Nikolai grumbles a Russian curse word under his breath as his neck cranks to glare at my phone. If I weren’t consumed by unbridled anger from losing his utmost devotion, I’d be tempted to laugh at his solemn expression.
“You should probably get that,” he suggests, nudging his head to my cell phone vibrating on my bedside table. “It’s been ringing nonstop all night.”
After pressing an innocent peck to my now pursed-with-worry lips, he rolls off me. I’m not going to lie, my body groans in protest.
Chuckling, he mutters, “Soon, Ahren. Very soon.”
My libido shrivels up and dies when he stands from the bed and heads for the door. For every stride he takes, my bewilderment grows. I just kissed a client. In my bed. Wearing nothing but a sheer thong and a push-up bra. If it wasn’t the most incredible kiss I’d ever received, I’d be slamming on the brakes and setting some strict ground rules.
Wait. What?
One kiss can’t erase years of hard work, can it? If it was any other man than Nikolai, I’d have no hesitation in saying no. Now, I’m not so sure. I’m so damn confused. My interactions with him are like trying to untangle a set of Christmas lights. For every knot I unravel, another forms in its place.
The confusion muddling my mind eases when I catch the quickest glimpse of my family portrait on my chest of drawers. I’m not here for me. I’m here for them.
Nikolai’s strides halt halfway across my room. He freezes before pivoting on his heels to face me. Just seeing the vibrancy in his eyes pushes away the horrid neuroses surfacing in my mind. I’d kiss him again in a heartbeat if it guaranteed his eyes would keep the level of intensity they have now. He looks as if he has the entire world at his feet.
I inwardly snort. He probably does.
Lifting his hand to his lips, he twists, presenting a gesture frequently used to demand silence. Although confused by his request, I nod, trusting the gleam in his eyes that promises my faith will be well-rewarded.
Smirking at my agreeing response, he points above his head. Following his gaze, I look up. My heart smashes into my ribs when I spot a pair of my yoga pants dangling midair. They’re hiding a black instrument that looks very similar to a surveillance camera.
My eyes rocket back to Nikolai when I recall discovering a surveillance device in my pantry yesterday. The grimace on his face shows he’s the culprit for the surveillance device, but he is as disgruntled about them as I am.
“Trust me?” he silently mouths.
I nod without consideration. Although gruesome, the way he protected me last night placed him on a very small list of men I trust. He is the first man on my list who doesn’t share my last name.
He glances toward my balcony. “Outside,” he faintly murmurs before his eyes stray to my cell phone.
I nod again, acknowledging his request for me to take my call outside.
Satisfied at my obliging nature, Nikolai winks before exiting my room. “I’m going to take a shower. Perhaps you’ll join me after your call.” He winks suggestively before pivoting on his heels. His pace is brisk, but not quick enough for me to miss his avid scan of my body.
I stare at my door for several moments, shocked at the turn of events the past twenty-four hours. Yesterday was filled with so many contradictions, it honestly feels like a month has passed instead of one measly day.
I snap out of my thoughts when my cell phone hollers again. Fumbling, I wrap my bedsheet around my sweat-slicked body, secure my phone from the bedside table, then stand from my bed. The frantic beat of my heart I just settled starts up all over again when I glance down at my screen and notice who is calling. It’s my dad. Worry clouds me. He only calls when it’s a family emergency.
Swiping my finger across the screen, I press my phone to my ear while padding to my balcony door. “Daddy, is everything okay? Is it Maddox? Is he safe?”
My voice is doused with anxiety as guilt steamrolls back into me. I’ve been so tied up with Nikolai, I keep failing to recall the real reason he is a guest in my house.
Ghastly Las Vegas heat blasts my face when I crack open my balcony door and slip outside. Since I’m barely covered by my thin bedsheet, I stand in the far corner of the patio, not wanting to startle any neighbors enjoying a refreshing swim.
“Dad?” I query when he fails to answer me.
Some of the panic on my chest lifts when my dad grumbles, “Darn fandangle phone. Where is the volume button?”
My hand darts up to stifle a giggle. My dad is a brilliant man who can fly a jumbo jet with his eyes closed but can’t work out the simplicity of a landline phone for the life of him.
“Justine, are you there, darling?”
My heart squeezes, adoring the heavenly deepness of my dad’s voice. Since he isn’t a fan of talking on the phone, I haven’t heard his voice in nearly three months.
“Yes, Daddy, I’m here. Is everything okay? Is it Maddox?” I’m sure he can hear tears in my words.
Dad instructs my mom to get on the other line before he answers, ‘Everything is fine, darling. Maddox is fine.’
I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. It’s quickly redrawn when my dad adds on, “We received a call from Wallens Ridge State Prison late last night. Maddox was placed in isolation overnight. They’re preparing him for transport.”
