Black Surrender

by Jasmin Quinn

  Isabelle shivered as reality set in. She was going to be meeting with Jack, with her husband, a man who had used and abused her. Had no scruples, had no soul. “Okay,” she agreed, clutching his hand a little tighter. “I’ll behave.”

  “Even if we start talking about you like you’re an asset to be bought and sold?”

  Isabelle pursed her lips. She knew this world. Knew men ruled it. It reinforced her thoughts about not wanting to be part of it anymore. She’d been so stupid thinking she could outrun her past. Fuck it, maybe she should just embrace it. But how could she do that? Michael didn’t seem sold on her, Jack didn’t want her back. Maybe this was all for the best. Jack wanted her to steal something. And why the hell not? She didn’t have many other skills, so why not start a solo career, selling her services. God, talk about overthinking!

  “Yes,” she said again. Michael cocked his head. If he was waiting for her to share her thoughts, he had a long wait ahead of him.

  They arrived at the club, which was teeming with people, a long line up out the door. Michael took Isabelle’s hand and led her past the crowd to the front of the line. As he started to say something to the doorman, a young man a few places back in the line shouted, “Hey, asshole. Get in line like the rest of us.”

  Michael turned to the kid, dark, dispassionate eyes raking him. Isabelle touched his back, trying to turn his attention back to her, but then released him quickly as she felt the tenseness of his muscles. He was as wound up as she. He was just better at hiding it. Maybe. He stalked over to the young man, leaned into him and said something into his ear, so quietly no one else could hear. It didn’t matter, it was clear as the blood drained from the young man’s face that it would be a long time before he called anyone an asshole again. Michael returned to the front of the line, tucked several bills into the doorman’s hand and then stood aside as he ushered Isabelle through in front of him.

  The noise thundered around them. Music and chatter, laughter, the deep voices of men trying to outshout each other. Isabelle hated it. She turned to Michael and yelled into his ear, “How are we going to have a conversation in this place?”

  Michael leaned into her. “We’re not.”

  He took her hand and led her through the crush of bodies, some dancing, some standing with drinks in their hand, all seemingly oblivious to the striking over-dressed couple. He pushed through a swinging door and suddenly they were in a kitchen. The staff looked up, surprised by their intrusion of uninvited.

  Michael threw them a charming smile. “Obviously, we’ve come to wrong club. We’re just going to slip out your back door.”

  One of the chefs creased his forehead and waved his knife vaguely towards the back. “Close the door behind you,” he bellowed as Michael and Isabelle disappeared through it.

  Stepping out into the alley, the cool air descended on them as Michael led the way out of the alley. Isabelle looked with dismay at the melting snow, the puddles around. “If I wreck another fucking pair of shoes…”

  Michael laughed. “I know, I know. You’ll stab me in the eye.”

  Isabelle pursed her lips, undecided whether to be irritated or humoured. Michael didn’t give her time to choose as he walked back to her, picked her up in his arms and carried her over the mud. As he put her down on the sidewalk, she tried for dignified, straightening her dress and patting her hair. “Don’t do that again,” she muttered.

  Michael’s eyebrow shot up. “I saved your shoes, didn’t I?”

  Isabelle shook her head. “Just don’t. I don’t need rescuing.”

  Michael threw her a dark scowl. “You need a dictionary so you can look up the definition of rescuing.” He took her hand and led her around the corner. “We’re meeting your ex at a dark little drink lounge. The Massey Club.”

  Isabelle wanted badly to shove him into a snowbank. Why couldn’t he just let her be contradictory? And why was he so stingy with information? Why wouldn’t he share these little tidbits with her rather than being a fucking annoying man of mystery. But she caught his eye as they walked. He didn’t have to say what he was thinking. Behave, Isabelle. You promised you would let me lead.

  Then they were there. A quiet, dark exclusive club, two burley men at the door, vetting customers before letting them enter. Soft instrumental music playing in the background, a murmur of conversation from nearby tables. Scents of expensive perfume and cologne. The smell of money.

