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With my hand resting over his sternum, I said, “I’m glad because now I know. I’m not mad anymore. I feel nothing where he is concerned. It’s like getting rid of one more suitcase with no wheels.” His brow furrowed in confusion at the metaphor, at the memory of what my life had been like before I met him…all that heavy baggage I had to carry around by myself.
“If you had any idea how much I love you, you wouldn’t have that look on your face.”
He breathed out a heavy sigh. His hand came up and covered mine, keeping it over his heart.
“Are you going to see him again?”
“Yes.” His eyes slammed into mine, though to give him credit he didn’t argue. “For myself––not for his sake. I want to know what happened.”
Chapter Twenty-One
By the time I got home that evening, an empty home that is, I was too tired to do anything other than take a hot shower. It was eleven when I finally crawled into bed. My cell phone rang. Too spent to even glance at the screen I answered absently, “Please tell me you’re on your way home.”
“Vera?”
The shaky, broken voice sounded alarm bell. I sat straight up in bed. “Emilia? Is that you?” I glanced at the cell screen and noticed it was a number I didn’t recognize.
“Yes.” The heavy silence afterwards had me on edge.
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m at the club…in the office.” A fractured sob followed. Then a small, “No.”
“I’m coming to get you. Are you safe?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll be there in few minutes. I’m in town. It won’t take long.”
I was out of bed and dressed in seconds. Since the case at the bank had closed, the twenty-four hour security team had dwindled down to Bear, who had gone to the office to wait for Sebastian once he’d dropped me off at home. The cab I called was waiting for me when I made it downstairs. Ten minutes later, we pulled up in front of Fix, Yuri’s nightclub.
It was Thursday night and the front of the club was crowded with young professionals, trust fund babies, and scantily clad women trying to get into the ultra trendy club. A mountain of a man guarded the entrance. Techno music, pumping loudly, spilled out every time someone entered or left. I walked up to the bouncer and his narrowed eyes traveled from my long sleeve t-shirt down to my dark jeans. Clearly, I wasn’t dressed for the occasion.
“I’m here to see Emilia.” Nothing. All I got in return was a blank stare. “Yuri’s girlfriend. I suggest you let me in.” Still nothing. In desperation I made one last attempt. “Do you know who I am?” And then, shamefully, I scraped up the courage to say, “My last is Horn––as in Horn Banque.” Skepticism largely remained on his face, though I could sense doubt sneaking in. Pressing my case, I took my brand new identity card out and held it up to his bearded face. His blue eyes darted back and forth from me to the ID card. Then he stepped aside and unhooked the velvet rope.
Holy crap. That was a rude awakening. The name of the owner couldn’t get me into the club, but Sebastian’s did.
Inside the music was so loud I could feel it thumping inside my chest. Neon strobe lights overhead offered only the mildest illumination. Although large, the club was packed. My eyes scanned the sweaty bodies smashed together on the dance floor. Pushing past them, I made my way to the VIP lounge. Not surprisingly, it was cordoned off, another bouncer faithfully standing guard. Seated at one of the booths with three, super thin and ultra young women was Yuri.
The problem with monsters is that they rarely look like they’re supposed to. He was neither sinfully handsome, nor ugly. From what I could recall he was also neither crass, nor loud. He was tall and well proportioned. On the thin side. He had wispy blonde hair, quintessentially Slavic cheekbones, denim blue eyes…and he wore glasses. They weren’t trendy, cool glasses. They were the kind of glasses you see on an accountant, often smudged and a bit crooked. Not on a man who beats his girlfriend. Not on one that runs a serious drug operation––and God knows what else. Not on one that operates as an arm of the Russian mafia.
I stared at him with daggers in my eyes. He glanced my way once and looked away. I watched with disgust as his hand skated up the thigh and over the crotch of one of the girls who appeared to be underage. He didn’t recognize me. Having met him only once––when I first arrived, when I had long hair and not a pound to spare––it wasn’t a surprise. And I preferred it that way.