“They’re moving him to another location?” My voice is high with delighted shock.
With the population of Petretti crew members housed at Wallens Ridge the highest in the country, I’ve been petitioning for Maddox to be transferred to another prison the past three years. Every request I lodged was denied within hours of being received.
“Yes, honey, they’re moving him to Harbortown. He will be thirty miles from home. Can you believe it?” my mom chimes in, her words cracking with emotion.
My mouth opens and closes, but not a syllable escapes my lips. My request to have Maddox transferred to Harbortown was denied because it’s a medium security facility that doesn’t have the features required to house a non-parole eligible inmate. Even my close connection with a detective at Ravenshoe Police Station couldn’t get the warden at Harbortown to glance at my request, so I’m not only delighted by this development, I’m stunned.
“Justine, darling, are you there?” The deep shudder of my Dad’s timbre conveys he’s on the verge of tears just like me. “What’s with this damn thing? Why won’t it work?” He smacks on the speaker, blaming the phone for my lack of reply.
“It’s not your phone, Daddy; it’s me. I truly don’t know what to say,” I reply as a tear glides down my cheek.
“Actions speak louder than words, honey. So you better buy that boss of yours a big steak,” my mom suggests with a giggle. Her laughter fills me with homesickness. It’s been a while since I’ve heard her carefree laughter. Way longer than I would have liked.
“I will. I promise. The biggest steak you’ve ever seen.”
“Or the whole damn cow,” my dad adds, his smile radiating in his tone.
We laugh in sync, our joy reflected in our chuckles.
I push my phone in closer to my ear when my dad says, “I know I gave you a hard time about trekking across the country for this man, Justine, but I was wrong. You did well. You’ve done us proud, darling. Very, very proud.”
Tears spring into my eyes. As much as I knew my dad would always support me, he struggled when I told him my plans to move to Vegas. He already had one child torn away from him, so the thought of not seeing another for months at a time was more than he could bear.
“Thank you, Daddy. It means the world to me to hear you say that.”
After guaranteeing I’ll be kept informed on Maddox’s transfer, I disconnect the call with my parents. Although my eyes are brimming with moisture, only a small handful of tears have trickled down my cheeks. My happiness is so overwhelming, I’m not willing to let anything ruin it. Not even a few measly tears.
My hands rattle when I punch in a well-used cell phone number. I can’t believe in such a short period of time Mr. Fletcher achieved something I’ve been endeavoring to do for years. I know he’s a brilliant attorney, but this showcases him in a totally new light. It will be a hard feat for any man to steal the torch I am about to shine on him.
“Good morning, Justine. Everything okay?” Mr. Fletcher sounds like I woke him up.
Riddled with guilt, I pull my phone away from my ear. My remorse doubles when I notice it isn’t even 8 AM. “Good morning. Sorry for waking you. In my excitement, I forgot to check the time,” I greet him, grimacing.
A creak of an office chair sounds down the line, closely followed by the pants of Mr. Fletcher’s breaths. “Have you found a way to get Nikolai off his charges?” he queries, his words hurried as if he’s running.
My lips twist. ‘Not yet. I’m close, though.’ That’s a lie. I’ve spent more time dodging Nikolai’s suaveness than working on his case.
The tap of feet padding comes to a stop as Mr. Fletcher says, ‘Oh. Then why are you calling me so early?’ He sounds shocked about my eagerness to discuss anything not pertaining to work. His gasping response isn’t unexpected. Neither of us have a social life.
“I just wanted to thank you. I can’t believe what you did. It’s amazing. I’m in complete awe of you.” My voice is laced with so much sentimental muckiness I almost gag. “I’ve been striving to do exactly that the past three years. You did it in less than twenty-four hours. . .”
My excited gushing continues without pause for the next several minutes.
When I stop to inhale much needed air, Mr. Fletcher quickly utters, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Justine. What are you thanking me for?’
I smile, adoring his humble attitude. He truly has no idea how much Maddox’s transfer means for my family. Now instead of traveling eight hours to see him every second month, my parents can visit him weekly.
‘Maddox’s transfer to Harborview. My parents were contacted last night. His application was approved,’ I inform Mr. Fletcher, my tone still gushy.
Mr. Fletcher breathes heavily down the line. “I didn’t request a transfer.” He pauses for a moment. “Well, I am proposing a transfer, but the paperwork hasn’t been finalized yet. It’s sitting on my to-do list.”
“Oh. . .” A better reply is above me. I’m as shocked as Mr. Fletcher’s tone suggests. “Then who arranged it?”
Assuming my question isn’t rhetorical, Mr. Fletcher replies, ‘I’m unsure. Who else have you informed about your brother’s wish for transfer?’
