Bodice Ripper (Historical Romantic Suspense) (Victorian & Regency Romance Book 1)

by Amy Faye

  Minami sucked in a breath and tried to calm herself down.

  "You promise you'll come with me?"

  "Of course, baby."

  "And he won't hate me?"

  "I don't think he could ever hate you. And, um… one thing. That man has been talking about grand kids since I met him. You were one year old. Use that information how you will."

  Thirty-Six

  Wes

  Wes sipped his tenth cup of coffee. Rubashkin liked to talk, and then he'd get into a coughing fit and start talking again, as if the previous conversation hadn't even occurred.

  Stories about how his boy was doing. 'All thanks to you,' he assured Wes.

  Then it would be about business.

  The one thing that he didn't talk about, and the only thing that made Wesley quite certain that there was more to this than an old man's ramblings, was that they didn't talk about Wes's sister one bit.

  The one reason he'd come, and now it was "wait a few minutes, can't you?"

  Well, he could wait a few minutes, even as a few minutes turned into an hour, even as the waitresses changed shifts, Rubashkin tipping the first one more than she deserved (and, Wesley thought, she deserved quite a bit) because her breasts were large and prominent.

  Wes found himself getting too tired to argue as Rubashkin talked. He wasn't awake enough yet to let the fatigue slip into the background, even after all that coffee. If the day had been active, if he'd been training or fighting or even going out to pick up laundry, he might be able to wake up a little more.

  Instead, they sat in a little dimly-lit 24-hour diner and Wes watched the sun come up, watched the hours tick down until he was supposed to go fight, and he went to the slaughter.

  Finally he stirred from his reverie, cut Rubashkin off in the middle of a sentence—not one he'd been listening to, but something about different brands of whiskey.

  "When are we going to seriously talk, old man? I have a long time, but I haven't got all day."

  "Haven't we been talking?"

  There he was, back to his usual self. The Rubashkin who would give anyone shit for even the mildest of misstatements. Cancer hadn't changed who he was, just how hard he could hit you.

  "I will walk right out that door, if you don't cut this shit out. I'm not your errand boy any more, Anton Yurievich, so why don't you stop acting like I'm on your time?"

  "Well," Rubashkin pouted, his face twisting into an exaggeration of disappointment.

  "I didn't realize I was causing you such an inconvenience."

  "Cut the shit, old man. Complaining doesn't suit someone your age. Just tell me what you have to tell me about Lauren, or let me go get some sleep."

  "Oh, fine," he said, letting out a long breath. He tapped on the table in irritation. "You young people, you need to learn manners, you know that? You've got to learn better manners."

  "I'll take that under consideration. Please, continue."

  "Manners, manners, manners."

  "Anton Yurievich, I will walk right out that door."

  "Your Lauren is getting worse. You know that she's sick, don't you?"

  "What the fuck are you talking about, old man? She's not sick."

  "Oh, so you didn't know, then. Well, isn't that interesting."

  "What kind of games are you playing here? I talk to the girls every week, and they never said anything. Talk to Lauren sometimes, too, when she can get clear of that dope you've got her on."

  "Oh, you poor, poor boy. So foolish, so foolish. What mother would let her little girls know something like that? Oh, they'd worry, wouldn't they? And what mother would want that for her daughters? No, nobody. No one would!"

  Rubashkin's habits of circling around an idea like a buzzard was more than grating on Wes's nerves, which were at a razor-edge. He continued ignoring it, but it continued to dig a burr into him that wasn't going to ever quite go away as long as he sat at the table.

  "Okay, so the girls don't know. What is it?"

  "She's dying, my poor boy. You should come back with me. To be with her, in her final days."

  "I'm not going anywhere with you, Anton Yurievich. But if I make it out of this fight tonight, then I'll find a way on my own. I don't have anything keeping me here any more."

  "About that. You're working with Mr. Todd Bradley, is that right?"

  "What about it?"

