Nikolai Page 4

  After we ended the call, I glanced at Sergei. "Someone vandalized my studio. Nikolai wants you to bring me there."

  His hands tightened around the steering wheel. "Yeah. Okay."

  "Um, what's going on?" Bianca leaned forward and gestured to herself. "Doesn't speak Russian, remember?"

  I hadn't realized I'd slipped into the other language. "Sorry." I shot her an apologetic smile. "There was some vandalism at my studio."

  "Oh no! What about your paintings? Oh, I hope they're all okay. Do you want me to come with you?"

  "No, this is probably going to keep me up all night. You have brides coming for their last-minute fittings tomorrow." I squeezed her hand. "But I really appreciate the offer."

  The SUV rolled to a stop outside her darkened house. Sergei pointed at me. "You sit here. I'll be right back."

  Before Bianca could protest that she didn't need to be walked inside, Sergei already had the door open and an umbrella waiting. She seemed flustered by his attentions but allowed him to walk her to the front door and see her safely inside.

  After stowing the umbrella in the backseat, he slid behind the wheel. I wanted to tease him about Bianca but decided to let it go tonight. I didn't want to get his hopes up when it came to her. There was one thing she swore she'd never do and that was date any guy in the underworld. After what had happened to her brother, I understood that rule.

  By the time we reached the warehouse Nikolai had converted into studio space for me, there were already two guys out front trying to paint over the filthy words that had been spray painted on the façade. My lips parted with a shocked gasp as I realized what had been written there.

  The vandals had tagged the wall with the word snitch in English and Spanish. There were numerous gang tats badly outlined too. Someone unfamiliar with Russian had scrawled mob whore in badly shaped Cyrillic letters. They'd translated awkwardly but the meaning was clear enough.

  Sergei swore under his breath. I was still taking in the ugliness of it when my door was wrenched open. One look at Nikolai's furious face and I knew I was in deep shit. He reached in, unbuckled my seatbelt, and lifted me right out of my seat and onto the pavement. Firmly grasping my arm, he escorted me into the warehouse and up the stairs to my wide-open studio space. The door slammed behind us, the sound ricocheting like gunfire in the big room.

  "What is your problem?" I asked when we were safely beyond the sight and hearing of his minions.

  He didn't let go of me but his grip loosened. I saw the immediate guilt flashing in his eyes. Though he hadn't even come close to harming me, I sensed that he was angry with himself for going all caveman on me.

  "When were you going to tell me?"

  I tried to read his expression but couldn't. He was definitely pissed off but there was more I couldn't quite pinpoint. Was he disappointed in me? Was he feeling betrayed? "Tell you what?"

  "About the paintings," he growled and flung his arm toward the canvases on the opposite end of the room.

  "Oh." Panic gripped me. "Well—I wanted to surprise you."

  "Surprise me?" His eyebrows shot skyward.

  "They're my best work. They're provocative and dark and—"

  "Provocative?" He cut me off mid-sentence. Swearing a blue streak, he shook his head. "I thought I made myself explicitly clear when you came to me asking about my tattoos. What did I tell you, Vee?"

  I remembered that awkward conversation from three years ago when my fascination with gang tattoos had first taken hold. Quietly, I answered, "You told me to leave it alone and not to go digging in other men's histories because I wasn't going to like the things I uncovered."

  "And what did you do?" He stormed to the far wall and started flicking aside the canvases mounted on their swinging display hooks so each one was momentarily visible. "You created an art show out of tattoos that are evidence of violent crimes!"

  I heard his sharp intake of breath when he reached Kostya's canvas. "Is this…?" he trailed off in disbelief. "I'll wring his damn neck."

  "Will you calm down? I mean, seriously! They're just paintings, Nikolai. They're my interpretations of the stories of these men and women and their tattoos."

  "Calm down?" He gestured to the wall. "Did you not see the filth painted outside? You don't think these interpretations of yours are going to piss off a lot of people? You think Besian is going to be thrilled when he sees the back of one of his captains hanging in a downtown art gallery?"