“No one. I don’t talk to anyone outside of work. I don’t know anyone in Vegas. . .” My words trail off when reality smacks into me hard and fast. Nikolai.
“Can I call you back?” I ask Mr. Fletcher. Not waiting for him to comply with my request, I disconnect our call.
I dump my cell phone onto my bed before securing a free-flowing summer dress from my wardrobe. I’m so eager to confront Nikolai about my flashback, I don’t bother wrangling my hair or checking my face in the mirror. My pace out of my bedroom is frantic, causing my steps to stumble like a catwalk model wearing ten-inch heels after too many chardonnays.
My eyes snap to the bathroom door when I hear the distinct noise of a shower being switched on. I stand frozen outside the door for several seconds, contemplating what to do. If I enter the bathroom, I look like a hussy willing to do anything to secure her brother’s freedom. If I don’t, my questions will remain unanswered.
Like a flash of lightning illuminating a pitch-black sky, an idea pops into my head: the surveillance cameras.
My bare feet fail to gain traction on the wooden floor when I race toward my kitchen. I push through the swinging door, not noticing the floor is void of crockery splinters until I’m halfway across the tiled space. I freeze at the same time my heart stops beating. My kitchen is clean—spotlessly clean. It’s tidier than it was when I moved in. Come to think of it, my living room is sparkling as well.
“The Popov housemaids are the best of the bunch,” says a deep voice at the side, scaring the living daylights out of me.
Roman stands from his seat and heads in my direction. The smile on his face is as carefree as Nikolai’s attitude this morning. My stomach grumbles when he opens my oven door, displaying a feast fit for a king. Pancakes, sausages, bacon, eggs, and hash browns are being kept warm in an oven which still had its protective seal on the glass door as early as yesterday afternoon.
“The Popov housemaids made me brunch?” I pace toward Roman, the grumbling of my stomach as ruffled as my facial expression.
Roman nods. “Yes.”
“Why?!” I cringe when I sound like I’m peeved. I’m anything but annoyed.
He locks his eyes with me. They’re as worldly as ever, but there’s a sparkle of amusement swelling in them. “Because Nikolai asked them to after ushering everyone out of your apartment.”
My heart thuds my chest. “Nikolai asked everyone to leave?” I don’t know why, but I assumed they left of their own free will.
Roman nods again. His blasé response doesn’t lessen its impact.
“Then why are you still here?” I sound like a demented teen, but I’m shocked by this development.
Although I am asking a question, I reach my own conclusion before a syllable escapes Roman’s mouth. “You’re Nikolai’s protector.”
He shrugs as his lips crimp. “It’s more of an advisory role than a protective detail. As you witnessed last night, Nikolai doesn’t require protection.”
I stare at Roman as my brain works through the facts. He did aid in stopping Nikolai from dishing out his own form of justice last night, but where was he when Nikolai lodged a beer bottle in the neck of another man? That seems like a pivotal time for an advisor to step in to me.
Seemingly reading the quiet questions streaming from my eyes, Roman explains, “The exchange between Nikolai and his accused Friday afternoon was family business. It was not my place to intervene.”
I huff out a chuckle. “Family business? The man Nikolai attacked was from the Petretti crew. How could that be family business?” I air quote my last two words.
Roman smirks, fighting to conceal the worry rapidly forming in his glistening gaze. “That is also a matter of family business. One that isn’t mine to share.”
I huff again, louder this time. “Family ties didn’t stop Nikolai from assaulting one of his own last night,” I grumble, my mood noticeably more hostile.
I’m not angry at Roman; I’m just confused by what this all means. I’ve heard comments that when you join the Popov or Petretti crew, you become a member of their family, but I’ve never heard the reference used for rival gang members.
“Are you sure of what you saw, Justine? As from my vantage point, Nikolai appeared to be very much protecting one of his own.”
Roman steps closer to me, looming over me with his large frame. “You’re under Nikolai’s skin,” he whispers, his voice barely audible over the hammering of my heart. “Usually, I’d be pleased by that notion. But for a man with responsibilities like Nikolai, attaching himself to someone could mean death.”
“He’s not attaching himself to anyone,” I mumble, my words hindered by the throb sitting in the back of my throat. I’ve only known Nikolai for days, but the thought of him being hurt cuts me raw.
The worry in Roman’s eyes softens as he says, “Nikolai calls himself The Snake as he must continually shed his skin to stay alive. I’ve yet to see him do that with you. That should mean something, shouldn’t it?”
Spotting the tears welling in my eyes, Roman says, “Ah. He’s under your skin as well. This will make the fight a lot fairer.”
Stealing my chance to reply, he pivots on his heels and stalks to the door.
