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He laughed, but the whimper in his voice gave away that he was in pain. “You Russians aren’t half as smart as you think you are.”
“What the hell do you mean?” Sergey asked in a low, dangerous voice, seeping his scotch. I recognized the deadly tone in his voice.
“Angelo never left Chicago, you idiots.” He laughed again, mocking me and my brothers. “How can you rule Chicago when you’re so stupid?”
My brothers and I stared at each other, all four of us thinking the same thing. If Angelo never left Chicago, then what is his plan? What has he been plotting while he faked his escape and why does he want us to find out now?
“Why did you ask to see me?” I asked, stepping closer to the Italian.
He spat on the floor beside me. “What are you going to do if I don’t tell you? Torture me?” He glared at Vlad, then at Maxim and Sergey before dragging his eyes back to me. “Your brothers have roughened me up already. The most you can do is kill me.”
Anger bled into my veins, but I managed not to show it as I lowered myself on one knee. “Trust me, I’m a very reasonable man,” I said in voice that could be likened to a whisper. “I’m merciful when I choose to be, and I do not intend to torture you.”
“Merciful? Fuck you and your mercy, dickhole. I’d rather die than accept mercy from a pretty Russian boy.”
I grounded my teeth. “You didn’t let me finish.” My fists were begging to crack his spine. Still, I held myself back. “I can also be a madder man than my brothers, and believe me, I’m far from pretty when I’m mad.”
His eyes met mine and fear flickered in his eyes. Delicious, just like I loved it. “I have a message for you, from Angelo.”
A dark smile spread across my face. “Good boy.”
“Angelo sent his regards to his sister.” An arrogant smirk deformed his battered face. “Giselle Cruz. Or should I say, Giselle Pietro.”
Chapter 22 - Giselle
I had been pacing the room for what felt like hours since I returned home. Nikolai's face haunted my thoughts, the darkness in his eyes and the urgency in his expression when he had answered that mysterious call. He had tried to conceal it, to maintain his stoic facade, but ever since we had grown closer, that mask had become less effective.
Something was undoubtedly wrong. The heaviness in the pit of my stomach refused to dissipate as I anxiously contemplated what could have gone awry. Every minute that passed only tightened the constricting hold on my chest.
If only I had a phone. I could have called Nikolai to check on him, to find out what was happening. But I didn't, and the helplessness gnawed at me.
My feet ached from the constant pacing, and my vision blurred from the ceaseless worry. Exhausted, I finally succumbed to the overwhelming tension and padded over to the bed. The turmoil inside me refused to relent, gnawing at my insides, making bile rise in my throat.
I couldn't sit here any longer; I would surely drive myself to a heart attack. I needed a distraction, something to occupy my racing thoughts until Nikolai returned.
Helping out in the kitchen was not an option. Arina, ever watchful and protective of me, would never allow it. She'd go on and on about how I was still in my first trimester and how I should just concentrate on caring for Nikolai and not add any stress.
I racked my brain, searching for something to do that would both distract me and avoid Arina's wrath. And then it hit me—I hadn't retrieved the denim shorts and shirt I had worn the day Nikolai and I were ambushed at the mall.
I could spend some time sitting on a stool, idly watching the washing machine vibrate as it worked its magic. It might not be much, but it would provide a semblance of distraction, and Arina wouldn't object to it.
Rising from the bed, I went to the laundry basket in the small lobby near our bedroom. I pulled out the clothes I had worn that fateful day, and just out of habit, I checked the pockets.
My mother had instilled in me the habit of checking my pockets thoroughly before doing laundry, and today, it proved crucial. As my fingers brushed against the fabric inside the back pocket of my denim trousers, I discovered a folded piece of paper.
My heart raced as I retrieved the mysterious note. How had it ended up there? I hadn't placed any paper in my pocket. My fingers trembled slightly as I carefully unfolded the paper to reveal a phone number.
My curiosity was piqued. Who had put this number in my pocket, and what could it possibly mean?
Heavy footsteps echoing in the hallway alerted me to Nikolai's return. Panic surged through me, and I swiftly tucked the paper back into my denim pants. I had no idea why I did that—maybe it was instinct or a gut feeling that someone didn't want Nikolai to know I had it.
The door creaked open, and Nikolai entered. His expression remained stormy, and his usually pristine white dress shirt bore tiny splatters of blood. His knuckles were bruised, a testament to the turmoil he had endured.
I rushed to him, my concern and fear for his well-being overpowering my own trepidation. "Are you okay?" I asked, my eyes scanning him from head to toe. He clearly wasn't. "What happened out there?"
Nikolai didn't answer immediately, and when I moved to help him remove his shirt, he raised his hand to stop me. He discarded his blood-stained clothes and headed for the bathroom without uttering a word.
Nikolai stayed in the bathroom far longer than usual, nearly an hour. I had already settled into bed by the time he appeared, dressed in his briefs. The tension in the room was palpable, a silent but foreboding presence between us.
