by Roxie Rivera
"English or Russian? I'm happy to indulge you either way." It was a not so subtle jab over the fact that Nikolai's Albanian wasn't as good as it should have been. Whenever he had needed to conduct business of that sort, he had always been able to rely on Ivan or Kostya. Both men were extraordinarily gifted with languages.
"It's your home." Nikolai deferred to his host.
"English then," Luka replied and motioned for Nikolai to walk with him. "I need to practice."
"Are you planning a trip my way?" He climbed the steps but let his gaze scan the area. There were armed guards fucking everywhere. Whether that was simply an abundance of caution or the evidence of real and present danger, Nikolai couldn't say. Surrounded by all those weapons and guards, he finally got a taste of what it was like for Vivian day in and day out at the house. Ten and the others never carried weapons in sight, and they gave her space—but my God. She must have felt surrounded and claustrophobic.
"It's almost time for me to take the final installment on the Dushku blood debt."
The mention of that bloody war between rival families was one that made Nikolai grimace. He had been an outsider watching that gruesome year unfold from afar. Sneaking a look at Luka, he was struck by how much the Albanian boss had changed in those twelve years. He had been just a boy of eighteen when his parents and sister were slaughtered by backstabbing rivals of his father's.
Rather than surrendering to the older, wiser and stronger Aleksander Dushku and Pali Gonaj, a teenaged Luka had rallied the troops and fought tooth and nail to regain control. His tactics had been vicious and harsh, but he had won the war and put every single adult male member of the two families underground. There had been some in Luka's camp who had clamored for the women and children to join them, especially since so many innocents on their side had been badly injured or killed, but he had found a better way to end the bloodshed and to make peace.
Because blood ties were everything to Luka, he had decided that Dafina Dushku, the daughter of Aleksander and a granddaughter of Pali, was the answer. He invoked a besa, a sworn promise, from Dafina's mother that when the young girl finished college she would return to Luka's home and marry him. The families would be united that way and peace would be cemented for at least a generation.
To Nikolai, the arranged marriage seemed like such an archaic thing. Curious about the arrangement, he asked, "Have you ever met her?"
"Dafina?" Luka shook his head. "She's been living in Texas since before the war started. Her mother fled the country with her when she was three or four. She wasn't even here when the war began." He led Nikolai up a grand staircase. "Not that distance kept the blood from splattering her front door."
"So she has no idea that you intend to marry her?" Nikolai tried to wrap his head around it.
"I left the decision about what to tell her and when to her mother. Besian keeps an eye on her while she's at Rice University. I'm not concerned by the details."
You fucking should be, he thought incredulously. Did Luka really think it was going to be that easy to convince a young woman who had been raised with such freedom in the United States to just swan back over here as the wife of a mafia boss?
"This will be your room today." Luka showed him to a large suite. "I'll have a breakfast tray brought to you. The bathroom is through that door. I assumed you would want to shower and sleep. We can talk later."
"Thank you." Nikolai extended his hand and firmly grasped Luka's. "I owe you for this."
Luka laughed and clapped him on the back. "You can be sure I'll collect on this debt."
Nikolai smiled. "I have no doubt."
Left alone, Nikola stripped and showered but didn't bother shaving. When he left the steamy bathroom, he found a breakfast tray waiting on the upholstered bench at the end of the bed. He scarfed it down without tasting it and crawled between the sheets where he promptly passed out in a dreamless sleep.
A loud knock woke him sometime later. Confused and disoriented, he damned near jumped off the bed. His fuzzy brain finally produced the right answer. He was sleeping in Luka Beciraj's mansion outside Tirana.
Rolling onto his side, he squinted at the door and cleared his throat. "Yes?"
The door opened and Luka poked his head through the small space. "You need to get up and get dressed. We have time for a quick meal before we hit the road."
He sat up and rubbed his face between his hands. "Where are we going?"
"Zagreb."
"Croatia? What the hell is in Croatia?" His patience was thin, and these endless side trips were getting on his last damned nerve.
