by Roxie Rivera
"Awfully late for a social call, Nikolai."
"I work odd hours." Hands on his hips, he waited for the judge to invite him onto the porch or send him away. Realizing he hadn’t heard a peep from the judge's dog, he glanced around the backyard. "Your gate is unlocked. Did Roscoe escape?"
"He's at the vet. Someone poisoned him. With cocaine," the judge growled. "Those bastards took my daughter, and now they're trying to kill my dog."
"So the gate is unlocked and you're sitting in the dark with a revolver—"
"And a shotgun."
"And a shotgun," Nikolai repeated, "because you think they'll come back and you're hoping to unleash some of that Texas justice?"
"My castle. My guns."
Nikolai didn't doubt the judge would blow a hole in the first unfriendly face that peeked over the hedge. "When did the poisoning happen?"
"This morning," the judge answered. "I let him loose to do his morning business but he didn't come back to the house. I found him out near the garden shed. He had eaten half a pound of bologna laced with drugs."
Nikolai scratched his fingers through his hair. He wasn't sure what pissed him off more. Was it the fact that some lowlife thug had gotten this close to his own home, to his wife? Or was it the fact that some dumbass drug dealer thought it would be a good idea to threaten a federal fucking judge in a boss's backyard?
This was bad. There would be cops crawling all over this poisoning and digging into it. Though he didn't want to get dragged any deeper into this argument between the judge and Bobby Pham, he nevertheless extended his help to the man. "I've located your daughter, but it won't be easy to get her out of there."
The judge finally emerged from the darkness of his screened-in porch to the door he had propped open with a heavy planter holding a wildly overgrown aloe plant. "Is this where you shake me down for money?"
"No. This is where I tell you that these types of things tend to be noisy if they're rushed. It's easier on everyone if we do this quietly."
"What does quietly mean?"
"It means we do it my way. It means that it takes some time."
"Time?" The judge raised his voice, clearly exasperated. "I don't have time. She's been there too long. If I don't get her out soon—"
"You asked for my help, and I'm telling you this is the best way. If you don't want my help, by all means, do it yourself. But I warn you it won't go well for either of you."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's free advice. I suggest you take it." Biting back his frustration, he sighed. "I want to help you, Judge, but you have to work with me. You rattled their cages. Poisoning your dog was a warning. I suggest you heed that warning. Leave this ugly business to men like me."
Not wanting to argue with an armed man who was probably teetering on the edge of a breakdown, Nikolai pivoted on his heel and left the judge's backyard without another word. He stepped onto his property and instantly spotted the silhouette of a man leaning against a corner of the pergola. The flare of a lighter illuminated Ilya's face—and the flowers smashed between his arm and the wood.
"Get off the roses," Nikolai scolded. Vivian loved sitting under the pergola in the morning. She often sketched the beautiful blooms. He had one of the delicately shaded drawings in his office at Samovar.
"Sorry, boss." Ilya spoke around the cigarette clamped between his lips and straightened. "It won't happen again."
"See that it doesn't." He glanced around the yard. "Where is Boychenko?"
"The kitchen."
"Arty?"
"Inside." Ilya took a long drag and held the smoke in his lungs before slowly, almost decadently, exhaling it in a curling plume. "There was some trouble four houses down, boss."
"I heard."
"When I saw the cops in the alley, I called a guy I've got in my pocket, up at the police station. He told me his girlfriend who works in a vet's office had seen the judge's dog. He was poisoned."
Not for the first time, Nikolai was impressed by Ilya's network of gossips and informants. "Do we know who did it?"
"You're not going to like this answer." Ilya blew out another lungful of smoke.
Subtly shifting away from the breeze that carried the smoke, Nikolai tried not to inhale the familiar scent of it. With the stress piling up on his shoulders, he had a raging craving for a Marlboro red. "Just tell me."
"It was the judge's daughter."
Nikolai narrowed his eyes. "You're sure."