  A hostess took their coats and then led them to a dark corner at the back, near a flickering gas fireplace. Jack was waiting for them, but he wasn’t alone. The unfriendly giant who had been in their hotel room this morning was sitting at the table. And another man, tall, dark and unsmiling. Two men sat separate from them at their own table, each nursing a mug of beer, eyes glued to Isabelle and Michael as they approached Jack’s table.

  Fuck, Isabelle thought. Her eyes shifted to Michael. Did he know that the Russian asshole was part of this? But Michael seemed to be unconcerned by the extra bodies, not even sparing a glance for the menacing bodyguards with the beer as he pulled Isabelle past them.

  Jack and his companions stood as they approached. Jack stuck his hand out to Michael, who took it gracefully. “Mr. Black, so nice to see you.” A lack of sincerity edged his greeting.

  “Let’s drop the formalities, shall we? I’m used to answering to Michael.”

  As Isabelle stepped up to Jack, her stomach knotted, a pain so intense, she almost buckled over. She hoped she wouldn’t vomit. Jack took her by her upper arms and leaned his head down, brushing her cheek with his lips. “Isabelle, as usual, you look stunning.” It hurt to hear him say that, the same words Michael used earlier in the hotel room. Jack soiled that moment between she and Michael. Made it seem dishonest and dirty.

  Isabelle smiled falsely. Inside she was shaking, having Jack this close. She took in a small puff of breath to steady her heart. Michael is here. He knows what he’s doing. What is he doing? Jack drew her attention from her thoughts as he introduced the two men. “This is my good friend, Rusya Savisin.” He indicated the tall, serious, brooding man.

  Isabelle tried not suck in her breath as Michael and Rusya shook hands and exchanged greetings. Rusya Savisin owned Vancouver. She knew of him, knew the fear he engendered. How could he be here and more importantly, why was he here? Michael shifted Isabelle towards Rusya, stood at her back, his hands resting on her forearms, clearly claiming her as his. She held out her hand and tried not to shake as the Russian crime boss kissed the back of it, his lips soft and warm. They didn’t linger though and there was nothing in his kiss to suggest any intent but an exchange of social greeting.

  Anto Kharzin, Rusya’s 2IC as Jack introduced him, showed no such restraint as he held his lips to the back of Isabelle’s hand for a little too long. After he released her, he and Michael shook hands as if this was the first time they’d laid eyes on each other. She let Michael help her into her chair and then took the seat next to her. The chairs were plush and comfortable, five of them, surrounding a low round table in a semi-circle. Intentionally in a dark private corner, Isabelle found herself seated between Michael and Anto, with Jack on the other side of Anto and Rusya, next to Michael.

  As she settled into the chair, she crossed her legs at the knees, and the pleasantries disappeared as all eyes at the table were drawn to her legs. She felt herself flush under their scrutiny. She was used to being ogled. She invited it, but this group of men was in a different league. They took what they wanted even if they had to go through others to get it. Right now, she belonged to Michael, but was his protection enough if one of the others wanted to challenge it? The fingers on her right hand trembled slightly and she closed her other hand over them to steady herself.

  A waiter came over as soon as they were settled and asked them for their drink orders. Michael ordered Michter’s 1010 bourbon, straight up; Isabelle wanted a vodka martini, but was afraid that she would drink it, and the next four she intended to order, too fast. Instead, she settled for a gla
ss of a full-bodied French Syrah.

  The men exchanged small talk, recent news, asshole politicians, even hockey playoffs until their drinks arrived. As the waiter retreated, Jack said to Isabelle, “You’re awfully quiet Isabelle. Out of character for you.”

  Isabelle twisted the stem of her wineglass between her fingers. “I didn’t realize we were going to have company.” Her eyes flicked to Savisin then back to her glass.

  Anto raised his eyebrows. “Is your husband keeping secrets from you?” He grinned as he glanced from her to Michael.

  Jack shifted slightly. “I’m her husband, Kharzin. Michael Black’s the guy she’s currently fucking.”

  She didn’t need to look at Michael to know his reaction. She thought he might leap across the table and throttle Jack. “We’re here to solve a problem, you prick.” Michael’s voice was hushed but held malice and promise. “Not to create another one. But if you want a brawl, I’m not opposed to it.”

