“Ah,” Artur said. There was an awkward pause. The guard crowded nearer, his gun in his hand, as if Inna needed protection from Nick and his flowers.
Inna’s gaze darted to the gun. Nick caught the quick flicker of fear in her eyes. “Do you need to point that at him?”
Only when Artur nodded did the guard lower his weapon. He didn’t holster it.
Inna licked her lips nervously and hugged her arms around herself as if she were cold. Every move she made spoke to Nick of fear and vulnerability.
“I heard about what happened… I was worried for you,” he said.
“Thanks.” Her eyes slid away, the momentary connection between them broken. The loss hit him like a physical ache.
Nick had no business being here or offering condolences, especially when all he wanted was to destroy Inna’s father.
Yet this moment between them held the weight of destiny.
A fierce protectiveness surged in him. He recognized Inna as a good soul, an innocent victim like his mother, caught in Artur’s machinations, tangled up in the sticky web of what Artur termed “love.”
His resolve faltered. He couldn’t use her, not the way he had planned, not at all. Nor could he let his family go unavenged. He couldn’t abandon this vendetta that was so much a part of who he had become. To do so would be like cutting off his own arm or leg.
He wasn’t ready to walk away—from her or from his revenge. Never in his life had he felt so conflicted and confused.
“Do you think we could talk?” Nick ventured. “Alone.”
“No.” The thug glowered at him. “Not alone.”
Inna turned to Artur. “Papa, we’re in the shop. It’s safe here. Isn’t it? Nick and I can talk in my office. With Vlad right outside. What could happen?”
Artur bent and kissed her temple, his affection for Inna evident and infuriating. “You’re right.”
VLAD
WITH ARTUR’S BLESSING, Inna ducked into her office with Nick. They left the door open a crack in deference to Vlad’s role as bodyguard or perhaps, and more likely, to Artur’s concerns for her safety.
“I’m taking Maya home,” Artur said, code for he didn’t want his wife out alone given the potential threat. “I’ll be back in an hour. In the meantime, we’ll close the shop.”
Artur put up the closed sign and helped Maya into her coat. “I almost forgot. Igor said he has a delivery for us this afternoon.”
Vlad could only guess at the nature of the delivery. Maybe this time he’d get a look inside the boxes Artur’s contact delivered every weekend, usually when Vlad was away.
Artur and Maya left together. Vlad stationed himself by the door of Inna’s office. He had no qualms about eavesdropping.
He didn’t like the look of Inna’s suitor or his timing. Nick had to be the same age as Vlad himself, several years older than Inna. Robbing the cradle—although Inna didn’t seem to mind the age difference.
Age might be the only thing the two men had in common. Nick was fancy, a lawyer, who sat at a desk all day. His wavy hair had been cut at a salon, not buzzed at the barber’s. His hands were soft and manicured, his fingertips unmarked by the stain of gunpowder. He had a cashmere coat and elegant Italian loafers that hadn’t sloshed through blood while dragging dead bodies through darkened alleys.
A heavy feeling settled in Vlad’s chest. He had nothing to offer Inna. Other than his guns. She deserved so much more than the violence and deception he brought in his wake.
Not for me. Not for me.
Inna didn’t want Vlad around. She clearly didn’t relish the idea of having a bodyguard, and she liked his guns even less.
Regardless of what or whom she wanted, he would do his best to keep her safe. Both of their futures depended on it.
Becoming Inna’s bodyguard for the foreseeable future represented its own kind of torture. Vlad wanted her, had wanted her from the moment he’d seen her three months ago, all grown up and working at Koslovsky Imports, a hint of interest in her eyes. He’d shut down her shy advance, knowing it was the right thing to do. His fascination with her was inappropriate on so many levels. Yet, she regularly invaded his thoughts when they were apart—and Artur often kept them apart.
Now they would be spending so much time together. Every waking minute. Night and day.