"I took one of the baskets you keep on the porch, picked some peaches and tomatoes and visited your neighbors. I told them you were going out of town and your wife wanted to share the extra produce out of the garden before you left. Your peaches will open any door on this street." Ilya chuckled darkly at his off-color remark. "The old lady who lives next to the judge? In the brick house?"
"Mrs. Laramie."
"Right. That one." The bright tip of his cigarette bounced as he gestured with it. "I asked her about the judge's dog. I said that Vivian was really worried because she wanted to get a puppy and if there's some psycho running around poisoning dogs… It was a complete bullshit tale, but I figured it would soften her up, get her talking." Ilya waved his hand. "So the old lady tells me not to worry because it's just family trouble."
"Family trouble," he repeated dubiously.
"She says that the daughter and the parents argued like crazy before she moved out. Apparently the fireworks were like the Fourth of July over there. She told me that she saw the daughter drop something over the fence this morning. The old lady gets up early to fish in the summer so she knows everything that goes on in this neighborhood." Ilya took a final drag on the cigarette before stubbing it out between his shoe and a brick paver. "Did you know the people across the street, the ones with the white front porch, have swinger parties? She says that she can see everything with her binoculars."
Nikolai did, actually, know that the Jamesons were rather peculiar when it came to their bedroom games. Kostya routinely ran surveillance on the neighborhood and had uncovered some truly bizarre goings-on down at that house.
Not wanting to discuss his neighbors' sex lives, he asked, "Did she mention it to the police?"
"The swinger parties?"
Nikolai clicked his teeth. "No. Julie poisoning her father's dog."
"Oh. No."
"Why not?" Nikolai's gaze drifted to the cigarette butt that had been crushed on his sidewalk, and Ilya bent down to pick it up without having to be asked.
Pocketing his trash, Ilya shook his head. "She says that she isn't going to get involved. She did once before, when the girl was in high school and she caught some older guy sneaking into the girl's bedroom. It didn't end well. Apparently the daughter went crazy, smashed the old lady's windshield and slit her tires. She's dangerous, boss." He pointed to the back gate. "Do you want us to put more men out here until you leave for London?"
"Ten will be here tomorrow." That was all he needed to say. More men in the house would unnerve Vivian and make her feel unsafe. That was the very last thing he wanted.
Leaving Ilya outside, Nikolai took the sidewalk to the backdoor and entered through the mud room. He was surprised to find Boychenko sweeping the kitchen. Eyebrows raised, he watched the kid dump the dustpan into the trashcan tucked into a lower cabinet. By the looks of the counters and sinks, he had been busy.
If any of the men on his crew ever saw the kid doing chores like these, they would rag on him until the day he died, but Boychenko didn't seem the least bit fazed to be discovered this way by his boss. The kid offered a self-deprecating smile as he twisted the red plastic ties on the garbage bag. "Miss Vivian got sick after dinner. Arty has forbidden me to cook ever again."
The Miss Vivian thing always amused him. Born and raised in Houston, Boychenko was the strangest mix of Texan and Russian when it came to his manners. Nikolai offered the kid an encouraging look and lied right through his teeth. "I'm sure it wasn't your cooking. Vee has a nervous stomach. She's been very stressed about
the upcoming show."
"Just in case, I've tossed everything and cleaned the kitchen for her."
"You didn't need to do that. We have a housekeeper who comes tomorrow morning."
"It was no big deal, boss." He hefted up the bag. "Do you need any other chores handled before I head home?"
"No, but there is something else I need you to do."
"Anything."
"Get the names of the men who run with Bobby Pham. I want to know where they live, what they drive, where they eat, who they fuck—everything. Understand?"
"Yes. I'll get it done."
"I know you will." Of that, Nikolai had no doubt. This kid was hungry and ready to prove himself. "Oh." He snapped his fingers, remembering something he had forgotten that morning. "Your uncle. The one who lives near Conroe?"
"Valery?"
Nikolai nodded. "Does he still breed dogs?"
"Sure. Mastiffs and Great Danes." Boychenko got a funny look on his face. "I heard Ilya making up that story about Miss Vivian wanting a puppy. Was that real?"
"It might be. Tell your uncle I'd like to speak with him when I get back from London."
