Crooks & Kings: A Wild Bunch Novel Page 13

  “Why would he feel responsible? He was just a child too.”

  “Yes, but the difference was whose child he was.”

  It clicked for her then. “He was the professor’s son?”

  “We had only suffered five years in that place. Sebastian suffered all his life.”

  Mariya was quiet for a long time before she finally spoke. “I probably should never complain about my childhood again.”

  “Just because you suffered in a way different from me doesn’t make your pain any less real.”

  He couldn’t imagine growing up under the Bratva was easy. The few interactions he’d had with mafiya men, they hadn’t been the friendliest of sorts—but that could also have been because they were pissed he was robbing them.

  Even having all the money in the world didn’t always make you happy.

  Outside the window of her apartment, the sun was just starting to rise, oranges and pinks piercing the early morning sky.

  They had talked all night about the horrors of his past, yet he didn’t feel heavy with the knowledge he had shared it with someone else.

  The memories had started back up, plaguing him whenever he closed his eyes, but now that he’d purged it once more, it felt like a weight was lifted.

  She couldn’t know the gift she had given him by letting him speak and clear his conscience. Now, as his eyes felt heavy, he thought he could finally sleep.

  Maybe.

  Maybe he could tell her about Aidra, something small and insubstantial. Just her name, perhaps.

  If he did, maybe he would feel better about that too.

  “Fang,” Mariya whispered, drawing him from his thoughts as he tucked her in closer to him, finally ready to sleep.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll tell you,” she answered, her voice so low, he almost couldn’t hear her. “Tomorrow—or today. Later, I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me what?” he asked, though he was sure he already knew the answer.

  Her fingers laced through his, squeezing tight. “I’ll tell you everything.”

  Much later, after they’d both showered and dressed and rode his bike down to a diner a few miles down the road, Mariya was still nervous.

  After everything he had shared, every gruesome little detail, she shouldn’t have been nervous about sharing with him. He’d trusted her with his story, and the least she could do was trust him in return.

  But she couldn’t help but think that his demons were dead and could no longer hurt him except in his own thoughts, but her demons were alive and well. Waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  Yet keeping the truth from him wouldn’t help him either. He deserved to know the risks being involved with her.

  He could very well say he wanted nothing to do with her once she told him about her family—it wouldn’t be the first time she’d heard it—but beyond her family, the threat of Feliks still existed.

  Even as they ate together, though, he didn’t rush her to tell him. In fact, she was sure if she made no further mention of what she’d told him last night, he wouldn’t force the issue.

  He wanted her to come to him of her own accord.

  Once lunch was over, she resolved herself to telling him once they got back to her apartment, but instead of driving them in that direction, he made a left onto Jackson and 17th.

  “Where are we going?” she called over the roar of the engine, and if she hadn’t seen the corner of his mouth twitch, she might have thought he hadn’t heard her.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he let the building provide it once they arrived and parked.

  When Christophe told her he wanted to take her out, she hadn’t been foolish enough to think he meant a nice restaurant—he just didn’t seem like the type.

  But when they pulled up in front of an obscure building, she was starting to wonder if she’d read him all wrong.

  “Your father ever teach you how to use one of these things?” he asked, pulling his own weapon out and ejecting the clip. Dragging over the box of ammunition, he effortlessly began loading them.

  “He never felt a reason to,” she said quietly, remembering the conversation Klara and Temuri had about it.

  While Mariya had been indifferent, Klara had wanted to learn how to shoot in case she ever needed to fight her way out.

  “He always said he had enough security that there would never be a need for us to lift a finger.”

  “Nice sentiment, but that’s not going to help you if you’re caught alone.”

  That had always been her thought, but she’d also believed in her father’s belief that it would never be needed.

  Once she had her earmuffs in place, Christophe gave her a rare smile, though there was something a little crooked about it that made her smile in return.

  She should have known really, after watching the way he had expertly assembled the gun, that he knew what he was doing, but it still surprised her when he aimed straight and his arms hardly moved as he pulled the trigger.

  Christophe didn’t just hit near the target or even slightly off from the center. No, he hit the very center of the paper each time, and when he shifted just the slightest bit, he plugged holes into the target’s forehead.

  By the time the gun clicked, and the slide kicked forward, Mariya could only stare in amazement as he turned back to her.

  “Wanna give it a go?”

  She patted his arm. “It looks like you have it under control.”

  He wouldn’t take no for an answer, though, instead guiding her over to stand in front of him as he reloaded the gun.

  “Did you teach yourself how to shoot like this?” she asked.

  “Trained. Plus, I’ve had a lot of practice. I would tell you about it, but …”

  “But I wouldn’t believe you,” she finished, but as she stared at the target across the room, she was starting to rethink that.

  “Do you see?” he asked with a nod of his head.

  “I definitely see it,” she replied, counting the holes in the paper.

  “But do you see?” he asked.