  I gulped nervously as I considered what the Albanian mob boss might think about the story his captain had told me about that particular tattoo. "It's just art."

  "It's not just anything, Vee. Nothing in this world of mine is simple or black-and-white. The stupidest, silliest thing can get a man killed. Look at this mess with the loan shark and the Hermanos!" He drew his fingers across his neck in a quick cutting motion. "That was probably kicked off by something as stupid as an interest disagreement on an outstanding loan."

  Disappointed and exasperated with me, Nikolai muttered angrily and started flicking through the canvases scheduled to be picked up by the gallery in the morning. When he reached the one at the very back, the one I'd kept covered with a cloth, I raced forward to stop him. After the way he'd reacted to the others, I figured this one was going to push him over the edge. "No! Not that one!"

  But it was too late.

  He jerked free the cloth and froze rigid. Staggering backward, he put a hand to his chest. For a moment, I thought he was actually going to have a heart attack. "Kolya?"

  Chapter Four

  Throat tight and gut clenching, Nikolai fought the panic threatening his control. That picture—that fucking picture!

  She'd painted the night she'd been shot. It was the broken window, the panes smeared with her blood, and the chest of the man who had pulled the trigger. She'd left all of the man except for his tattooed chest blurry. He supposed that her traumatized, eleven-year-old brain had only taken in that much of the shooter.

  He glanced at Vivian, taking in the worry contorting her beautiful face. Did she know? Had she somehow finally managed to remember more? Or was this image the extent of her memories?

  Voice gruff, he finally said, "You can't show this one."

  His words seemed to shake her out of her stupor. "But I built the entire show around this central piece."

  "I don't care. This one isn't leaving the studio." He glanced around for something, anything, to destroy it. "It can't exist."

  She raced forward and placed her body between his and the painting. "Like fucking hell!"

  The shock of hearing her curse rendered him momentarily speechless. "Do you have any idea what you're risking with this one?" He searched for the right words. "What if someone recognizes those tattoos?"

  "Good!" She shouted stridently. "I hope someone does recognize them. I hope someone comes forward and fingers the bastard who blasted me with a 9mm and sent me flying out of second-story window."

  Though he maintained his outward composure, inwardly he flinched at the anger and passion in her voice. What would she say if he broke down right now and told her the truth? The whole awful, sordid fucking truth?

  She would hate him. She would despise him. She would run from him and leave his life forever.

  And it would kill him. She was all that kept him tethered, all that kept him from going completely into the darkness of the underworld he inhabited. For her, he'd tried to walk a very fine line and had kept his crew out of the seedier, nastier forms of earning. Though running guns and shifting narcotics cargo weren't things that would make her proud, they were a hell of a lot cleaner than the sex trafficking that some of the other syndicates in town ran.

  Raking his fingers through his hair, he tried to make her understand. "Vee, so much has happened since that night. You can't drag up history. You have to leave it alone."

  She clicked her teeth and stomped her foot like a child. "I'm so sick of hearing that from you. That's your answer for everything—and I'm done with it."
>
  "Vee—"

  "No! You're not going to persuade me to do what you want. Not this time." She swept her hands out in front of her. "I worked so hard to get this show together."

  His gut twisted as he realized what this was doing to her and how he was hurting her. "I know you did."

  "I'm not just talking about the actual painting either. From creating the concept to finding the subjects and then snagging a show in the best damn gallery in Houston—that's hundreds of hours of work on top of school and my job." She furiously jabbed the air between them. "You're not going to ruin this for me. I'm doing this show—with all the paintings."

  He'd never in his life imagined there would be anything he would deny her but he'd been wrong. "No, you're not."

  She gritted her teeth. "I'd like to see you try and stop me."

  "Don't push me, Vee." He let the harshness he used to keep his men in line infiltrate his voice. It was the first time he'd ever dared to use that tone with her—and he regretted it instantly. He'd never seen such fury etched into her beautiful face.

