by Jagger Cole
He grins. “Shit, man! Hey, same team!”
I frown. “What?”
He points at my tattoos. “You’re Bratva, yeah?”
I glare in silence. The man smiles weakly and turns to jab a finger at the wall behind him. I raise my eyes and groan when I see the Nazi swastika flag plastered up on the wall.
“Same team, bro! Russians and Third Reich, my Aryan brother!”
I lower my eyes to him, snarling. “You need to read a history book.”
One punch knocks him out cold. I turn and stride over to another of the wounded. This one flinches even harder than the first, trying to scramble away from me.
“Look, man, whatever you want, it’s yours, okay? I swear man, take whatever—”
“You sold this...” I hold up my phone, with a picture of one of the tripod guns on it. “I want to know who bought it.”
He frowns. “You don’t know him?”
“Would I be wasting my time here if I did?”
He shudders. “No, man, I just mean… he’s one of you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, Russian. Bratva, I think.”
My brows furrow. My jaw grinds. “Who.”
“I don’t know man, just a guy. A Russian guy just like you.”
“How did he pay.”
“Cash.” The guy grins weakly.
“What.”
“No, nothing, just…” he shrugs. “I mean he paid cash, but the secondary payment was, uh…” he chuckles.”
“I like to laugh too,” I snarl. “So why don’t you share the fucking joke.”
“No, it’s nothin’ man. He was just… he said we could all have that little snack of his after he got a taste.”
My face hardens. “What snack.”
“Dude, just this Russian chick he was after. Dark hair, glasses? Hot ass?”
My heart skips. I pull my phone up and swipe to a picture I’ve taken of Nina, on her way to work the other day. I turn the screen to him
“Her?”
Recognition blooms on his face. “Yeah!” He chuckles. “Yeah, that’s her. Your guy—”
“He’s not my guy.”
“Oh, uh, okay.”
“Do you know his name?”
The man shakes his head.
“Do you have any way to contact him? You or any of your fucking friends?”
He shakes his head. “No, man. In-person only. And he always wore a mask. He paid cash, too.”
That’s all I need to hear.
“Well, cash and that hot piece of—”
My gun flashes with a bang, and he goes limp. I turn, and in quick order, I snuff out any last survivors of his Nazi shit-stain friends.
Two minutes after I’ve broken it down, I’m back out the door and into the night, racing back to Nina.
6
Nina
Five Years Ago:
“It’s so weird that I never really see you around campus.”
Neil holds the door for me as we step out of the cafe. I’m nervous. I hate that I’m nervous. But this is my first date, ever. I guess I’m allowed to be nervous. If the American movies I’ve been watching are any indication, I’m supposed to be nervous.
Neil fits the part, too—the all-American blond-haired, blue-eyed sports jock. He’s a freshman at Northwestern University, where I’m also attending. That’s where he bumped into me, a couple days ago on the campus green, and asked me out for coffee.
“Oh, my classes are mostly in the three-hundred block,” I smile as he falls into step next to me.
“The three-hundred block? Those are like, junior level class, aren’t they?”
“They are.”
He frowns. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“And they’re letting you take some junior level classes?”
“They, uh…” I shrug. “Actually, all of my classes are junior level classes. I’m a junior.”
Neil looks surprised. “At eighteen?”
“Da—” I frown, angry that I’ve lapsed into Russian. “Yes.”
A year and change ago, when Viktor brought me to Chicago, he enrolled me in the best, most academically achieving private high school money can buy. I was bored within a week. Moscow might have been hell. My home life might have been a horror. But school was always my safe place. Learning was always my escape. And apparently, I escaped a lot.
Within a week, they moved me from eleventh to twelfth grade. A few weeks after that, Viktor saw how bored and uninspired I was, and pulled me out. I took the private school version of the GED, he pulled some strings, and I started at Northwestern, as a Sophomore. Neil and I are the same age, but we’re two grades apart.