  He hadn’t brought her here for the fun of it, she realized, looking from the target back to Christophe. He wanted to convince her there was nothing to worry about, that he could fully take care of himself.

  “Christophe …”

  “I used to be afraid the professor would find me,” Christophe said in her ear, a confession she hadn’t asked for but appreciated.

  “So you learned how to use a gun?”

  “I learned how to defend myself. This,” he said, holding the gun up, “is just an extension of that.”

  Looking from him to the target, she shook her head. “I’m not nearly as good of a shot as you.”

  “Practice makes perfect.”

  “I don’t even own a gun.”

  “I’ve got a guy.”

  “Do you have an answer for everything?”

  She caught a hint of silver as he smiled. “Usually.”

  Drawing in a breath, she hesitated only a moment before asking, “And you think you’ll have an answer for my problem?”

  “Dragă mea, I am the answer.”

  After being at the gun range for hours—apparently, Christophe could spend his life there—the only thing Mariya wanted to do was lie down. Her arms were sore from holding them in such a rigid position, and she was sure, despite the earmuffs she wore, her ears were still ringing.

  “You weren’t half bad,” Christophe said once he shut off the engine and climbed off, offering her a hand. “By the end of it.”

  “There was a hole the size of my fist in the center of your target paper,” she reminded him. “I barely nicked the corner of the paper.”

  “You can’t make bricks without clay. Everyone starts somewhere.”

  They were nearly through the doors of their building when Christophe froze in front of her. With how quickly he’d stopped moving, she slammed against his back, an apology on the tip of her tongue until she saw what stole his attention.<
br />
  Not even a few feet in front of them, her apartment door stood ajar, splintered wood on the ground in front of it.

  Fisting her hands to stop their trembling, she moved around him but stopped when he touched her wrist, just as her gaze landed on the sets of black boot prints on the wood. Someone—and she had a pretty good idea who that someone was—had kicked in her door.

  “Wait,” Christophe said, stopping her before she could take a step forward, but she needed to know how bad the damage was.

  He only let her take a few steps before he was there, easily slipping around her until he was in front, his body shielding more of hers. Neither of them could have known what would be inside, but whatever he anticipated, he wanted to protect her from it.

  But there was no protecting her from the state of her apartment.

  Beyond the splintered door and broken frame, everything had been torn apart. She wanted to pretend it was just a robbery, that she had just gotten unlucky as so many others in this city were, but this … this was ordered chaos.

  Her small TV was still on the dresser, and even the delicate sterling silver necklace Klara had gotten her one year was still on the stand next to her bed. Nothing of value seemed to be taken.

  But her mattress was hanging off the frame, a broken lamp lay in ruins on the carpeted floor, and it looked as though whoever had broken in was looking for something.

  Instinctively, her hand went to the back pocket of her jeans, needing to feel the indentation of the USB she had tucked away in her back pocket.

  Feliks had done this, but he hadn’t known she would have it on her instead of stashed away in her apartment. Even as she felt some satisfaction that he hadn’t gotten his hands on it, there was still the other problem.

  He’d found her.

  “Mariya!”

  She blinked, looking at Christophe as he shouted her name to get her attention. How long had she been standing there staring at nothing?

  “You can’t stay here,” he went on, watching her, as though waiting for the moment she broke down.

  That was what she wanted to do—it was the easiest thing to do, but she couldn’t afford to do it when she didn’t know if Feliks was still in the city. Or worse, coming back.

  “I know. I need to go,” she murmured, slipping around him and stepping over the broken pieces of her new life to get to her closet.

  A part of her had always known this day would come, that Feliks would finally find her, so she’d prepared for the inevitable, leaving a bag with necessities tucked into the dark corner of her upper closet.

  Before she fully had it off the shelf, Christophe was there, reaching around her to pull it down and slung it over his shoulder.

  Without a word, he grabbed her hand, pulling her from the apartment, and instead of venturing outside, he walked toward the stairs.

  “What are you doing?”

  “You’re not staying in that apartment.”

  “I know that, but I can’t stay here either. He’ll come back.” If he wasn’t already on his way now.

  “I need to grab a few things, and then we’re leaving.”

  “Christophe—”

  “Babe, in case you forgot, I can hit a moving target with my eyes closed. We can stop pretending I’m just your slightly drunken neighbor.”

  No, he wasn’t, but she’d started to believe there was more to him long before today.

  Even when he was inebriated, he still had a careful control she had never seen before. Not to mention the fact he initiated a bar brawl and hardly had a scratch on him by the end of it.

  “I don’t want you to get involved in this.” She didn’t want to be responsible for him getting hurt, especially him.

  “We can argue about how I’m going to help whether you like it or not later, but for now, we need to get out of here.”

  How exactly was she supposed to respond to that?

  Inside his apartment, he didn’t grab any of his clothes or the rest of the random things all over his floor. Instead, he went over to the nightstand, plucked out his mask then picked up a backpack leaned against the wall behind it.

