Nightfall Page 8

  My heart once again begins to beat, and I can feel the blood flow returning to my limbs, but I’m still frozen in a state of panicked relief when Dmitry turns on his heel and stomps out of the room.

  10

  Dmitry

  I toss another ruined shirt in the trash. I’m less worried about Yanka’s wrath now. Really, I don’t want Courtney to see it.

  When she looks at me like she sees something good inside of me, I try to squash her hope. But when she looks at me like I’m a monster, I lose all of mine.

  Something about her gets to me.

  Even this morning when the setup Rurik and I orchestrated together was successful, and we caught several of the Italian members responsible for stealing our weapons, I couldn’t find any sense of joy or satisfaction in it.

  Even when I pressed my gun to the back of their heads and executed swift and merciless justice, I wondered what Courtney would think about all of it. Whether she would understand or be horrified.

  That’s why I throw the shirt with the stains on the cuffs away—so I don’t have to find out.

  When Courtney thought I killed her father, the reality that she had so little trust in me nearly sent me over the edge. A kind of anger I haven’t felt in a long time—the kind my father was prone to—rose up in me, and I had to get out.

  Now, I have even less control over my emotions.

  I had little patience to begin with and now even my precious reserves are depleted thanks to the growing Italian problem. They’re attacking on all sides, and this is the absolute worst time to have my head in knots over some damned woman.

  Shirtless, I drop down into my desk chair and tip back as far as it will allow, my hands dragging down my face.

  Then, my phone rings.

  I growl and answer it without looking, prepared to tell whoever is on the other line to fuck off and never call back. Whatever problem has arisen, people need to learn to take care of shit by themselves. Because I’m done.

  “What?” I bark.

  “Dmitry?”

  It takes me a moment to place the soft male voice, but then I can see him perfectly—his short round frame, and his eyes that look a little too much like his daughter’s.

  “Lawrence.” I sigh and sit up, elbows resting on my desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  If he’s calling me to renegotiate, I will extend her time with me. Courtney didn’t agree to that, but her father is breaking his side of the arrangement by trying to talk me out of it.

  I’ll add another month. Maybe two.

  Perhaps Courtney will realize what a monster I really am if I do that.

  I can’t decide if that would be a good or a bad thing.

  “Courtney,” he says, his voice shaking. “Is she … is she okay?”

  The man sounds terrified and on the verge of tears, and despite my frustration with the day’s events—not to mention the fact I haven’t touched Courtney in three days—I soften towards him slightly.

  “She’s fine. Perfectly healthy.”

  There’s a sigh of relief on the other end of the phone. “I want you to know I’m working on getting you your money. I will have it to you by the time our contract is up.”

  “Courtney is the payment,” I say. “There is no need.”

  “There is a need,” he says. “I don’t want my daughter to feel like my bartering chip. I want her to know I paid my dues on my own. I’m not sure that will be worth much to her when this is all said and done, but … it’s the least I can do.”

  In a way, I admire his dedication—to his daughter, to paying his debts.

  In another, I find his emotional vulnerability sickening.

  “Courtney’s mother left when she was a little girl,” he continues. “It was my fault. A lack of ambition, according to her. So, when she left me to raise Courtney on my own, I started my business and built us a life that we could both be proud of. Though, sometime during all of that, Courtney realized why her mother left me and picked up the idea that you have to work for love. That you have to do something to earn it. And well … I don’t want her to think she has to do something like this to earn my love. I just … I couldn’t stand it if she thought she owed me this.”

  I hear soft, muffled sobs coming through the phone and groan. “This has all been very touching, but I’m busy.”

  “Wait,” Lawrence calls out. “Please don’t hurt her. Please be gentle. She’s my only daughter. I love her and—”

  I hang up before he can finish. There is only so much sentimentality I can take in one day, and I’ve had my fill.

  None of this shit has any bearing on me.

  Except, hard as I try, I can’t get the conversation out of my mind for the rest of the day.

  I’m halfway home when I get the call.

  Just before, I was mentally preparing what I would say to Courtney when I got home.

  We haven’t had a real conversation or physical interaction since the day the police arrived, and I can’t remember whether I’m avoiding her or whether she’s avoiding me. Perhaps we are both avoiding each other.

  The lines in our relationship have gotten blurry and when that happens, there are bound to be uncomfortable moments. Maybe sitting down and explaining that she’s nothing more than a bargaining chip will clear things up. Her father would hate to hear me say that, but it seems the most apt description of what she is.

  Right?

  Then, the call changes everything.

  Rurik is screaming into the phone before I even answer.

  “Get there now!” he shouts. “The bar on 43rd !”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The building is on fire, and they’re trapped!” he shouts. “I’m on my way now, but you need to get there!”

  The bar on 43rd is ten minutes from my office, which luckily, I’ve already driven eight of. So, as soon as Rurik hangs up, I slam on the gas and take the next exit off the highway.

  I’m driving down the frontage road when I see the telltale swirl of smoke above the tree lines. To anyone passing by, it looks like exhaust or a chimney, but I know my men are at risk.