"Your next ride," Luka said cryptically and shut the door.
Grumbling and sore from travel, Nikolai reluctantly left the warmth of the bed and stumbled into the bathroom. He took a longer shower this time, making use of the toiletries left for him, and shaved at the sink. The cheap disposable razor didn't give him the clean, smooth shave he preferred, but he wasn't about to complain.
He took a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt from his backpack before slipping into the lightweight black hoodie he had packed. It was imperative that he keep his arms and neck covered while traveling. The tattoos that served as his calling card on the street garnered too much attention. He had to remember to keep his hands in his pockets whenever possible.
Nikolai moved some of his cash into the backpack with his clothing, weapons and burner phones. The rest he left as payment for Zec and Luka. With his bag slung over his shoulder, he exited the bedroom and wandered downstairs where he found Luka waiting for him. He was shown to a dining room and a hot meal was served. With so many eyes and ears around, they didn't talk business of any kind. It was the usual sort of empty conversation acquaintances shared when catching up.
After eating, he followed Luka outside to a convoy of black and silver Range Rovers. He joined Luka in the middle vehicle. The Albanian boss got behind the wheel and Nikolai settled in for yet another long fucking drive.
"I had wanted to put you on a train once we reached the border," Luka explained as they rolled out of the driveway. "Zec shot down that option. He worried that border crossings and the terminals might prove difficult. Government blacklists have a way of following you."
"Yes," he murmured unhappily.
"So we've arranged a series of pickups and drop-offs from Zagreb to Amsterdam," Luka said. "You're under my protection while you're traveling."
"Thank you, Luka." Knowing that his own father had probably leaked that incriminating information to teach him a lesson, Nikolai didn't trust his own network right now. "What happens in Amsterdam?"
"We have a shipment crossing tomorrow night. You're part of the cargo. You'll reach London early Friday morning. Transportation has been arranged. Our specialist will meet you in Amsterdam, at the safe house there, to fix your passport and travel record. Once you hit British soil, your papers will be fine."
"I left your payment in the room. If it's not enough—"
"I know where to find you," Luka replied with a cheeky grin. Sobering, he said, "Now, tell me what the fuck is going on with the cartel and your father-in-law."
He wasn't about to reveal the entire conversation he had shared with Romero before leaving Houston, but there were parts he could divulge. "Lorenzo Guzman is losing control of the paramilitary wing of his organization. They're led by Hector Salas. He's young, close to your age, and he's hungry. He's fucking smart, too. He likes things quiet. He has a plan that could potentially change the entire game in Mexico."
"And your father-in-law? How does he figure into all of this?"
"His last stretch in the pen disillusioned him. He came up through the ranks with Lorenzo. He killed Lorenzo's father to keep the cartel out of a war they couldn't win with the Colombians. Now he sees the same thing happening again with Lorenzo. I think, in his own twisted fucking way, he's looking for peace."
"By knocking off Lorenzo?"
"They'll try to isolate him. They'll try to force him into some sort of retirement."
"
There is no such thing as retirement for men like us." Despite his young age, Luka seemed to have given that topic a fair bit of thought. "We don't walk away from this life. We live it until we die. God takes us or our enemies do. There is no other way."
"If Lorenzo is smart, he'll find one."
"And if he's not?"
"It's not my battle to fight." Nikolai adjusted the strap of the seat belt. "I only care about what happens in and around Houston. The drugs the cartel supplies aren't my main source of income. If Lorenzo falls, my only concern is keeping the streets of Houston safe."
"Let's talk about something that does concern you."
"What is that?"
"Guns."
"What about them?"
"Maksim is squeezing my connection. We aren't getting our usual shipments. They're delayed and the prices are sky fucking high."
"There's a war brewing with Kiev. That's a direct supply route for you."
"If I can't get my steel, I'll have to look elsewhere," Luka warned.
"If it comes to that, send Zec to Dublin. I'll put him in contact with a friend of mine."