  Taking one last cursory look around, Christophe nodded to himself then led the way back out.

  She hadn’t the slightest idea where they were going, but as long as it was far from here, she didn’t care.

  Chapter 10

  July 25, 2017

  Mariya had been afraid of this.

  It was inevitable, Feliks finding her, but she had never anticipated Christophe and his desire to protect her. Worse, she didn’t know how to tell him he couldn’t.

  She might have been lucky in avoiding him this long, but if he had found her place without even Klara knowing her address, she wouldn’t be able to hide for long.

  Squinting behind the helmet she wore, she tried to see what street they were turning on, but it was hard to see anything other than the old factories and buildings.

  As they reached a dead end, he turned into the drive of the last building on the left before riding up to a control panel on the outside wall.

  After keying in a six-digit code, the gate slowly rolled open before closing back once they were inside.

  Parked behind the building were a set of motorcycles, three of them, identical to the one they rode on.

  Christophe parked alongside them, taking the bag he’d given her before they took off as he led the way toward a side door that blended seamlessly with the wall until he pressed his hand against it.

  Looking from it to him, she asked, “You weren’t joking about the secret organization, were you?”

  He smiled.

  Now that she was seeing the evidence of what he’d shared with her, she thought back over everything he’d told her, including some of the odder things.

  You might have never thought you wanted to feed a man to pigs, but if that’s the revenge you want, shit, you run with it.

  She could still hear his voice in her head clear as day, and as it filtered through, she realized she knew very little about him.

  He’d always been forthright with information about himself, but it never scratched below the surface, and she’d been okay with that.

  It was easy being with him, effortless even, and a part of her hadn’t wanted to delve any deeper—she’d been trying to protect her own secrets.

  Once the elevator stopped moving, the doors parted, revealing the expansive floor and the plethora of furniture inside.

  It all clashed—brown leather couches, gray recliners positioned on either side of the biggest television she had ever seen in her life, and enough tables she had to wonder why they needed so many.

  One wall was made completely of windows, the others were all exposed brick and concrete. Something was raw about the space, but she liked it.

  “Wait here,” Christophe said a moment before he started up a set of metal stairs then disappeared down a narrow hallway.

  It was obvious this was a man’s—or men’s, as it were—place with the three gaming systems on the floor, an assortment of exercise gear, and other paraphernalia lying around.

  Mariya was inclined to wait for him to come back, but she didn’t stay in the same spot, walking around instead to get a better look at everything.

  The kitchen was top of the line, with all gleaming stainless steel appliances, but as clean as it all looked, she wondered if anyone utilized it.

  As she was running her fingers along the smooth surface of the countertop, a throat cleared behind her.

  “Who are you?”

  She turned, nearly coming out of her skin at how close the man was to her. She’d thought Christophe could move without being heard, but this was ridiculous.

  He wore only a pair of black jogging pants, his chest and the hooded grim reaper tattooed there on display. Muscled arms, though leaner than Christophe, came up and folded across his chest as he regarded her, curiosity alight in his eyes.

  This must be one of the brothers. “I’m Mariya,” she said, reaching
a hand out.

  His gaze immediately dropped to her hand or rather the tattoo on her wrist. She thought his lips quirked at the sight of it, but the expression cleared before she could properly read it.

  “Thanatos,” he offered in return, wrapping his own hand around hers.

  The name explained the tattoo on his chest, not to mention the lengthy one that went from his hands up his arms and disappeared over his shoulders. The artist, in detail, had depicted his skeleton in dark ink.

  “Christophe went—”

  “Christophe?” He sounded surprised. Or rather, he was surprised to hear her use it.

  “Fang,” she amended. “I’m with Fang.”

  Amusement curled his lips but not in a mocking way—one she was used to seeing on Christophe. He’d never described them, other than their personalities, but unlike Christophe, Thanatos’ hair was blond and long, long enough to tie into a messy bun at the nape of his neck.

  And if she had to guess, he was a couple of inches taller.

  “It’s been a while since I’ve dealt with Russian Bratva,” he said thoughtfully, turning her hand over to get a better look at the star on her wrist. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Than, keep your hands to yourself,” another voice called as its owner stepped out of a bedroom and shut the door, tugging a shirt on in the process.

  “Just being friendly since she’s Fang’s … something,” Thanatos called with a curious little smile, but he did release her. He canted his head in the man’s direction. “Invictus.”

  It had been easy to figure out why they called Thanatos by his name—though she still wondered the origin behind it—but at first glance, she didn’t understand why Invictus had his moniker.

  More interestingly, she wondered why Thanatos would take orders from Invictus when he was the taller of the two, and his presence was more prominent.

  But, she could definitely see why Christophe called them yin and yang.

  While Thanatos was all lean muscle and blond hair, Invictus had shorter, black hair—one’s smile was wide and prominent, the other’s was nonexistent, though he didn’t sound unfriendly.