Sergei Page 7

  Sergei had a feeling both women would both be given better jobs to go with their new homes, probably at Besian's expense. Not that new jobs and more money made up for the beatings they had taken. "And when I'm done with them?"

  Nikolai's shoulders lifted in a careless, easy shrug. "Go home. It's your day off."

  The direction surprised Sergei. He'd come here expecting to put his skills to use and now the boss was assigning him glorified babysitting duties. "Aren't we going after them?"

  Nikolai's brow lifted with some surprise at his question. "On my terms, yes."

  His statement put an end to the discussion. A heartbeat later, a knock sounded at the door. Danny's voice carried through the wood, and Sergei was dismissed to handle the tasks he had been assigned. Getting the women medical treatment and taking them to the apartment complex took up the next two hours.

  While Danny got them situated in their new housing, Sergei drove to the nearest big-box store and picked up some basics. Pushing the cart down each aisle, he couldn't shake thoughts of Bianca. In his mind, the images of those bruised women melded with her sweet face. His stomach churned at the very idea of her being touched by such violence. He had never killed a man—but he wouldn't even blink at the idea of doing something so brutal in defense of Bianca.

  Back at the complex, he separated the groceries, toiletries and household items and carted them to the apartments the women had been given. He spotted a handful of Besian's men loitering in the parking lot and deduced they had taken on the task of guarding the women.

  Nikolai's remark about settling this on his own terms circled round and round in Sergei's head. Was he thinking of inviting Darren Blake, the leader of the Night Wolves, to a sit-down? When the Hermanos, a Latin street gang, and the Albanians had been at each other's throats earlier in the year, Nikolai had brokered a peace by offering them some of the illegal action he'd wanted to shed in lieu of safer earning avenues. It had been an elegant solution that had yielded surprising results, especially when Grisha had pulled his shit and murdered anyone who got in his way of usurping Nikolai's position. Both outfits had stood side-by-side with Nikolai and provided a tremendous amount of help.

  Sergei suspected the two bosses wanted to find a way to avoid an all-out war with the skinheads. Bloodshed and violence weren't good for business, and nowadays Nikolai and Besian were businessmen first. Whether the skinheads were smart enough to take a deal remained to be seen. They were new enough on the block that they might think showing their strength was an easy way to build their reputation as men who shouldn't be crossed.

  And they couldn't be more wrong.

  "How much do I owe you for this?" The woman called Katya poked through the bags he had placed on the small dining table that came with the sparsely furnished unit.

  "Nothing."

  She shot a dubious look his way and hugged her oversized shirt tighter to her body. He didn't miss the way she raked her appraising gaze up and down his body and took the smallest step backward. The realization that something about him—his size, his demeanor or simply his connections with the underworld—frightened her left him feeling hollow and pained. It was a stark reminder of the reasons Bianca wanted to keep him at arm's length and how many obstacles he still had to surmount to convince the woman he wanted to let him stay in her life.

  With a tired, resigned voice, she said, "I can't pay you back today. It…it wouldn’t be any good for you. Come back later this week, and I'll make it worth your while."

  Aghast that she thought he wanted to trade sex for food and shelter, Sergei slashed his hand through the air. "No. When I said nothing, I meant nothing. You don't have to trade favors for anything that you've been given today. Do you understand? If any man bothers you, come to see me or the boss. They won't bother you again. This is all free. No strings."

  She seemed skeptical but nodded. "All right."

  Glad to have that out of the way, he bid her farewell and left the apartment. Hard and brutal as he was, Sergei's skin still crawled at the idea of forcing some woman to blow him for the promise of protection. His stomach clenched as he considered the way he had maneuvered his way into Bianca's bed last night. He had definitely overstepped the line when he'd come out of her bedroom in a towel and when he had cajoled her into letting him have one kiss.

  But he hadn't forced Bianca. He had flirted outrageously and won his chance fair and square. This morning, she had come to him of her own accord, hugging him and kissing him and enjoying their sensual play together. She was an incredibly strong woman and wouldn't have allowed him to take any liberties with her. Over the last five months, she had proven that she had no qualms about shutting him down.

  Sergei noticed Nikolai's car rolling into the parking lot. Sure his boss would want a word, he leaned back against the door of his SUV and waited. Kostya climbed out of the driver's seat of the outrageously expensive sports car but headed straight for the apartments instead of making the detour to Sergei's vehicle with Nikolai.

  "You got them situated?" His lucky lighter clamped in his hand, Nikolai fiddled with the souvenir he had carried since his teenage years. As far as Sergei knew, the boss hadn't had a smoke since January, but an unopened pack of cigarettes still sat in his desk at Samovar. No matter how strong the urge must have been to light up and give in to a lifelong addiction, Nikolai seemed to be beating it.