"And cut out Maksim?" Luka seemed surprised by the offer.
After that little stunt Maksim had pulled with his Russian criminal record, Nikolai wasn't feeling particularly loyal. "It's business."
As they continued their drive through the Albanian countryside, Nikolai began to form a better picture of the way forward. The pieces were beginning to settle into place. It wasn't going to be easy, and there was a shit fucking ton of risk involved, but maybe, just maybe, he could put his crew in a better, safer position.
When they reached Zagreb, Nikolai left Luka's convoy for a single truck idling in a petrol station parking lot. Luka wished him luck. Nikolai had a feeling he was going to need it.
The rest of the day, all of the night and most of the next day was spent switching vehicles and drivers every few hours as they continued their northward trek. There were short stops to piss and eat and stretch but nothing else. His legs were cramping by the time they finally reached Amsterdam, and he had a headache from hell.
A beer, broodje and a couple of aspirin offered by the men at the safe house solved that problem. He squeezed in a short nap after the forgery expert handled all the paperwork and created a fake electronic travel trail. Nikolai got her information for the future. If nothing else, she would be a useful contact for Kostya.
Not long after nightfall, he was taken to the harbor where a boat loaded down with Afghan heroin waited for them. He tried not to dwell on how many years' worth of prison he would earn if they were caught with this cargo. He trusted the men who were sailing and guarding the shipment knew what they were doing. They didn't want to see the inside of one of Her Majesty's Prisons any more than he did.
As expected, the ride was nausea-inducing. He got another taste of what poor Vivian had been dealing with over the last few weeks. He craved one of those ginger candies she carried in her purse and kept around the house. The smell of cigarettes, a scent he had always associated with relaxation and fun, soured his stomach as the men on the ship burned through pack after pack in the small, cramped space.
When they finally reached shore around four in the morning, Nikolai left a few stacks of cash to pay for his fare and damned near jumped off the boat and onto solid land. He stumbled like a drunk down the pier and found a building to lean against while he dry heaved. Never again, he swore. He would never fucking again board a boat.
"Mr. Kalasnikov?" A posh British voice cut across the noise of the awakening shipyard.
Wiping at his mouth, Nikolai wished he had a bottle of water or a stick of gum in his backpack. He rose slowly and found a smartly dressed shorter man waiting for him. He looked completely out of place in that bespoke suit and spats. In fact, he looked like Hercule Poirot's doppelganger. "Yes?"
"Mr. Mikkelsen sends his regards." He held out a jet black business card.
Suspicious, Nikolai reached for the card. He could see the severe white lettering embossed on the black paper.
"With Mr. Mikkelsen's compliments," the man said and gestured to a gleaming black Phantom parked nearby. A driver in full regalia waited for them.
Nikolai glanced around the harbor, hoping to see a different driver waiting for him. Surely this wasn't the transportation Luka had arranged. His gaze returned to the boat. It wasn't widely known outside of a handful of people, but Niels had gotten himself into a bit of trouble as a young man—with Luka Beciraj's aunt. He now owed a blood debt to the family that wasn't payable with money but only with deeds.
Like this one?
Not wanting to stick around the harbor any longer than necessary, Nikolai pocketed the card and walked toward the idling luxury sedan. The driver opened the door for him, and he settled onto the exquisite leather seating. The Poirot lookalike slid into the space next to him. He retrieved a bottle of water from a concealed bar compartment and handed it over along with a discreetly palmed mint.
"Thank you." Nikolai didn't see any reason to be rude just because he loathed the man's employer. He drank some water and popped the mint into his mouth. "You can take me to Yuri Novakovksy's penthouse in Knightsbridge."
The Poirot wannabe shot him a queer look. "I can take you there, but you won't find your wife sleeping under Mr. Novakovsky's roof."
Panic gripped him. "Where is my wife?"
"With Mr. Mikkelsen, of course." The man leaned forward and tapped the glass partition between the seats, and the driver sped off into the early morning darkness.