  "An odious man. Those thick, sausage-like fingers, oh. I never liked him. No, I never did."

  Wes closed his eyes and took a slow breath. "And?"

  "And I tell you, if you don't fight tonight, you come back to New York with me—I don't expect anything from you. Just come back, for your sister's sake. My business, it needs someone to run it, and Ilya, he's not—"

  Rubashkin started coughing hard, bracing himself against the table and hacking into the crook of his elbow.

  "I'm not a gangster any more, Rubashkin. I'm not getting back into the life, and you really can't convince me."

  "The men, they… things are different, Wes. People are different. When you were there, so young, you know… I miss those days. People like you, trying to get things to work. Respect, hard work. Nobody cares about those things any more. It's all about how they can do things for themselves. How they can do things fast, for themselves. No sense of pride, no sense of the value of working hard for yourself. They just want to rush the job, finish it as quickly as possible, and then get out."

  Wes didn't say anything, because as far as he was concerned there was nothing to say.

  "Ilya, he moves too fast. He gets caught. You took the blame, because you're a good boy. But Ilya is just another symptom of the problem. He's just as bad as any of them, and I need you to make sure that it won't keep going."

  "I'm not interested, Anton Yurievich."

  Rubashkin looked like a husk of his old self, after the sickness had taken him. But now he seemed to collapse even further into himself, as if the only things that had been holding him up were taken away.

  "I know you're not interested, Wesley. You're a good boy."

  "Why don't you find someone else?"

  "There isn't anyone else, Wes. I don't have time to find someone else. Three months, maybe four, and then… pfft." He snapped his fingers lightly.

  Now that Wes listened closely, he could hear how the old man, every time he took a breath, wheezed. He could see the way that every little movement was a struggle. Three months looked, for all the world, like it might be an overestimate. Wes was no doctor, but it looked like three weeks might be pushing it.

  "I'm sorry, Anton Yurievich, but I'm not going back to that life. I promised myself I wouldn't, and I won't. I'll starve on the street before I put myself back in those shoes."

  "I know. Come on. Let me drive you home." Rubashkin rose, his arms shaking, and unfolded a fifty dollar bill from his wallet, dropped it on the table.

  Wes swallowed hard. His head swam from lack of sleep and the prodigious amount of coffee he'd just finished, not quite wired enough to make up the difference in energy. Eight more hours, and he'd be in a ring, and fighting to continue a life he didn't know he could keep going any more. Not if Lauren was in trouble. Christmas cards and cash transfers didn't make up for having nobody to raise you.

  Not when you're barely ten years old.

  Thirty-Seven

  Minami

  Minami felt like a little girl as she walked into the room, her father hunched forward and talking to Kobayashi and his lieutenants. Her mother behind her was a simultaneous help and source of worry, a constant reminder that she was in this too deep.

  She didn't speak for a minute, waiting for Father to recognize that they'd entered. When he didn't, she cleared her throat softly. A moment later, she cleared it more forcefully.

  Father pushed himself upright and turned to look. "What is it? I'm busy, can't you see that?"

  "I need to speak to you, Father."

  He looked over at the men in front of him, who all looked ready to wait if he told them to.
r />   "Can it wait?"

  "Oh. Um." Minami swallowed. "Yes."

  Mother's hands came down heavy on Minami's shoulders as she turned to go. "Darling, can you spare a few minutes of your time? Minami will be brief."

  Father looked at the others again for a moment, then nodded to them and rose to his feet.

  "Very well."

  Minami guided him out of the room, and a little ways away, to the first empty room she could find, and when they entered, Mother closed the door behind them.

  "What is it? This isn't about that boy, is it?"

  "Father," Minami started, her heart already beating hard in her chest. "I'm not going to be a Yakuza. I don't want to marry someone who's going to keep doing… this."

  "So this is absolutely about him, then."

  Minami could feel herself wavering again, her eyes starting to sting with the threat of tears always at the edge of her mind.