  Without a second of warning, she jumped forward and slammed both hands against his chest. Thrown off-balance by her surprise attack, he stumbled backward and barely managed to avoid hitting the floor after running into a stool.

  Breathing hard, she asked, "Now what?"

  Nikolai straightened slowly. "You can hit me and kick and scream and throw a fit but you're not putting that painting in the show. Just be glad I'm not putting a stop to the entire thing."

  She fumed now, her face red and her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I hate you."

  He winced as her furiously spoken words slapped him right in the face. "I know."

  Her jaw dropped. "That's it? I know. That's all you have to say to me?"

  He didn't know what else to say. A painful silence stretched between them. Finally, she exhaled raggedly and wiped at her eyes. Without another word, she spun on her heel and stalked toward the door. Her high heels clacked against the hardwood planks, the harsh notes hitting him like nails driven through his heart.

  With every step, she increased the distance between them. He wanted to chase after her, to grasp her by the shoulders and spin her around so he could claim her lips with the kiss he'd so long denied them both. He wanted to crush their mouths together and drink in her sweetness until they couldn't breathe. He wanted to tell her that he was sorry, that he hated how complicated her life had become, that he wanted to give her anything and everything in the world, that he'd do anything to make her happy.

  But the lie standing between them prevented him from moving.

  Instead he stared at the painting that threatened to ruin everything. Why, after all these years, did she have to paint her recollection of that night?

  The sound of Sergei's bellowing voice pulled him from his troubled thoughts. In the next instant, he heard Vivian shouting at the enforcer. Growling with frustration, Nikolai wiped a hand down his face and rushed out of the studio. As he hurried down the stairs, Kostya's irritated voice joined the fray. From the sounds of it, Vivian was refusing to get in Sergei's SUV.

  By the time he got outside, Vivian was halfway down the block. The cold drizzle fell even harder now, making it hard to see her in the cold mist. He shot Kostya a look of consternation. "What now?"

  "She refuses to go home with you. She told us to set fire to the warehouse and burn everything in there because she'll never paint again."

  He groaned at her melodrama. Playing the role of tortured artist seemed to come naturally to her. "Give me the fucking keys."

  Kostya slapped the set of keys to the black sedan against his palm. "Be careful, Boss. She already hit Sergei."

  The bear-sized man rubbed his arm and scowled. "I think she's got a brick in that damn purse."

  Cursing, Nikolai slid into the black car and revved the engine. He could only imagine how ridiculous he looked racing down the block to catch up with her and beg her to get into the car. She stopped to take off her high heels and ran barefoot down the cold, wet sidewalk. Where the hell she thought she was going he had no idea.

  "Vee!" He shouted her name through the rolled down window. "Stop being silly and get in the car."

  "Leave me alone!" She threw her high heel at the hood of the car and left a nasty gash in the paint that was going to piss Kostya off big-time.

  "That's not going to happen—and you know it." His gaze jumped between her and the road. He was thankful this area was nearly totally owned by him and mostly empty. There wasn't any traffic to get in the way. "What's your plan, Vee? Are you going to walk all the way back to your apartment?"

  "Maybe," she spat back angrily. She fished around in her purse as she walked. "Or maybe I'll just call Erin. She'll send Ivan to come get me."

  "And then what? Huh? You're going to drag Erin into this mess with your father?" He threw the car in park and jumped out of the driver's seat. Desperate to get her in out of the cold, he begged, "Please, Vivian, get in the damn car. Let's go home and talk about this."

  "There's nothing to talk about, Nikolai. You think you can just bark orders at me, but this isn't the restaurant and I'm not part of your family. You don't get to order me around."

  He exhaled roughly. "You're right. I'm sorry."

  She titled her head to study him. "Are you really? Or are you just saying that because you want me to stop causing trouble and get into your car."

  "Both," he admitted. His gaze fell to her bare feet. The street lights illuminated the bright turquoise polish on her toenails. "You're going to get hypothermia and lose your toes."