  Isabelle drew a deep breath. Michael was losing his cool over her. Even though she knew now was not the time or place, a little swell of pleasure rippled through her.

  Rusya raised his hand slightly, his fingers a small wave. “I’m here to talk, not to brawl. As an interested party. Let’s be civilized.”

  “I’d like that,” Isabelle said, taking a small sip of wine as she watched Jack swallow his retort. But inside she was shaking. If Jack Creed backed away from a confrontation based on the small shift of a hand, Rusya Savisin must be one powerful sonofabitch. Was everyone at this table in over their heads? Or just her?

  As the tension settled around the table, Rusya turned to Michael. “I’m curious Michael Black, why have I never heard of you?”

  Michael shrugged casually, turning his tumbler in his hand, his other on Isabelle, squeezing her thigh. Showing them his claim of her. “Why would you, Rusya Savisin? I have nothing to do with the Russian Bratva.”

  Rusya nodded slowly, still eyeing Michael. “It’s rare that someone of your talents takes up residence in my neighbourhood without it coming to my attention, whether it’s Bratva business or not.”

  “What talents would those be?” Michael asked casually.

  Anto gave a loud, abrupt bark of a laugh, his accent a little deeper as he swallowed down his vodka. “Your many talents, I think. It’s not that easy to quietly kill two Russians and then hide the bodies.”

  Isabelle looked sharply at Anto. “What do you know about it?”

  Anto shrugged, gazing at her steadily. She had to drop her eyes, he was too intense, too big, too intimidating. All the men at the table were deadly, but at least the other three men put on civilized airs. Anto did no such thing. “Jack asked me to drop by your place to see if there was anything salvageable of his missing boys.”

  “And what did you find?” Her heart was thudding; her voice thready.

  Anto smiled at her, a big toothy grin. “I found nothing but rooms full of pretty things. You have good taste in everything, especially underwear.”

  Michael tensed again, his hand tightening on Isabelle’s thigh. Rusya settled his darks eyes on Anto. Remarkably, Anto winked at Rusya and then laughed, loud and consuming. Shit, he’s not afraid of anyone. Does Savisin know that? But then the Bratva leader threw Anto a small guarded smile before turning to Isabelle and Michael. “Forgive my associate for his sense of humour. He is an oversized adolescent.”

  Anto’s laughter boomed out again. “That might be true, my friend.”

  The banter stopped then as Michael said to Rusya, “I have no to plans to stay in your neighbourhood. As soon as this job is done, Isabelle and I will be leaving. Tell us about the job so we can get on with the business of doing it.” His eyes flicked back to Jack. “And while you’re at it, tell us what’s in it for us. This isn’t about a divorce. I don’t give a fuck if Isabelle and I are married in the biblical sense. Neither does she.”

  Isabelle nodded her head in agreement although she felt a twinge of disappointment. Was she a romantic after all?

  Jack gave Michael a hard look. “What do you want to know first, Black – the job or why you’ll do it?”

  “You mean me.” Isabelle forgot her promise to Michael. She’d had enough of being the obedient, civilized woman. All heads turned towards her. “I’ll be doing the job. And I’m going to do it, because I want you the fuck out of my life.”

  “Then why’s the boyfriend here?”

  Michael growled at Jack, “You think I’d let you and this asshole,” he indicated Anto with his head, “near her alone?”

  “That’s a little harsh,” Anto grunted and Michael glared at him.

  “Savisin, is this tattooed fuck the best you can get for a right-hand man? I would have thought you had more class.”

  Isabelle sucked in her breath. She wondered who was going to get shot first. She didn’t understand the dynamics. In their room earlier Anto and Michael appeared civil, but the hostility rolled off them now. Could that possibly be faked?

  Anto’s mouth etched into a frown and his eyes darkened as he scowled at Michael. He leaned forward. “Now you have lowered yourself to name calling. I don’t like that, Michael Black. I might have to break your knees.”

  Savisin raised his hand again and Anto’s eyes flicked to him then back to Michael. Then he sighed and picked up his glass of vodka, draining it. “It’s charming that you are baiting me, Michael Black. I usually have no time for playground fights, but for you I might make an exception.” He flicked his hand to the waiter and indicated another round.

