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I check in personally with a handful of potential leads. Most people, upon seeing me, stumble through their eyewitness accounts. I’m more than aware I have that effect on people—which is unfortunate because it’s starting to get in the way of our investigation.
A few folks claim they saw Arman packing his things in a hurry, leaving with his family in the dead of night. Others say they saw him packing weeks in advance, which I believe is the more believable possibility. These sons of bitches had this whole thing planned out, so I wouldn’t put it past them to have the foresight to move their loved ones and their lives in advance, too.
I tried tracking phone numbers, credit card records, and even social media posts. Sometimes criminals are stupid enough to post pictures of their spoils. No such luck, however. The night shift has been surprisingly thorough. If I weren’t so pissed off right now, I would be impressed. It takes a lot of organization and coordination to pull this kind of stunt on the Bratva.
After chasing yet another dead end, it’s safe to say my irritation is mounting. The pressure is on, but I’m thankful I’ve always been relatively cool when under the gun. I’m confident we will be able to track those assholes down, but the more time that elapses, the more distance they will likely put between themselves and Moscow. The Bratva has significant reach outside of the city, but our chances are much better within city limits. We need to catch them before they get too far.
I get into my car with a huff. Everything is cold. These winter nights are becoming unbearable. From the frigid steering wheel to the cold leather under my ass, I’ve basically walked into a fridge box. It reminds me a great deal of the night I first ran into Nikita. The world around me was frigid and dark, maybe even more so now than it was then. Until I saw her.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. About how we left things. A small part of me always expected to have this blow up in my face. What did I think was going to happen? Nikita is inquisitive. I’m sure she would have found out who I am and what I do sooner or later.
I can’t convince her to feel okay about what I do for a living. But I can’t abandon my brothers and this way of life, either. I don’t want to. I’m unapologetic in that fact. I was always meant to be the Bratva’s number man, the same way Nikita was always meant to be a prima ballerina. It’s in our blood. It’s what we do. And maybe it’s that innate stubbornness that was going to do me in from the start.
I twist the keys in the ignition and peel away from the curb. I’ve done as much as I can tonight. My brothers are still scouring the city, investigating their sections as delineated on a map. I’ve already checked every nook and cranny in the section assigned to me. I’ve exhausted my options. The night shift isn’t here. All I can do now is go home and wait for one of my brothers to turn something up.
What a shame I hate fucking waiting.
As I drive, I lose myself to my thoughts, the meditative act of being behind the wheel the perfect opportunity for me to reflect. If I were a rat bastard who dared to steal from one of the most powerful crime families in the world, where would I hide? Where would I go? I try to put myself in their shoes. Try to think like them. I turn up nothing. Credit where credit is due, they have a lot of balls to pull something like this off.
I’m still several blocks away from my apartment building when I spot someone walking on the sidewalk. I recognize the light blonde of her hair first, her locks catching the golden light of the streetlamps overhead. Then I recognize her silhouette, slender and graceful and the perfect fit for my arms.
Confusion washes over me. What the hell is Nikita doing out here so late? Why does she have a huge bag of things slung over her small shoulders? Doesn’t she understand this is a dangerous part of town? Something innately protective rises in me. It’s dark, it’s cold, and she’s all alone. Things between us may be dicey right now, but I’m sure as hell not going to let her walk by herself.
I pull up to the curb and roll down my window. “Nikita?”
She startles, turning to face me while hurriedly wiping her hands over her eyes. Concern stabs me in the chest. Her face is puffy and red from crying, her lips chapped from the cold. The tip of her nose is bright as well, both from a combination of her distress and the chill.
“Leo?” she croaks. Sounds like she might have been crying for a while. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on my way home.” It’s the truth, but I realize maybe it seems like too much of a coincidence. “I wasn't following you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Nikita chews on the inside of her cheek. “Well that’s what I’m thinkingnow.”
“What areyoudoing here?”
“I…” She glances down at the sidewalk, her bottom lip trembling. “Where do I even begin?”
I have half a mind to tell her to get in the car so I can take her home. She shouldn’t be out here. “There’s a cafe up ahead,” I tell her. “Hungry?” I can see her hesitation as clear as day. I don’t blame her. I take a deep breath and speak as calmly as possible. “I’m not going to try anything. You just look like you could use a hot meal and someone to talk to.”
Nikita smiles appreciatively. I wish it reached her eyes. “Okay,” she murmurs before reaching for the door handle.
* * *
The cafe in question is a real hole in the wall. Nothing to write home about. Peeling wallpaper, worn down, salt-stained floors, with rickety furniture that looks too precarious for me to sit in. I’m genuinely concerned that the wooden chair beneath me is about to collapse at any moment under my weight. I count my blessings they’re even open this late. The small hot chocolate Nikita is nursing seems to be brightening her spirits.
We sit in silence for a long time, but it’s not as uncomfortable as I would have expected it to be after a huge blowout. Nikita is shifty, wringing her paper napkin only to tear it to shreds, anxiously spreading out the pieces only to collect them into one giant pile again on the table. Whatever happened to her must be weighing on her mind heavily. I don’t push, however. I don’t ever want to push. When she’s ready to talk, I’ll be here to listen.
“My parents are getting divorced,” she says in a small, mousy voice. “My mother found out about my father’s debts. About how he owed the Bratva. How he owedyou. She didn’t take it very well.”
I set my jaw. I don’t know what to say. Apologizing doesn’t feel like enough, but I also don’t feel like an apology is needed. It’s as I said: Erik Belov owed us money. I’m not in the business of forgiving debts just to make someone feel better.
This one exception aside.
“Thank you for giving the money back,” she whispers. “And our jewelry.” Nikita peeks up at me through her long, curling lashes. “Why did you? Was it for my sake?”
I take a deep breath. “You know it was.”
Nikita taps her fingers against the ceramic mug in front of her. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”