  "I did. The doctor patched them up but they didn't have any serious injuries. It's all bruises."

  His boss hesitated before asking, "Were they hurt?"

  Sergei understood he meant raped and shook his head. "No. They seem to have escaped the worst of it."

  "A small mercy, I suppose." Nikolai tucked his lighter back into his pocket. "Are you going to ask me or not?"

  Sergei considered the invitation. "What are we doing? Why aren't we going after them right now?"

  "We're waiting for the perfect opening. This isn't the right time to rise to provocation."

  "Because they're only strippers?"

  Nikolai's eyes narrowed to slits, and Sergei realized he had overstepped. "Last night, it was two dancers. Tomorrow, it might be one of our wives…or a girlfriend," he added pointedly. "These men aren't playing by the rules."

  "I understand."

  Nikolai tilted his head. "Do you know why I didn't send you to beat the shit out of those skinheads today?"

  Sergei took a moment to study all the angles. Finally, he said, "Because I'm fighting in less than three weeks and I could hurt my hands."

  "That's part of it," the boss agreed. "Before he left on his honeymoon, Ivan made me promise I would keep you out of trouble before this tournament. He worries about you because he knows what it's like to be inside that cage. I need you healthy if we're going to win."

  His mouth slanted with amusement at the way Nikolai said we. The last time Sergei had checked, he was the only one taking hit after hit and kick after kick inside that cage. Sure, the money he earned was nice, and Nikolai made sure to pay him a fat bonus after every match, but the punishment his body had taken over the years was beginning to show its toll.

  After studying the way Ivan and Alexei Sarnov, another notorious underground fighter, had used their skills and winnings to escape the clutch of the mob, Sergei had made his own exit plans. It wouldn’t be easy and it would probably cost him some friendships he held very dear, but he couldn't do this forever. He had to get out before he ended up in prison—or dead.

  Now that Bianca had let him into her life, he was going to fight for the chance to stay in it permanently, to build something new and clean with her.

  "How did it go last night?"

  Nikolai's question surprised Sergei. The man never pried into his private life. "Fine."

  The boss didn't miss a beat. "I'll have to tell Vee her ploy worked."

  "Not the way she had planned," he replied gruffly.

  "Do I even want to know?"

  Sergei glanced away and admitted, "I kicked down her door."

  Th
e other man's eyes widened fractionally, betraying his shock. "Since you didn't call me to bail you out of jail last night, I assume you had a good reason for it."

  "I thought she was being attacked, but she had fallen out of her shower."

  "I see."

  Sergei shrugged. "It was an interesting night."

  Nikolai's mouth twitched with a hint of a smile. "I'm sure it was." He paused. "You like this girl very much." He wasn't asking but Sergei confirmed it with a nod. "That's why I didn't send you today."

  Now it was Sergei's turn to frown with confusion. "What does that mean?"

  "It means that you're more sensitive to that white supremacist bullshit than the others. I was concerned you might take that more personally and react in ways I couldn't anticipate, especially once you realized the woman they killed last night was black."

  Sergei started to protest but clamped his lips together. Nikolai was right, of course.

  "But it's more than that, Sergei. We like to pretend that our world is just like the world that Vee and Bianca live in, but it's not. This thing with nochniye volki? It's not going to end quickly or peacefully. It's going to be messy. I'm trying to mitigate the collateral damage, but I make no promises." Nikolai's cold stare sent a chill through him. "You understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

  "Da." Sergei got the message. It was only a matter of time until the skinheads learned that a member of the boss' inner circle was dating a black woman. After that, all bets were off. Bianca would become the perfect target for striking at their family—and it was entirely his fault for pursuing her and putting her in that precarious position.

  "When you consider Bianca's history with these assholes—"

  Sergei held up his hand. "What history?"

  Surprised, Nikolai gestured toward him. "Vee told me that she explained to you about Bianca's brother."

  "She said he was killed in a robbery at a convenience store. She said it was a bunch of gang punks."

  "Yes—a white supremacist gang. The leader of the Wolves, Darren Blake, is the older brother of the guy who killed Bianca's brother. They were attacking a store owned by some immigrants. Pakistani, I think."

  Reeling from that revelation, Sergei began to grasp how incredibly dangerous this situation was. He wiped his hand down his face and exhaled roughly. Seeking advice from a man who had seen and survived it all, he asked, "What do I do?"

  Nikolai didn't hesitate. "Walk away from her."

  An invisible band constricted his chest. He'd never had a heart attack but the thought of walking away from Bianca made him hurt. "I can't."

  "I know." The boss sounded sad about that. "I tried with Vee for years but…" His hand brushed chest, right above his heart, and he shook his head. "If you can't leave her alone, you have to keep her close."

  "At night, that's not a problem, but during the day, I'm watching Vivian."

  "So hire it out," Nikolai suggested.