Reeling from the discovery that Vivian was with Niels, Nikolai clenched his fists at his sides. His eyes closed briefly as he imagined the very worst. After finding him with Tatiana, Vivian might have decided that she wanted revenge. Perhaps she wanted to hurt him as much as he had hurt her.
She wouldn't do that. She has too much respect for herself. She's honorable and proud.
Nikolai would forgive her anything, absolutely anything, but he prayed she hadn't crossed that line.
Chapter Eighteen
"I'm boring you, aren't I?"
I tore my gaze away from the strangely enthralling black square centered on the canvas in front of me to meet the intense stare of Niels Mikkelsen. His curiously colored eyes seemed to glitter as he studied me. A flush crept along my neck and into my face, but it wasn't the usual sort of blush that Nikolai's loving, heated gaze inspired. It was one born of discomfort and uncertainty. "No. I could never find you boring."
Niels chuckled and turned his attention back to the painting. "It's mystifying in its simplicity."
Inhaling a long breath, I titled my head and examined the piece by Malevich. "I keep looking at it, but I'm not sure why I can't stop."
"That's art for you, I suppose. Questions. Answers. More questions." Niels stepped away from the painting and moved to the next piece in the exhibit. He had used his connections to help us gain a very private, behind-the-scenes sneak peek of the Kazimir Malevich collection. The exhibit didn't open for two weeks so I considered myself extraordinarily lucky to have this chance.
I trailed him to the painting. It was one of Malevich's earliest works. "I don't like these as much. His abstract pieces speak to me much more clearly."
"That surprises me. I thought for sure you would like these more."
I flashed him a smile. "Well, you don't know me that well."
"It's not for lack of trying."
I rolled my eyes at his flirtatious grin and wiggled my left hand. "I'm married."
"A minor inconvenience," he teased.
His remark was playful, but it made me think of Nikolai and Tatiana and their secret assignation at the Four Seasons. "For some," I murmured sadly.
His smile faded. "I've overstepped the line. I'm sorry."
"You're forgiven." I moved to the next painting, and he followed me. Deciding that it was time to reinforce the line that he seemed to relish toeing right up against, I said, "Niels, I enjoy our time together, but we can only ev
er be friends."
"I know."
"But?"
"You are utter perfection." He dared to stroke my cheek and wrapped strands of my hair around his finger. He didn't allow his touch to linger. "There's something about you, Vivian. It's an alluring quality that I can't quite figure out." He lowered his hand and let my hair fall back. "But you've already been claimed."
I didn't step away from him. This close, I could easily read his face. He was interested in me. Maybe he was even a little infatuated. He wasn't going to make a move though. He would respect the line I had drawn.
"Come home with me."
Or maybe he not.
"What?"
He laughed. "Not like that, min lille en. I want to cook you dinner and show you my private collection. Perhaps you'll allow me to photograph you."
"Photograph me?"
"It's one of my passions."
"I won't ask about the others," I said with a nervous smile.
"Come now, Vivian. You're a married woman now. Surely my passions—of all flavors and intensities—are intriguing to you."
"Intriguing? Yes," I allowed. "But I don't think I'm brave enough to ask if the stories I've heard are true."
Niels leaned forward until his mouth nearly touched my ear. "They are."
I shivered and smacked at his chest. "You're impossible!"
"I'm complicated, but I think you like a complicated man."
"One of them, yes." Complicated was the easiest way to describe Nikolai. Complicated was the easiest way to describe our marriage. At least during the last week. I hadn't heard from him in days, but Kostya and Ten had both called. They had assured me Nikolai was coming to join me, but neither had been able to tell me why he hadn't simply flown over on a plane like a normal person. I had a terrible, stomach-twisting feeling about the whole mess.
Niels held out his arm. "Ready?"
Curious to see his private collection and ready to get off my feet, I took his arm and let him escort me out of the museum and into a waiting car.
"How are your friends enjoying the city?" Niels asked as we were driven through London.