He leaned his head back against the wall and stifled a groan. He couldn’t lie to himself. He wasn’t noble or a gentleman. If those brown eyes so much as looked with any spark of interest in his direction again, he wouldn’t resist, wouldn’t show restraint, wouldn’t make himself step aside for her own good—even if being with her violated every rule.
Even a threat from Artur wouldn’t be enough to hold back his instinct to fight, win, and claim.
Lucky for her, she wasn’t interested anymore. Not even a little.
Vlad didn’t deserve her. Nick didn’t either. There was something duplicitous about Nick. Vlad could tell the man had another agenda. His gaze on Inna was too intense. He wanted something. What?
Listening to their conversation yielded little information. Stops and starts. Awkward pauses. Not an auspicious start to a romance. Perhaps not a start at all.
“So, um, could I… Do you think you would like…” Romeo had lost command of his silver tongue. “What I mean is that… Do you think we could get together—coffee or dinner? Your choice.”
Inna politely demurred, and for a moment, Vlad wanted to crow, even though he had no call to gloat. Nick had exchanged more words with Inna in these few minutes than Vlad had in a few months, and she hadn’t agreed to coffee or dinner with Vlad, either. Not that he had asked. Not that she gave any indication she would accept—after three months of his giving her the cold shoulder.
“No pressure,” Nick said. “I know the timing’s bad. But it’s just… I’d really like to get to know you. I feel like we have a connection. Like this could be important.”
The words could have come from Vlad’s own mouth, except that he would never have promised not to pressure her. He only lied when he had to.
Vlad didn’t hear Inna’s response. Nick came out of the office a moment later, his expression wistful and slightly bemused. Had she agreed to meet him again?
“The door’s locked. I’ll see you out,” Vlad said.
He led Nick to the front of the store, did a quick check of the street, and then unlocked the door to let him out, hoping he, and especially Inna, would never see the fancy lawyer again. He watched Nick stroll out of the store as if in a daze and locked the door behind him.
When he turned around, he found Inna standing behind the register, her elbow on the counter, chin in her hand.
“Are you going to see him again?” To his own ears, he sounded like his father, jealous and possessive. Inna merely shrugged, but Vlad sensed a restless energy in her.
“Who knows? Kind of hard to date when a girl has a bodyguard.”
“I’m not trying to make your life difficult.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
There was a rap at the front door. Vlad turned to see a man in black slacks and a black polo shirt. He held a large cardboard box in his hands. His cap was pulled down so that Vlad couldn’t see the man’s eyes. “You recognize him?” he asked Inna.
“You can let him in. That’s Igor. He usually makes deliveries on Sundays.”
Vlad approached the door cautiously, hand on his gun.
“Not everyone’s a threat,” she scolded, sweetly naive.
She hadn’t seen the things that Vlad had.
He paused at the door. The name sewn onto the deliveryman’s breast read “Igor.” Inna seemed to know him. The delivery was expected. The man raised his head, met Vlad’s gaze, frowned impatiently as if the box he held were heavy.
Vlad unlocked the door. The man turned sideways to bring the box inside and tripped over the threshold. He lost his grip of the box and fumbled to recover it. Reflexively, Vlad reached out to catch it.
That’s when he felt t
he jolt on his arm. A stun gun. The buzzing zap knocked him off his feet.
He fell face down on the box. The deliveryman followed him down, giving him a long dose of voltage. His entire body erupted with pain, a thousand needles pricking his skin, as he lost control of his limbs. He spasmed uncontrollably.
“Vlad!” Inna shouted.
“Run!” he wanted to yell, but he couldn’t even speak.
EPISODE #3
MAYA
EARLY RETIREMENT? ALEKSEI’S plan for his sleazy head pharmacist had merit, Maya admitted, except for one significant detail: Murder required a certain finesse and skill that Aleksei lacked.
Her son was no killer.
She zipped the backpack, careful not to touch the neatly bound stacks of money it contained. Certainly Aleksei would be upset that she was interfering, but what choice did she have?