“Damn, you must be some kind of genius,” he laughs.
I smile. “I don’t know about that. I just learn quick, I guess.”
“Yeah for sure.” He turns to grin at me. “Hey, no pressure, but do you want to go to this party? I’m pledging Omega Kappa, and they’re throwing this rager tonight. Wanna swing by?”
I hesitate. I’ve never been to a party—not a real one, at least. And I’ve never even drank before. The broken part of me hesitates. New, uncontrollable situations have a way of triggering me sometimes. But, the therapist Viktor’s had me seeing says I should be trying new things; “pushing my comfort zone.”
When I think of it that way, I almost laugh at myself. Why would I be nervous? I survived a hell none of my classmates can even fathom. A frat party is nothing I can’t handle.
“I mean, totally no pressure. If you’re not feeling—”
“Sure!”
Neil grins. “Right on.”
Fifteen minutes later, I am very much in a new situation. I’m surrounded by college kids, packed into the first floor of the stunning home that houses the fraternity. I have a beer—my first beer—in my hand. Music thuds through my core.
I can feel the panic rising in me. But I try and push it back down. I try and breathe, and to let myself experience this newness. I know I’m safe here. I know there’s no demon coming to hurt me. But still, as the party rages around me, I start to feel more and more claustrophobic.
My breathing quickens. My pulse thuds louder than the music in my ears. I whirl, swallowing back my panic. But suddenly, Neil is right in front of me.
“Hey,” he frowns and puts a hand on my arm. “You okay, Nina?”
I nod. But I think my face says the opposite. He brow furrows as his grip tightens on me.
“C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
I let him pull me through the crowd, then up a staircase. I’m still shaking as little when he leads me down a hall, and then into a room. The door shuts behind us, and I let myself exhale.
“You okay?”
I nod. “Yes, I just…” I frown. Embarrassment burns my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t be. I get claustrophobic too.”
I smile at him as he sits on the edge of a bed. It’s only then that I realize we’re in a bedroom. But this is just Neil—nice Neil from the campus quad who just bought me a latte an hour ago. I’m safe, I tell myself. I’m not in hell anymore.
“So, how long have you been in America then, genius?”
I grin. “Almost a year and a half.”
Neil nods. “Wow, your English is amazing.”
“Thanks.”
“I love that accent, by the way.”
I blush. “Thank you. I’m trying to get rid of it. It makes me stick out.”
Neil grins. “Nah, don’t. It’s sexy.”
I blush deeper.
“So, why’d you guys move?”
“Guys?”
“You and your parents?”
I shake my head. “I’m just here with my older brother. He’s lived here for a while.”
“Oh yeah? Cool. What does he do?”
He’s one of the biggest, most dangerous Russian mobsters in your country.
“He’s in shipping,” I say evenly.
; “Cool.” Neil looks at me as the room gets silent. “Hey, say something else to me in that sexy accent.”
I frown. “Um, like what?”
He grins. “I dunno. Something hot.”
“The sun,” I toss out with a smirk.
Neil rolls his eyes. “Oh c’mon, you know what I mean.”
“I—” I frown. “I don’t think I can.”
“Why not?”
I shrug. “I just don’t want to?”
He laughs. “Aww, c’mon, Nina.” He stands and walks towards me. I tense, but then I tell myself to relax. It’s just Neil. It’s just the young, nice guy who bought me a latte.
“Can you say something dirty in Russian?”
I frown. “Why?”
“Cause.”
I smile uncomfortably. “Uh, okay, how about…” I think back to some of the horrible stuff Bogdan used to say, or things I’d hear the men who hung out at the corner liquor store say to women who walked by.
“Svoloch’” I spit.
Neil smirks and raises a brow. “What does that mean?”
I frown and wrack my brain for the word. “Bastard.”
He rolls his eyes. “No, I meant something real dirty.”
“Uh…” I bite my lip. “Hooy morzhovy!” I cackle.