  From the street, the bar looks much as it always has—windows covered in posters advertising open mic nights and ladies’ night and happy hour, parking lot littered with trash, and a slew of shiny black cars parked in no discernible order. The fire must be in the back, I presume. That’s where the smoke seems to be coming from, anyway.

  I sprint out of my car, leaving the door open, and run for the front of the bar.

  I bought the place a few years back as another source of income, but also to let the men have a place they could gather and drink and hang out. It has been a huge hit and at any given time several of my lieutenants can be found half drunk inside.

  The Italians must have known that.

  Because surely this could only have been perpetrated by them. There is no way this is a coincidence. Not with the murder of Nico, Vadik’s beating, and attacks on two of my weapons shipments.

  No, this is part of their plan. They want to decimate my organization.

  I reach the front door and notice a thick metal chain wrapped through the handles. I tug on it uselessly, opening the door little more than a couple inches before it falls shut. Though, in those few inches, a stream of heavy smoke pours out of the bar.

  I pull my gun and blast my way through the chain. It takes almost all my bullets, but it finally snaps. Almost immediately, men start flooding out of the door, falling over one another in an effort to get out. Once out, they collapse on the sidewalk, soot-covered and coughing.

  We do a head count and then another, and amazingly, it seems everyone made it out okay. The fire trucks finally arrive and douse the flames, though not before considerable damage is done to the building.

  I managed to save my men, but looking around, the message is obvious:

  The Italians aren’t standing down.

  By the time I get back to the house, it’s way later than normal,
and I’m exhausted.

  I have no desire to talk to anyone about anything, least of all to Courtney about our arrangement. That can wait until tomorrow. Or, if I sleep through tomorrow, then sometime next week.

  Whenever, just not tonight.

  I unlock the door and slip inside, pressing my back against the cool wood for a few breaths before continuing on into the house.

  I told myself I would walk inside and head straight to my room without looking for Courtney, but I can’t help but glance in rooms as I pass, seeing if she’s inside.

  She isn’t in her usual spot on the sofa in the sitting room or cooking in the kitchen, and based on the lack of noise coming from upstairs, she isn’t dancing in her room. Then, I peek in the dining room and see her sitting at the table.

  Her hair is down around her face in a shiny black curtain, and she’s stooped forward over what looks like a textbook.

  Since she came to stay with me, I’ve seen her with her nose in various books on cognitive neuroscience and neuroanatomy, but I’ve never really asked her about it. It never exactly comes up.

  Usually when I come home, she’s doing something active—cooking or dancing or working out. So, seeing her hyper-focused and oblivious to my presence is a new side of her. It’s another facet of her personality I don’t know anything about.

  Part of me wants to step around the corner and clear my throat, let her know I see her.

  I could clear the air about our arrangement the way I’d planned to do before the fire or I could ask her what she’s studying in school; whether she plans to go back during our arrangement.

  It would hardly feel like imprisonment if she was able to continue her education. Though, I’m not sure I want this to feel like imprisonment anymore.

  That idea bothers me.

  I shouldn’t care about Courtney.

  She’s a bartering chip.

  Payment for a debt I’m owed.

  I should take what I want from her and forget the rest.

  Except, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear so I can see her lips, pink and pursed in thought, and something flares in my chest hotter than the flames back at the bar.

  She’s becoming more important to me than she should be, and I would be wise to keep myself in check.

  I watch her for another moment, relishing the way she presses the end of her highlighter to her lips, and then slip away and pad quietly upstairs without her noticing.

  11

  Courtney

  The days are starting to run together.

  When the sun is up, I spend my time preparing for my next semester of school. Dmitry hasn’t said anything to lead me to believe I won’t be able to attend, so until I hear otherwise, I’m going to try and get ahead.

  If I’m not studying, then I’m dancing, trying to burn off the energy that gets pent-up being inside Dmitry’s house all day.

  There really isn’t anywhere for me to go, and with the Italians attacking Dmitry’s Bratva regularly, he’s told me the safest place for me is his house. So, I listen.

  I stay inside and wait for him to come home.

  I wait for him to mount the stairs and find me in my room. I don’t turn around until his hands are on my waist and his breath is on my neck.

  Then, I let him lead me to the bed and strip my sweaty clothes away.

  Dmitry’s hands are warm and all-encompassing as he touches me. His palms brush across my pointed nipples and grip my hips. I can’t help but arch into him, leaning into the warmth and stability of his presence.

  Because when he comes home and touches me, I know it will be thirty minutes or an hour or two where my thoughts aren’t swirling. Where I can breathe and feel and forget.

  For a while.

  Dmitry nips at my collarbone with his teeth, and I whimper and draw him up over my body, wrapping my legs around his hips. I find his mouth and pinch his lower lip between my teeth. I kiss a line across the stubble on his chin and lick his earlobe.

  More than anyone I’ve ever met, I want to devour Dmitry. Kissing isn’t enough. Touching isn’t enough. I need to taste him and dig into him.