Her conscience gave no objection—not that she expected one. After all, she couldn’t sit by and do nothing. Stan would surely go running to the police with everything he knew, every damning bit of information, if he wasn’t silenced—one way or another.
It was a mother’s prerogative—wasn’t it?—to keep her children safe and protect her own interests, too.
She hefted the backpack onto one shoulder and sneaked out the back door from the basement. Through the back window, she could see the light in Artur’s study.
As usual, her cautious husband stood away from the window. She couldn’t see him, but she imagined him in his office with Victor, absorbed, as always, in Directorate business.
It wasn’t the first or the last time she would sneak out under the cover of his distraction. She knew about his double life, but he had no clue about hers.
He could never know.
The wet wind whipped her blond hair, and she pushed it out of her face with gloved hands. She wouldn’t remove the gloves until after the money had been safely delivered and received.
Adept at evading Artur’s surveillance cameras, Maya stuck to the shadows. Keeping close to the bushes, she darted across the yard to the front of the property and then slipped into the side door of the garage. She pulled the drape from the sleek, black Ducati that Aleksei stored there.
Aleksei’s helmet hung from the front handle of the motorcycle. Maya curled her hair around her fist, stuffed it into the helmet, and secured the buckle under her chin. The front visor covered her face. She pulled his leather jacket from the peg nearby and zipped it up to the collar.
Covered in black, she might pass for a man. She wasn’t sure. But it didn’t matter so long as no one recognized her.
Who would? No one expected Maya with her perfect lipstick, her neatly combed hair, her ladylike chain of pearls, and her fur collars to ride around town on a crotch rocket.
People only saw what they expected to see and looked no further.
She rolled the Ducati out of the garage, careful not to make a sound that might alert Artur. The events of the past few days had made him cautious and overly protective, not only of Inna, but also of her. He worried the Georgians were out for blood. He didn’t want them going out alone.
She had no need of his gilded cage. Georgians or no Georgians, she could take care of herself.
She carefully scanned the area. Seeing no signs of anyone watching her house, she walked the motorcycle to the next yard and then mounted with a practiced motion. She eased both arms into the straps of the backpack.
The bag was lighter than she would have liked. There weren’t nearly enough bills to meet the entire blackmail demand, but she had added plenty of sweetener to this pot—enough, she hoped, to satisfy Stan for good.
Men’s natures were greedy. If you gave them something, they only came back asking for more and then even more, until they milked you dry or you got the upper hand. With Stan, she would get the upper hand.
The wind picked up and tossed droplets of rain at her. They penetrated the legs of her jeans, making her skin cold.
She checked her mirrors. Twilight cast the street in gray and shadows. She looked hard into them, but she didn’t discern any unusual shapes or, perhaps more importantly, movement. She listened to her senses, trusting in the sharply honed instincts that had aided her schemes so far.
No pings of warning came to her. No gooseflesh on her arms. No one was following her. Or watching.
She revved the motorcycle. Excitement pulsed through her veins, compounded by the aggressive rumble of the bike between her thighs. Her own unadulterated sense of power gave her a heady sensation.
Tonight she had a perfect plan, and she fully expected to get away with murder.
She left her ritzy street with the big houses that looked out onto the water and headed across town to the grittier neighborhood, full of dirty apartment buildings and post-war houses dressed in worn vinyl siding.
The neighborhood here could be a little rough. She stayed alert. If anyone discovered she had a backpack stuffed with cash, she’d be an open target.
Maya wasn’t worried. She was the biggest threat here.
She parked the Ducati across the street from Stan’s house, a small blue cape with chipped siding. The drizzle continued unabated. She kept the helmet on and hurried across the street. Despite the weight of the backpack, she ran lightly up Stan’s sunken front stairs and rang the doorbell.
The wood on his porch was peeling and warped, and the front knocker was speckled with rust. If the drug trade had been good for Stan, his house certainly didn’t show it. Stan was smart that way. It was the only thing she admired about him. Yet, his little nugget of intelligence hadn’t been enough to prevent his latest stupidity.
