek has a growl.” Still on the floor, she rolled to her knees then rested her head on the mattress, as if it was too heavy to keep upright. She muffled half-heartedly into the bed: “Like a tiger. Rwoarr!”

  When she quieted, and her breathing evened, Wyatt gently helped her back onto the bed and settled her on pillows where she promptly tunneled into, moaning about the delicious smell he’d left behind. When he put the blanket over her, she kicked it off until she was bare. He tried one more time, but after she dislodged the blanket again, he left it and went to stand on the other side of the room until he figured out what the hell he was going to do.