  "No, Father. It's not. It's about me. Forget about other people for a moment, and think about your daughter."

  He shifted unpleasantly at that thought, his feathers a little ruffled. "I have always thought about you, Minami."

  "No, you haven't. You don't know what I want. I just wanted to be out of this world, and I went all the way to America to get that. So you brought it here."

  "I thought—"

  "I know what you thought, Father, and I'm sorry that I lied to you. I shouldn't have. It's disrespectful."

  His eyes shifted to Mother, who didn't give him any hints on what to do next. He was going to have to figure this out on his own.

  "If you are so opposed to my business—"

  "It's got nothing to do with you, Father. I just… you must understand, somehow."

  "Well…"

  "I'm pregnant," she said, the dam breaking as the words tumbled out of her mouth, the conversation having given her enough momentum.

  She saw his nostrils flare in anger.

  "And that American is the father, I'll assume?"

  "Yes."

  "He took advantage of you."

  "No, Father. He didn't."

  "Stop lying to defend him, Minami. Kobayashi will get a confession out of him—"

  "No. I don't want that. I—Father, I don't want you to hurt him. I want…" The words stopped all of a sudden, like someone had turned the tap off in her brain. She hadn't needed to put words to it before. Wes didn't ask her to, and things had moved so quickly, she hadn't really had time to think about any of it, except when there was too much time, time to do nothing but think. "I love him."

  Minami's father's face softened for a moment, from 'severe' to an expression that could only be called 'stony.'

  "So you've made your decision, then?"

  "I have."

  He let out a breath and sat back a bit.

  "Sarah, our daughter's leaving me."

  "I know," Mother answered.

  "I'm—" Minami swallowed the rest of her response, not sure what to say any more.

  "Very well, Minami. You want him, go get him."

  Minami swallowed hard. This was exactly what she'd hoped to hear, but in the moment of truth it almost seemed as if it were another test, and if she were too excited, she would fail.

  She pushed herself up from the chair she'd taken by the table and pulled her father into a tight hug.

  "I love you, Father."

  He didn't answer, but when she pulled away, though his expression was as stoic as ever, his eyes were wet.

  "You're a good girl," he said, softly, and pushed his chair back as he stood. "Go find him, and get yourself out of this old Yakuza's life."

  "I don't want to leave you alone. I just—"

  Mother spoke for him. "Go on, Minami. Your father wants some time to himself."

  Minami turned back as she left the room, no small amount of uncertainty still remaining, but her father had turned away from the door, her mother with her hand on his shoulder. She stepped out the door and closed it behind her.

  She had to find Wes, and if she was lucky, she'd find him before he went to that damned fight.

  Thirty-Eight

  Wes

  Wes's warm-up on fights he thought might actually cause trouble for him wasn't exactly the stuff of legends. That being said, it was more complex than just walking over to the promoter and introducing himself. The sound of his feet pounding onto the pavement sounded through the parking structure as he turned back inside it, a light layer of sweat already worked up on his forehead. He took the sweatshirt off and threw it into the back seat of the Fiero, then went to see Bradley.

  He was sitting with Higa, who was all smiles. Bradley wasn't. "Wes, I don't know if this is a good idea."

  "What's wrong?"

  "Wes, you look like hell."

  "It's a little late to back out now, Mr. Bradley."

  The words came out of Wes's mouth, but from Higa's expression, he might have said them himself. The look of surprise on his face, on the other hand, told Wes that he hadn't expected not to have to say it.

  "Exactly so, Mr. Bradley. The fight's going to be starting in, what, ten minutes? Five? We're past the point of letting sleeping dogs lie."

  "I know, but— aw, hell." Bradley nodded to Wes, who went off to the little secluded area where the fighters kept to themselves, separated by a little thin card between them.

  If someone had a real vendetta against him, it wouldn't be all that hard to just come right on through with a knife or a gun, and make it happen. But they wouldn't, because it would be just as easy to bring a knife into the ring.

