Page 7 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

“I’m trying to do the right thing and there are people chasing me.”

The windowless room is small and overheated.

“I see. And how do I know it wasn’t you who killed a man in the back alley of your flower shop?”

Instead of answering his absurd questions, I turn the attention back where it needs to be. “Please, Nikolai Volkov is a powerful man. You need to post some guard outside the door. Make sure he or his goons can’t get in.” I’m not naive enough to think he doesn’t have deep connections to every level of authority this city possesses.

The detective holds his hand up for me to be quiet, but I don’t think he understands the level of danger we are all in. “Calm down, miss.”

I drop my feet to the floor and move to the edge of the metal chair. “I don’t think you understand. Maybe you should even move me to another police station. You do know Nikolai Volkov, right? Russian Bratva. Dangerous. Mean as a snake. Killer. I’m not sure where his territory is or how any of that works, but I'm pretty damn sure it won’t take him long to connect the dots and figure out where I’ve gone. You know, since he and his goons were chasing me.”

A bowling ball of fear tears through my guts. Maybe I trusted too easily. Again. Sometimes I really do wish I had a pinch of luck on my side.

“He won’t be far behind.”

“Stop being hysterical and start at the top again and run me through every detail.”

I stare at him, mouth gaping open. “No, I don’t think I will. And let’s see who screams like a bitch when he storms in here, Detective.”

That gets a smile out of him, but nothing more helpful.

Just saying those words out loud makes chills erupt all over my body. I press the tips of my fingers to my temple and will the forming headache to recede.

The detective takes an unhurried sip of his coffee, either blind to the fear eating my insides or choosing to ignore it and simply nods. In front of him is a closed folder and to the side is a phone he barely takes his eyes off of.

“Take your time and tell me everything from the beginning," he repeats, all practiced warmth and professional patience. Again, not looking at me once.

I force a smile. “I’ve already done this once, but fine.” It takes a lot not to sound royally pissed or irritated at not being taken seriously. Apparently, I don't do such a great job of keeping my emotions off my face or out of my tone because the detective finally pulls his eyeballs off the phone long enough to glare at me.

“Well, young lady, you’ve come in here with a fantastical story about an upstanding citizen of the community. I think you owe me every detail as many times as I ask for it.”

I blink. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I shove back from the table and pace between the door and the back wall. “What? Upstanding?” I stop in front of the detective. “I know you can’t be serious.”

“Take a seat, Ms. Vale. And yes I am. We can go back and forth all night, or you can tell me what I want to know before we ask him to come in and give his side of the story.”

I slice the air between us with a wave of my hand after I get my heart to start working again.

“That can’t happen. Not with me here.”

“It can, now start talking.”

I tell the detective everything. All of it. The alley. The flickering light. The customer who bought roses and walked out the back door. The two tank-sized men. How they shot my customer and then how Nikolai joined in and shot him in the head.

The detective scribbles a couple of things on the note pad and then he’s on his phone texting someone. He does this on and off the whole time I am talking.

When I finish he asks, "How do you know Nikolai Volkov?”

“He is my ex-boyfriend.”

“Ah, so this is revenge against him for dumping you or something? Typical. I see it all the time.”

The detective's face should change to understanding and sympathy here, but that’s not what happens. Instead, smugness pulls at the creases along his forming jowls and crows feet.

I jerk back as if slapped. “What did you say?”

“Revenge from an ex. You get dumped so you retaliate. Typical women shit.”

Red blurs my vision for several seconds. I cross my arms and tilt my chin up a fraction. “You must have mommy issues. Can’t keep it hard for the wifey? Or has she dumped you for the pastor? What are you? Edging close to your thirty-fifth anniversary. Things get dull so you pump it in the shower while your wife has fun with the gardener?”