  Michael opened his mouth to retort, but Isabelle headed him off, “Jack, please tell me what you want.”

  Jack uncrossed his legs and leaned towards Isabelle. “I want you to dust off your little black body suit and steal something for me. For us.” He glanced at Rusya who nodded.

  “What Jack? What do you want me to steal and who from?”

  The conversation stopped as the waiter brought the drinks. Isabelle raised her first glass to her lips, draining the contents, hyper-aware that all male eyes at the table

  were watching as she tilted her head, exposing her long, slender neck, the lushness of her lips, the dart of her tongue as she licked at the corner of her mouth to retrieve an errant drop. She handed the glass to the waiter, who took it and discreetly disappeared.

  “Ah Izzy,” Jack said to her as if no one else was in the room. As if Michael wasn’t sitting next to her, his hand settled proprietarily on the small of her back. “I miss those lips of yours and what they can do.”

  Isabelle dropped a hand to Michael’s thigh, giving it a hard squeeze. “Please let it go, Michael,” she said softly. He gazed hard at her, the small caress on her back replaced by angry fingers on her thigh, digging into her flesh through the fabric of her dress. It was what he needed to do, hold onto her so he didn’t kill Jack and get them both killed in the process.

  She turned to Jack. “What the fuck do you want me to steal? Who from? And while you’re at it, tell me why I should do any fucking thing for you.”

  The rest of the table disappeared. Her narrowed eyes zeroed in on Jack, trying to impale him with wishful daggers. But Rusya stepped in. “Isabelle, I hear you are a master thief. That you have done some exceptional work for Jack. In fact, he and I have discussed you at length. All the possibilities.”

  She shifted her gaze from Jack to Rusya, her anger giving way to dismay.

  Rusya smiled at her, lips closed, a small upturning of his lips. “I have a list of your work. Not all of it, some of it is pointless, baubles, pretty things for the vain.” He shifted slightly so he could see her past Michael, look into her eyes, through them to her soul.

  She wanted to stare him down, but instead, she trembled. Michael held her to him and she was grateful that he was here, that he was holding her. Keeping her safe. She hoped. But she needed him to back off a little. Because they were pressing his buttons, all three of these menacing bastards. She thrilled a little at the idea that she was a button for Michael,
almost laughed out loud at the thought.

  “Sometimes baubles make a woman happy, Mr. Savisin. They make the fucking more pleasant.” She couldn’t believe she had the nerve to say such a thing to such a dark man.

  Michael stilled his caresses. “Isabelle.” A warning for her to behave. Savisin gazed at her thoughtfully. Like he was deciding whether he would eat her for breakfast or wait until dinner, so he could enjoy her with some fava beans and a nice chianti.

  “Isabelle, you try my patience. But I’m hoping this is the only time you and I will engage with each other. You will find a notebook that belongs to Randall Scott. It has a dark green cover. In it are three pages of names with notations beside them. The pages are at the back of the book. I want those pages.”

  “Who the fuck is Randall Scott?” Michael asked.

  Rusya glanced at him.

  “I don’t know either,” Isabelle said, bringing Rusya’s attention back to her.

  Anto, who had been quiet for an unprecedented amount of time, said, “You don’t need to know that information. You just need to do the job.”

  Isabelle nodded, picked up her wine glass and sipped from it. “So where exactly is this notebook?”

  Jack leaned back in his chair. “At his house, maybe his office. Don’t know where. When you find it, you won’t take it. You’ll photograph the pages.

  Anto tossed a cell phone on the table. “With this.”

  Isabelle pursed her mouth. “You can’t narrow it down? His home or his office leaves a lot of space to search. And I’ll need some names on the list. Something that tells me I’ve found the right thing.”

  “It’s a green book, Isabelle. Dark green. You’ll know it when you see it. If we knew the fucking names on the list, we wouldn’t need you, would we?” Jack snarled.

  Isabelle bit at her lower lip as her mind worked the details. “Where’s the office?”

  “Corner of Robson and Howe. Twelfth floor,” Anto grunted.

  “And the house?”

  “Shaughnessy Heights.” Again Anto.

  “So not just a house, an estate.”