Did he really think he could blackmail a Koslovsky and get away with it?
Faintly, she heard the sound of heavy footsteps. She knew Stan had arrived behind the door. She rapped with the rusted knocker.
Stan was likely staring through the peephole and trying to discern who was there. She wore Aleksei’s helmet, but she was too petite to pass for her son.
She waited with an almost giddy sense of excitement. Everything would go according to plan. She was fully in control.
Finally, the door swung open to reveal a meaty arm and a gun. “What do you want?”
“It’s raining. Can I come in? I’ve got your money,” she said.
“Maya?” His surprise turned quickly to what sounded like gloating. “So the tough guy went crying to Mommy after all.”
He stepped aside to let her in but didn’t lower his gun. He was a vile man with a halo of frizzy hair and pointy yellow teeth. His belly strained the buttons on his shirt.
She stepped into the dark hallway of his home. Stan shut and locked the door behind her. He took care to turn the deadbolt and fasten the chain across the door, oblivious to the danger she presented.
As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she noticed two large suitcases in the hallway. So Stan was serious about leaving town, after all.
She would make sure he never came back.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.” He nudged her with the point of his gun down the hall.
“There’s no need for that. I brought what you asked for,” she said.
“We’ll see.” He jabbed the gun into her side. Perhaps he wasn’t so oblivious, after all.
He pushed her roughly into his kitchen, a dated room with chipped and crooked dark wood cabinets and a scratched and faded yellow and white linoleum floor. The stale air stank of cigar smoke.
He yanked the backpack from her shoulder and hefted it in his hand. Then he snorted with disgust. “Do I look like I was born yesterday?”
He dropped the backpack on the table with a loud thunk. “No way there’s a million dollars in there.”
“Open it,” she invited, almost breathless with anticipation. “There’s more than cash inside.”
She clasped her gloved hands together. She could see in her mind how the whole scene would play out. In but a moment, he would tear open the backpack and start counting the money, holding the wads of cash
in his greedy hands, touching each individual bill.
“Yeah?” He tugged at the zipper with one hand.
When the bag didn’t open immediately, Stan laid his pistol on the table. Maya felt the slow, satisfying burn of contempt as he surrendered his weapon to his own greed and impatience.
Men were so predictable.
Using both hands now, Stan ripped the zipper open. Maya held her breath as he pulled the first stack of neatly bundled bills from the backpack.
He held the money in his hand for the briefest moment, not nearly long enough. Then he tossed the stack aside. He grabbed another and then another.
Stan pawed through the bag, piling the money on the table. Soon he grew impatient and dumped the entire contents out.
He was too quick to discard and dismiss her offering. He didn’t hold the money for any significant length of time or rifle through it the way she had imagined.
The velvet jeweler’s cases she’d packed at the bottom of the sack tumbled out. He snatched one of the boxes, opened it, and scowled at the necklace inside. “Did you think you could trick me? Where’s the rest?”
“That’s a valuable piece,” she said. “Four carats.”
“Was this Aleksei’s idea or yours? You think you don’t need to take me seriously? I’m serious as a heart attack. I’ll tell the cops everything.”
“Most of the value’s in the diamonds,” she said quickly and held her hands up, not wanting his anger to escalate and provoke him to something stupid like calling the cops.
She needed a little more time for her plan to come to fruition. He hadn’t succumbed to her enticement yet, but she had faith he would.
“Between the bills and the value of the diamonds, there’s more than a million dollars there,” she said. She could tell he wanted to believe her. “Count it.”
Touch the money. Just touch the damn money.
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll make sure the cops learn your part in all of this.” He picked up one of the wads of cash, and Maya almost sighed with relief as he began counting bills.
In mere moments, Stan would be dead before he could tell anyone anything.
Kings of Brighton Beach Bundle Page 18