  You'd be disqualified from the fight, but nobody was going to jump in and save his neck. And you'd be able to show the world what happens to people you don't like.

  Wes started going through his stretches, just about enough space between the packed-in cars to lay out flat. He decided he was finished when he heard his name, jumped up, and headed into the ring.

  The place was packed. If this really was a last-minute thing, a fight they'd added to the calendar only a week or two ago, then Wes was God damned surprised. They'd advertised it well in that week.

  He slipped under the ring rope and raised his hand, turning to look around the crowd. For a moment, his wishful mind thought he saw Minami in that thick crowd, but he already knew better than to believe it, and when he looked again on the second turn, she wasn't there any more.

  The Japanese came next. This wasn't some big Sumo mother fucker like the last one. He might have been five-seven and a buck fifty, but you could count the muscle fibers in his shoulder if you had enough time on your hands.

  The crowd exploded when he hit. Wes didn't recognize his name, but then he never would. These guys were nobodies to him, and it didn't much matter how popular they were somewhere else. It wasn't as if he was going to study match footage beforehand.

  The guy bowed to him, and Wes bowed back, not wanting to be rude. Then they were separated to their corners, and the ring girl raised her hand, held it up for a long second, and then dropped it. Wes started moving immediately, circling around. His eyes and his feet were his most important weapons. Keep his hands up.

  Don't let the mother fucker hit his nose. Don't let him get behind, don't let him—Wes amended the long list of things he needed to make sure he didn't do to 'don't get hit bad.'

  The guy moved a little stiffly. Traditional martial arts had that problem, most of the time. They're not quite as used to someone who just circles. Well, that would work in his advantage, if he kept it up.

  Still, for the guy's stiff movements, he didn't move so stiffly that Wes could get more than a step or two ahead of him. Nowhere near to getting an unprotected side. Even as Wes turned, he waited for the little guy to fire off a shot, show what he was made of, but he seemed to be just as patient.

  The crowd usually got sick of that kind of fight fast, but these just kept themselves quiet. The entire atmosphere was electric. Wes stepped in, easily within range of a mid-kick from the guy, but darted out an instant later.
No response.

  Wes was beginning to wonder what was up with this guy. He stepped in again, took a step to the side… stepped in, one of his hands tightening for a stiff jab right into the Japanese's eyebrow.

  The guy slipped the punch easily and shot his fist straight toward Wes's chest. Wes dropped his left hand and knocked the blow aside narrowly, the guy's big, pointed knuckles catching the edge of his ribcage and deflecting off harmlessly.

  So that was how this was going to be played. The guy was quick, and he was waiting for Wes to make the first move. His entire game plan relied on it. Wes preferred counter-punching. Most of the American fight organizers like to get big brawlers for these things. Guys who end fights in one big sloppy punch.

  Well, the answer to that routine was always counters. Countering was in Wes's blood by this point. In his D.N.A. But now he was going to have to undo that.

  He took a step, and then the instant his weight was down on his right leg he darted back again and shot in close and tight to the little Japanese, wrapping a thick arm around the guy's chest and bringing his knees up and in, hard into the guy's ribs.

  The Japanese didn't panic for a moment, bringing his fist around in a wide arc to slam hard into Wes's side. The American groaned out his agony, swallowed his pride and his pain, and stepped back, moving his grip to the Japanese fighter's head and sending a knee up towards him, using all his might to pull that head so it was on a collision course with his knee, a hit that connected and sent the Japanese stumbling back a few steps.

  His nose poured out blood down his mouth and down his face, sending the signal to everyone who cared to see that he'd taken a hit that meant something.

  The blow in Wes's side ached already, an unpleasant sign of things to come. Still, he had to have come out at least equal from that encounter. The Japanese, however, didn't show any particular damage from the attack, taking his stance again.

  If it wasn't for the blood coming from his nose, Wes wouldn't have known that he'd been hit the entire fight, where Wes could already feel his breathing coming harder. How was he supposed to win this fight, anyways?