"Okay. Night, boss."
He locked the side door behind Boychenko and started loosening his tie as he crossed the kitchen. When he stepped into the entryway, Nikolai noticed Arty sitting on the second floor in the seating area there. Normally Artyom kept downstairs after Vee turned in for the night. Thinking of the way she had been sick after dinner, he assumed the captain had simply wanted to be close to her in case she needed help.
Nikolai shrugged out of his jacket and tugged free his tie as Artyom came downstairs. The somber expression the other man wore unsettled him. "What's wrong?"
"Your phone is off?"
He touched the hard lump outlined in the jacket tossed over his arm. "Kostya had it because of the meeting. He didn't give it back. Why?"
"Boss, did you forget something?"
"Forget something?" He rolled through his mental datebook but couldn't think of anything that he'd forgotten to do. "No."
Standing in front of him, Artyom suddenly looked disappointed. "Vivian."
A quiver of panic struck his chest. "What about her?"
"She had an appointment today. An important one," he emphasized.
And then it hit him.
Chapter Seven
"Shit. Fuck." Sick to his stomach, Nikolai suddenly remembered Vivian's appointment with her doctor. Shame gutted him. How the hell had he forgotten that? Nothing that had happened today was more important than Vee and the baby, but their appointment hadn’t registered even once.
"After she told me about the appointment, I left Boy and Ilya here. We took the Land Rover but ditched it at one of the parking garages in case we were followed. I switched to one of our decoy cars and took her to the doctor. I stayed in the hallway and didn't see anyone come on or off the elevator who looked out of place. After the appointment, we got the Land Rover and I took her out for a late lunch at Hugo's before bringing her home. We weren't followed. You can keep this a secret for a few more weeks."
The street captain Nikolai trusted the most proved yet again why he was always the one man who could be counted on in a tight situation. He had taken good care of Vivian.
Better than me. The thought caused a pang of guilt in his chest that threatened to stop his heart. He had promised Vee that he would do anything to make her happy. He had promised to protect her and love her and provide for her and their children, but he couldn't even remember one single doctor's appointment. He dreaded seeing her disappointed face. It would fucking kill him to see that he had let her down.
Artyom's gaze darted to the second floor. "No one even suspected that something was off with her. She's gotten very good at hiding what she thinks and feels. She's learning to build a better mask than yours. That was one part of you I was hoping wouldn't rub off on her."
There weren't many men who out there with balls big enough to censure him so the fact that his three-fingered captain had done it made Nikolai take notice. Was Vivian changing? Had he missed that?
"Did Ilya tell you about the judge's dog?"
Momentarily thrown by the question, Nikolai took a second to answer. "Yes."
"Do you want me to take some guys over to Pham's place?" Artyom didn't have to say the words. Nikolai understood what he was really asking. Do you want me to bust down their front door and beat the shit out of them until they get back into line?
"Not yet." There was something about the situation that unsettled him. If he had to send the boys over to knock some sense into Pham and his crew, it would be better to know which team was propping up the fledgling dealer.
"Do you need me to stay?"
"No. Go home."
Artyom headed for the front door. He wrenched it open but paused on the threshold. Turning back, he met Nikolai's gaze but hesitated to speak his mind.
Too tired to fight with an old friend, Nikolai sighed. "Just say it."
"You dragged her into this life." He held up a hand to stall the coming protest. "Sure. Okay. You warned her what it would be like, but she loves you. All of you. Even the ugly parts. I'm sure she thought she understood what this life is like—but—Jesus." Arty blew out a noisy breath and lashed out with frustration. "This is your first child. Maybe your only child. Don't fuck this up." Anguish twisted up his face, and he swallowed hard. "You'll never forgive yourself."
Nikolai watched Artyom spin on his heel and leave the house. For a long moment, he stared at the closed door. Artyom was right, of course. About everything.
The pain on his friend's face forced Nikolai to think of a tragedy that none of them ever mentioned. It was the sort of thing no one wanted to remember. How long had it been? Fourteen years? Fifteen? Another lump of guilt piled onto his shoulders upon realizing he couldn't even remember the date Artyom had buried his baby and his girlfriend Rozalina.