  She rolled her eyes. "This isn't Siberia."

  Pressing his hands together in front of him, he pleaded, "Please. Get in the car?"

  She still held that other shoe in her hand. He wondered if she planned to hit him with it or if she'd had enough denting the hood of the car. "Fine. Whatever. Just take me home."

  He didn't remind her that she was coming home with him. Later, when she was safely buckled in her seat and her ability to flee was impeded, he'd make sure she remembered that she'd agreed to stay with him. "Thank you."

  Without asking her permission, he scooped her up in his arms and hurried her to the passenger seat. She'd managed to stay mostly dry with her coat on but her legs and feet were soaked and chilled. He opened the glove box and found a pile of napkins from the fast food joints Kostya loved.

  "I can do that." She tried to stop him as he clasped her slender calf in his hand.

  "I've got it." Crouched down next to the open door, Nikolai made quick work of drying her cold feet and bare legs. It took every ounce of his self-control not to let his hands glide along her silky flesh any more than necessary.

  When it was done, he balled up the soiled napkins and shoved them into the pocket of his jacket. He closed her door and walked back the dozen or so yards to retrieve her shoe from the middle of the road.

  Glancing back at the warehouse, he spotted Kostya and Sergei watching him with some amusement. By morning, the story of what had happened tonight would be embellished so much it would bear no resemblance to the truth. In his experience, men were the very worst about spreading those kinds of tales.

  When he dropped into the driver's seat, he felt the warm blast of the heater. It felt nice against his chilled skin. "Thank you."

  "Whatever." She kept her gaze fixed on the passenger window.

  With a tired sigh, he eased away from the curb and down the road. The silence suffocated him but he didn't know what to say to make it all better.

  "I always thought you were different."

  He frowned. "Different how?"

  "From everyone else," she said quietly. "They all assume I'm some naïve, emotionally damaged baby who needs to be coddled, but I thought you saw me differently."

  "I know that what happened to you when you were little doesn't define you. You've survived more than most people can even imagine, and I respect you all the more for it."

  "But you don't trust
me to make my own decisions." She finally turned in her seat for a better look at him. "I knew exactly what I was doing when I started that series of paintings. I was careful. I made sure to destroy all of my notes. I only took pictures from the neck down. Everything that was told to me was told in confidence."

  "I don’t doubt that you were careful, Vee. Sometimes being careful isn't enough."

  "I'm so sick of this life." She rubbed her face. "I'm so sick of my whole existence being dictated by the stupid mistakes my parents made and these insane rules." She made an irritated sound. "Maybe Bianca was right. Maybe I should leave Houston."

  Fear gripped him but he pushed down the selfish emotion. He'd only ever wanted the best for her. Though it made him feel like his guts were being ripped out, he said, "Maybe you should consider it."

  Her gaze snapped to his face. "Do you mean that? Do you really want me to leave?"

  They were approaching an intersection now. "What I want isn't important. It never has been."

  "That's not true. I—"

  "Shit!" At the last possible second, he noticed the bright headlights rushing toward them as they crossed the intersection. Thinking only of Vivian, he thrust out his arm to hold her back against the seat. The crushing impact of the SUV that slammed into the front edge of the car spun them around violently. Amid the splintering metal and bursting glass, he heard Vivian's terrified scream. The sound chilled him to the very bone.

  When the car finally lurched to a stop, he blinked and tried to clear his dazed mind. He put a hand to his aching temple and felt the blood trickling along his skin. Vivian's low moan of pain drew his attention. He'd locked his elbow trying to hold her in place. Now it throbbed terribly. Bending his arm proved nearly impossible.

  Vaguely, he was aware of other cars rushing onto the scene, their tires squealing as they stopped, but he was focused solely on Vivian. She grimaced with discomfort but looked wholly uninjured. His bleary gaze raked her body for any hint of blood but he found none.

  "Angel moy." He reached for her hand. "Are you all right?"