Neil gives me a questioning look.
“It means, loosely, walrus penis,” I giggle.
He sighs, his brows knitting as he steps even closer to me. Much closer.
“No, Nina,” he grins. “I meant something dirty. Like, sexual.”
I swallow. “Oh.”
He grins at me. “How do you say ‘do you want to fuck?’”
“Neil…”
“C’mon, Nina.”
“I don’t know.”
He laughs. “Dude, you speak Russian. How about ‘take your panties off?’”
I stiffen. “I think maybe no more language lessons, okay?” I laugh, trying to lighten the mood. Neil doesn’t.
“C’mon, say it.”
“I think we should go get another beer, yes?”
He shakes his head. “I think we should stay up here.”
I turn to leave. But suddenly, his hand takes mine. It’s not aggressive or violent, but he uses the grip to turn me and pull me into him. He leans close, his mouth lowering to mine.
But after Bogdan? After a life spent in the ghettos of Moscow? What happens next is pure instinct. It doesn’t hurt that Viktor’s been teaching me kickboxing and Krav Maga.
I grab Neil’s wrist, twist away, wrench it forward, and slam down with my elbow. I can feel the bone snapping, and Neil screams in agony as I lunge away from him.
“You fucking bitch!” he roars. “What the fuck, Nina!?! That’s my fucking pitching arm you psycho!!!”
I rush out of the room, down the stairs, and through the party. Outside, my breath leaves my body in a rush. I gasp, staggering across the street back to campus.
I might be in a new life, in a new place, with every opportunity to almost anything I want with my life. But I know I’m still broken. I know I’m forever broken.
My past almost killed me. Now, I’m just scar tissue and crossed wires.
Present:
“Hey girl, you ready?”
I roll my eyes at Deborah’s grin as I step out of my office.
“It’s just a dinner thing, Deb.”
“Uh, just a dinner thing?” My assistant sighs. “You mean the only ‘dinner thing’ I’ve seen you go on in the two years I’ve worked for you?”
I roll my eyes again. “Deb, I go on dates, okay?”
“Oh? When? Because last time I checked, at least half my job is knowing your entire schedule. So when exactly are you going on all of these dates?”
I blush, furrowing my brow. “I’ve just been very busy, that’s all. But I go out.”
“Uh-huh,” she says dryly.
She’s been pushing this “date” with Pierce, a friend of hers’ older brother, for almost two months now. I’ve managed to dodge it over and over. But finally, she managed to get past my defenses. Or maybe I just said yes so she’d stop asking me about it. I mean screw it. It’s one lame dinner date. I can make small talk and smile for an hour and half and then be on my way, right?
“Well, I guess I’d better get going. Wouldn’t want to keep Pierce waiting, or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
She frowns. “Oh please, he’s a perfect gentleman—”
“I meant from you.”
She grins. “Touché.” Her brows knit. “Wait, you don’t really have time to run home first, you know.”
“I know. I’m just going straight to the restaurant.”
Deb makes a face. “Like that?”
“Well, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
She laughs. “No! I just mean… I mean were you planning on changing?”
“I was not, but I feel like you’re about to tell me why I should.”
She rolls her eyes. “Girl, you’re hot. You know you’re hot. And you rock that boardroom pencil skirt and blouse combo like a boss.”
I frown. “And?”
“And you’re going to Chez Patise for a thousand-dollar dinner, not the negotiating table with the trucking company.”
My eyes roll this time. “Deb—”
“Now, I know this is outside the job description, and you can totally thank me later…”
I laugh. “Uh oh.”
She strolls over to a side room and waltzes back out carrying a black Dior garment bag on a hanger.
“Deb…”
“Just try it on, okay?” She unzips the bag, revealing a stunning looking little black dress.”
“Deb, I’m not going to the Grammy Awards.”
“No, but you’re sabotaging this before it even starts. Nina, Pierre is hot, tall, rich but not as rich as you, a name partner at his firm, and a sweet guy. He’s perfect.”