He scrubbed a hand down his face as those ugly memories assaulted him. God, they had all been so young then, barely out of their twenties and certain they had the whole fucking world figured out. They couldn't have been more wrong.
Everyone had warned Artyom about getting involved with a prostitute hooked on heroin but he couldn't be swayed. He had loved that woman and had stolen her away from the pimp who had owned her. Though Nikolai had thought it impossible, Artyom had gotten Rozalina clean a few months into the pregnancy. Their son had been a tiny little thing when he was born, but he was healthy.
For a few months, it had seemed like Artyom would get his happily ever after—but then the past came knocking at the front door with a fully-loaded Makarov. Rozalina had survived without taking a single hit, but Artyom had taken two gut shots. The baby…
With Artyom fighting for his life in the hospital and her baby dead, Rozalina had gone off the deep end. She had found her old dealer, traded her body for a bag of dope and had overdosed in some shit hole apartment, alone and afraid and drowning in her grief. Ivan had been the one who finally found her, half naked with a dirty sheet around her waist, a syringe dangling from her arm and the baby's photo clutched in her hand.
Nikolai's stomach lurched at those memories and of the bloody violence that had followed after the burials. They weren't memories he wanted to revisit, especially not before he went upstairs to make things right with Vivian. After locking the front door and setting the alarm, he shut off the lights and glanced out the closest window. He spotted Ilya talking to Danny as they handed off duties for the night.
A lumbering silhouette trudged across the yard to take up a spot out back. It was the first night Kir Petrov had guard duty. Ivan wasn't going to be pleased when he learned his best pro fighter was moonlighting as a guard to earn some extra cash. That was a conversation Nikolai didn't look forward to having. He had already made it abundantly clear to Kir that he was only allowed to watch the house at night and nothing more. That was it. If he put even a toe across the line, he would be bounced.
Already ima
gining the ringing ears that would result from talking to Ivan about Kir, Nikolai climbed the stairs and slowly made his way to the bedroom he shared with Vivian. He rested his hand on the door for a moment and tried to decide what he would say.
But what could he say? There was absolutely no excuse for what he had done. None. Zero.
Nikolai entered the bedroom. He swept the room with a quick gaze. The lamp on his bedside table illuminated the room. His gaze moved along the Vivian-sized lump on the far right side of the bed. The covers were up around her ears. There was no mistaking that signal. She didn't move, and he wasn't sure if she was asleep or pretending. Should he wake her? Was it better to let her have a good night's rest before they argued in the morning?
"Where were you?" Her voice was thick with sadness and disappointment.
Sighing, he quietly shut the door and leaned back against it. "Corpus Christi."
"What was in Corpus?"
"Your father. There's a problem brewing between the cartel and Romero's outfit. It's not going to end well." He rubbed at his tired eyes. He had spent the entire day trying to keep her safe but what Vee had really needed was for him to be present. "But none of that shit matters. I should have been here."
She didn't argue with him. Her silence cut him worse than any blade ever had. Toeing off his shoes, he shoved them against the wall with his foot and bent down to rip off his socks. He balled them up and shot them toward his shoes. Tossing his jacket and tie onto the bench at the end of their bed, he unhooked his cufflinks, dropped them onto his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
As he came around her side of the bed, Nikolai got his first look at Vee. The flush to her cheeks and the tip of her nose betrayed the fact that she had been crying. The usual luster to her blue eyes had dulled. She warily watched him, almost as if she were seeing him for the first time, really seeing him, and it terrified Nikolai. Because if she ever saw that darkness deep down inside him…
Crouching down next to the bed, Nikolai started to touch her face but withdrew his hand. He studied his palm for a moment and thought of all the filth he had touched today. The same hand that he yearned to stroke her face with had shaken the hands of a white supremacist and drug dealers. The same fingers that he wanted to trail along her cheekbones and her pouty lower lip had gripped Julio's throat. These were the same fingers that had pulled the trigger and nearly killed her all those years ago.