  Dmitry doesn’t seem to mind as he moans with every stroke of my tongue and matches my movements with his finger between my legs.

  “You taste good,” he says between my legs.

  I ignore the flutter of excitement in my stomach.

  Dmitry is a distraction. A beautiful, strong distraction with unreal stamina.

  And more importantly, he’s my captor. A criminal who threatened my father, threatened me.

  So, I can’t have butterflies for him. Any response I have towards him is nothing more than a chemical response, an instinctual response left over from before humans evolved. My body recognizes that Dmitry would make strong babies.

  That is all it is: my human instinct to survive.

  Though, as much as I want to view Dmitry as a monster, the more I learn about him, the harder it becomes.

  During the day while he’s gone, I run into his household staff. Yanka has been with Dmitry for years. One day, I helped her sort through the laundry, and she told me that Dmitry paid for her son to have his tonsils removed when he got really sick. He also paid for a nurse to stay with her husband at their house so they wouldn’t have to live out of a hospital room while he received cancer treatments.

  The landscaper got in a car accident and was late to work, and by that afternoon, Dmitry had bought him a new truck.

  Everyone in Dmitry’s house seems to worship the ground he walks on, which is not at all what I expect from the staff of a mob boss.

  While their stories do soften my heart towards Dmitry, it hardens again whenever I remember the fact that he’s holding me ransom and threatening my father.

  I can’t allow his hands or his mouth or his deeds to erase that one truth.

  “You taste sweet.” Dmitry’s voice is muffled by my thighs.

  I buck my hips up, pressing myself against his lips and his tongue. I wrap my hand around his head, curling my fingers in his hair, and hold him against my trembling center.

  When his tongue pushes inside of me, I gasp and arch my back. I go stiff as the ball of heat in my belly explodes and sends waves of pleasure to my furthest extremities.

  The orgasm is still tearing through me when Dmitry slides his length inside.

  I claw at his back as he pumps away, feeling every inch of him while also reminding myself to remember who he is.

  To remember what he has done.

  Dmitry comes into my room early one morning while I’m still in bed. He crawls beneath the blankets with me and whispers that he will be home late tonight, if at all. I wonder why he’s telling me this, but then I feel his body warm against my back. I feel his length hard against my spine.

  He wraps his hand around to my front and pulls me firmly against him.

  Eyes still closed and sleepy, my body responds to his touch. I circle my hips against him and reach around to curl my fingers in his hair.

  Soon enough, he has my pajama shorts tugged down, and he’s pressed against me from behind. When he slides in, I forget that it’s morning and I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. I forget that my hair is oily without a shower and my face is creased from the pillowcase.

  I become a raw bundle of nerves, desperate for release, and I work myself back onto him, rolling my body against his front.

  We both come at the same time, grasping and breathing heavily. Then, he places a kiss to the top of my spine, slides out of me, and pulls away.

  When I wake up a few hours later, I almost convince myself it was a dream except I can still feel him inside of me, between my legs. There is a delicious ache there, and I circle my hand between my thighs, finding my second release of the morning as I relive the earlier encounter.

  After I finally get up, shower, and get dressed, I’m ravenous, and I head down to the kitchen for my usual breakfast of toast and half a grapefruit. Then, I move into the dining room and pour over my books.

&n
bsp; I don’t bother changing into proper clothes or getting ready. My hair air-dries in loose waves and my makeup is buried somewhere in the bottom of my duffel bag. I don’t see anyone aside from the staff during the day, anyway. And when Dmitry gets home in the evenings, I’m usually all sweaty from dancing, so I know he doesn’t mind.

  After a quick lunch of an apple, walnut, and spinach salad, I go upstairs to dance.

  Except, today, I don’t want to dance.

  I have over five months left in Dmitry’s house, and if every day is spent in this same routine, I’ll lose my mind.

  I pause at the top of the stairs and look towards the door that leads to the east wing of the house.

  The forbidden east wing.

  For weeks, I’ve ignored the door and the burning questions I have about that portion of the house because Dmitry warned me, but boredom, and the knowledge that he will be gone all day propel me to take one step. And then another.

  Soon enough, I’m standing in front of the door, my hand on the knob.

  If the door is locked then I’ll walk away. I’ll ignore it, just like I have for the last few weeks. If the door is locked, then I won’t search for a key or attempt to pick the lock in anyway. I’ll respect Dmitry’s wishes.

  I twist the handle slowly, waiting for the lock to catch and keep me from opening it.

  But it never happens.

  I twist the knob all the way to the right, and the door pushes open.

  Looking around to be sure I haven’t been seen by anyone, I quickly rush through and close it behind me.

  The east wing looks remarkably similar to the west. Just another hallway. More doors.

  This part of the house is darker, with the windows drawn and fewer lights turned on, which is why I notice the bright strip of light coming from beneath the door at the end of the hallway.

  I gravitate towards it like a moth to a flame and press my ear to the door. There is no movement inside. No muffled conversation or rattle of chains.