“So you date him!”
She groans. “I wish.”
“No, seriously!” I laugh. “Put the dress on and go out on this thing for me. Please.”
She laughs as she pushes the bag into my hand. “Go get dressed, nut job. Oh, and…” she furrows her brow as she looks at me. “How married are we to these glasses?”
“How married are you to your eyeballs? Because I’m blind as a bat without these.”
“You’ve never thought about contacts? Lasik?”
“At seven pm on a Thursday, Deb?”
She laughs. “Fine, keep the glasses. You can rock that sexy nerd look.”
“Oh boy, exactly what I was going for,” I grumble. But I let her usher me back to my office, and begrudgingly, I change into the dress. When I look up in the mirror though, I can’t help but grin. Okay, I do looks pretty hot. But my face falls.
All dressed up, but it’s all wrong. I don’t want the sweet, clean-cut, square-jawed, name-partner-at-his-firm Ken doll.
I want the beast.
“So I look at him and just say ‘now that’s how you execute a back-hand return!’” Pierre roars with laughter as he finishes his story. Which is great, actually, because it let’s me know it’s time to laugh.
“Oh, wow, that’s hilarious!” I smile but quickly hide it with a sip of wine. I have no idea how to play racquetball, nor do I have any inclination to understand it. Pierre is apparently very good at it, though. Or so he’s told me. Repeatedly.
“I know, right?” He chuckles. “I’m telling you, Sanderson never saw it coming. The look on his face was priceless.”
“Oh, I can only imagine,” I smile politely.
“Yeah, and crazy story; Sanderson’s grandfather is none other than Diego Sanderson.”
“Oh… yeah?” It seems like that should mean something to me. Or maybe it would if I knew fuck all about racquetball.
“Yeah! The man literally invented the back-hand return! And then his own grandson gets schooled by it!”
“Wow! Fascinating!”
We’ve been sitting down f
or fifteen minutes, and this is already one of the most excruciating dinners of my life. It’s not that Pierre isn’t a nice guy—he is. And he’s charming, and handsome, and very sweet. But this is just not happening.
He’s a top litigator for a well-to-do law firm. I run logistics for one of the most infamously brutal and powerful criminal organizations in the country. Pierre grew up with boarding school, European vacations, and a trust fund. I barely survived my childhood.
But it’s bigger than that, too. It’s not just that our jobs are literally on the polar opposite ends of the legal spectrum. Or that we grew up under vastly different circumstances. It’s that at our cores, we are very, very different people.
I’m never going to be in his world. No matter the money, influence, and power I have now. No matter how well I dress, or how smart I am. I’m never going to be the country-club type getting wet over racquetball serves.
I’m too broken for that. Too damaged. Too much scar tissue.
“Hey, you wanna hear this crazy story about the new flooring they just put down at the racquet club?”
Abso-fucking-lutly not.
“Sure!” I smile, painfully. “But first, I’m just going to go use the ladies’ room, if you’ll excuse me.”
Pierre bounds out of his seat to help me out of mine. I smile and thank him, and then scurry to the bathroom. Inside the single occupancy room, I groan and sink against the door. I glance at my watch. This date has been going on now for eighteen minutes. I start to wonder if it’s somehow possible to end it before we even order food, without coming across as rude.
I check my phone, kill another three minutes, and then decide it’s time to just do this and get it all over with. Hey, at least the food is supposed to be incredible here. I can tune out the racquetball lesson for that.
I step out and head back to the table. But as I get closer, I frown when I realize Pierre is standing, buttoning his jacket, and dropping some money on the table. When he sees me approaching, he stiffens.
“Um, hi, is everything okay?”
“Very, yes. It’s…” he smiles nervously, his face pale and lined. “I’m sorry if I bothered you this evening, Nina.”
I frown. “You didn’t… I mean…” I sigh. “Look, Pierre, you’re a really nice guy, I just—”
