By the time I was fourteen, I’d already lived a majority of my life. In this industry, you barely make it past your teens. I’d done countless hideous things, stuff I’ll never mention again until I meet with my creator. I was ruthless, believing nothing could stop me. . . until I saw her. . . my little kitten. . .
We were driving through a small town a few hours out of Florida. I couldn't say where as I'd spent the last seven weeks on the road and my bearings were slightly adrift. My attention diverted from the scenery streaming past the heavily-tinted window when I noticed a beautiful teen walking on the cracked sidewalk, laughing and talking with her redhead friend. The late afternoon sun bounced off her hair, shrouding her in a golden halo. She had the kind of beauty that captured you and didn't let go: the face of an angel, lightly tanned skin with the smallest gathering of freckles on the bridge of her nose, and a body more mature than her years. Even the way she skipped down the path had me in a trance. I watched her for only seconds, but it felt like the moon had circled the globe numerous times.
My eyes only left the entrancing blonde when a deep Russian voice at my side snapped me out of my imaginative state.
“You like, Rico? You want to get out your tackle and have some fun with the little girlies?”
I lifted my narrowed eyes to Sergei, cousin, and goon. The mocking grin on his face irritated me. I stared him in the eyes and sniffed, purposely goading him. Sergei was double my age, but we were a similar size and build. But for what he lacked in stature, he made up for in arrogance. He too was raised in the Popov compound, but since he failed to have the legacy of the Popov last name, he was nothing more than a paid goon.
Sergei slapped the chest of Timur sitting on his left. “Veroyatno, ne znayet, kak yego ispol'zovat'!”he mocked.
“You won’t be able to use your cock again when I cut it off,” I snarled back, lowering my stern gaze to the crotch of his pants.
Sergei swallowed away a lump, then stared at me in surprise, shocked I understood what he said. To start with, I don’t know if it was stubbornness or out of reverence to my English-speaking mother, but I rarely spoke a word of Russian. As the years went on, I discovered there's an immense amount of power being seated in a room with a group of men who don’t realize you're bilingual.
As the seconds ticked by on the clock, the look in Sergei’s eyes changed, going from scared to a gleam I’d only seen in his eyes a rare handful of times.
"Stop," he demanded to the driver of the Escalade we were traveling in. He banged his hand on the privacy partition to add strength to his request.
I turned my eyes to my brother Nikolai. His icy-blue eyes drifted between Sergei and me for several seconds before he shrugged his shoulders. In the reflection of the mirrored privacy partition, I saw the dirty white van that had been following us most of the day pull in behind our stationary vehicle. The men inside I hadn't met. All I knew was that they were from another Russian entity that was run by a counterpart of the Popov empire. After we aided them in a business transaction taking place in a small town called Hopeton, they were to return to their station, and we were to travel back to Vegas.
The beat of my heart surged when Sergei pulled a two-way radio out of his pocket and said three short words. “Secure the assets.”
I sat motionless with my heart thumping against my ribcage when two large Russian men curled out of the van and approached the blonde I had been admiring. My stomach lurched in silence when one of the men wrapped his arm around the blonde's friend and placed a white cloth over her mouth. Even though her words were muffled by the fabric, one distinct word was clear:Blaire.
I moved to the edge of my seat when the second man with a snake tattoo wrapped around his wrist and halfway up his forearm approached the blonde. My hand moved to the door handle, my mind running purely on instinct. The only thing that stopped me was when Nikolai placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed.
Drifting my eyes away from an immoral act I'd seen played out time and time again my past fourteen years, I peered into my brother's eyes. He shook his head, advising me not to respond. He knew Sergei was testing me, ensuring my loyalty remained to the Popov empire.
I continued watching the scene with my gut twisted in a knot. I didn't understand why my reaction was so fierce; I had witnessed that and far worse things numerous times in my short life. But there was something different about me that day. Something inside me snapped.
When Blaire laid lifeless on the concrete sidewalk, her body bloody and bruised, I whispered into the air. “Don’t give up, Blaire.”
Like she could hear my pleas, she rolled onto her side and leaped to her feet. She had more strength than any man I’d ever punished. My back molars smashed together when her dash down the alleyway was stopped by the Russian who had thrown her unconscious friend in the back of the van minutes earlier. Blood roared in my ears when he pinned Blaire to a steel fence by her throat.
Before I had the chance to contemplate the severity of my punishment, I threw open the Escalade door and charged at the man double my weight. My speed was unchecked as I rammed into the side of him with all my might. He let out a loud “oomph” when we smashed into the concrete with a sickening thud. I felt no pain. All I felt was fury. I threw my fists into his face, dazing him long enough that I could turn my eyes back to Blaire. She stood motionless against a steel-chained fence, her knees bloody, her eyes wide.
“Run! Blaire! Run!” I screamed at her.
She stared into my eyes for a fleeting second before she ran down the alleyway as fast as her trembling legs could take her. When her original attacker hot-footed after her, I scrambled off the man lying half unconscious on the cracked asphalt and threw my arms around his ankles. As he plummeted to the ground, I saw the quickest flash of blonde running into a busy street. Relief engulfed me.
That was the last time I saw Blaire until she fell into my lap two weeks ago. . .
Ignoring the shake that has encroached my hands, I undo the buttons of my dress shirt. The creak of the rickety stairwell at my side gains my attention. Maya is standing at the foot of the stairs, her eyes rocketing between a shocked Blaire and me.
“Prosti,” she whispers, issuing her apologies in Russian.
She moves to a stack of shelves in the corner of the room to gather a bunch of towels as she mumbles under her breath. Although her rant is a mixture of Russian and French, it follows a similar path. That she knew something wasn’t right and that she should have trusted her intuition.
After removing my dress shirt covered with specks of blood, I yank my white undershirt over my head. Blaire stares up at me, clearly in shock as I place the shirt over her head before pulling her blood-streaked hair out of the collar. Tears roll down her cheeks unchecked as her entire body quakes. Her tears I can handle, but the vacant look in her eyes – I don’t even know where to begin.
After wiping off the smears of blood covering my hands with a towel Maya gave me, I crouch down closer to Blaire. With my heart walloping against my ribs, I once again raise my hand to her face. She blinks several times in a row, but thankfully, doesn't repel from my touch. Glancing into her eyes, so she knows I mean her no harm, I brush away a bunch of unruly hairs clinging to her sweat-drenched neck. Her skin prickles with goosebumps when my soft touch runs over the sensitive skin on her collarbone.
My eyes shift sideways when the man I beat to an inch of his life makes a gagging noise as he chokes on his own blood. He should be grateful he's still breathing. If Blaire's welfare weren't my utmost priority, he'd have a bullet wound between his eyes.
Deciding Blaire doesn’t need anything added to her shocked state, I return my gaze to her. She's still staring at me, wide-eyed and quiet. Her pupils are massive, filling her entire cornea, making her eyes the darkest I’ve ever seen.
I peer into her eyes with the same amount of sincerity she usually awards me with. "Let me take care of you, Blaire. Let me wash away your pain."