  He thought of the younger guys who were slowly working their way into Nikolai's crew. A handful of them trained at Ivan's warehouse. They were strong, smart and hungry for more opportunities to earn. It was a good compromise, but he would have to be careful. Bianca would hate being guarded so he would have to give clear instructions to stay out of her sight. The last thing he wanted was to upset or terrify her.

  Nikolai clapped his shoulder and turned toward the apartment complex. "Go home, Sergei. Enjoy your woman." He glanced back and added, "Vee wanted me to remind you that she's running in the morning. She wants to do the full 10K."

  The boss didn't seem happy about that. Last week, Sergei had overheard Vivian arguing with her husband about her morning runs and the charity half marathon she planned to complete in June. He had smartly stayed out of it, but it had left him wondering about the state of things between the couple.

  For reasons Sergei couldn't fathom, Nikolai seemed to be tightening his hold on his wife. He was afraid of something happening to her but what? Sergei didn't think it was the skinheads. It seemed somehow more personal, but Sergei wasn't bold enough to ask for details. He trusted that the boss or Vivian would tell him when the time was right. Until then? He was keeping his head down and minding his own business.

  Sergei acknowledged the order with a wave of his hand and slipped behind the wheel of his SUV. He'd barely gotten out of the parking lot before his phone started to ring. Vivian had broken him of his bad habit of juggling his cell phone while driving by insisting he learn how to sync his phone with the entertainment system mounted in the dash.

  "Hello?"

  "Seryozsh?"

  Hearing his mother's voice made him smile. He'd forgotten that it was time for her weekly call. "Ma!"

  She immediately launched into her usual rundown of the prior week, telling him what his brother had been up to and what was happening around her block of flats. He listened intently as she told him stories of people he hadn't seen in years or in some cases ever even met. Some of the snippets of gossip she shared made him chuckle.

  "But, Sergei, you're so quiet today," she commented knowingly. "What's wrong?"

  The strongest sensation of relief spread through him. If anyone could be trusted with the problems burdening him, it was his mother. She would give him the advice he needed, not the advice he wanted.

  Certain she would want the whole story, he sighed and started at the very beginning. "I met this girl…"

  Chapter Six

  "What do you think of this one, Mama?" I handed her a sketch from my pile of new designs. It was a strapless A-line gown with an asymmetrical waist and ruching. "I designed it with a plus-sized bride in mind, but I think it would look great on a smaller woman too."

  While I had been forced to set aside my dream of having my very own bridal design label to take over the family business, I hadn't stopped sketching. I had managed to design and produce a handful of gowns that had been incredibly well-received in the local press and even a few of the nationally circulated bridal magazines. I figured my goal of a bridal design empire might take a few more years to attain now that I was running Bradshaw's, but I wasn't giving up on it.

  She grasped the paper in her right hand, the one with the failing grip, but didn't drop it. Every day, she pushed herself harder and harder in hopes of regaining as much of her physical abilities as possible. Her fight toward recovery never ceased to amaze me. Yet again, she'd shown me just how deep that well of inner strength was and made me so incredibly proud of having her as my mother.

  After a minute of deliberate study, she finally gave her opinion. I had gotten so used to her slow, drawn out way of pronunciation that I hardly even noticed it these days. "You'll be using silk?"

  "Yes."

  "And the train?"

  "I was thinking chapel."

  "It's a nice balance," she agreed. Brushing her fingers over the design, she remarked, "It's very beautiful."

  "But?"

  She hesitated. Whether it was her speech delay from the stroke or a mother trying to carefully choose her constructive criticism, I couldn't tell. "This is a dress for a girl with curves. Do you think she needs to show off all this?" Her shaky hand gestured to her bosom. "This neckline? Too much of a plunge for a church!"

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes at her old-fashioned ideas. "Mama, not all brides get married in a church. Some of them are proud of all this." I motioned toward my own generous bust. "What's wrong with putting the girls up on display?"

  She clicked her teeth. "Really, Bianca!"

  I laughed. "Come on, Mama. Not every bride wants lace from neck to toes."

  "I'm just saying that some girls might like to keep a little mystery. Show a little modesty," she added. "Draw a second bust option. Something with the same clean lines but higher. Give the brides a choice."

  Trusting her instinct, I took the sketch back and placed it in a different pile on my desk. "Yes, ma'am."

  She pointed to the magazines stacked on the corner. "Bridesmaids catalogues?"

  I shook my he
ad. "No, they're actually quinceañera gowns."

  My mother's eyebrows arched toward her hairline. "I see."

  "Mama," I said carefully. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the neighborhood around here is changing. The Latino population is booming, and their fifteenth birthday celebrations are a big deal. We already carry four racks of Sweet Sixteen and prom dresses. Why not add a rack or two of gowns that would work for a quinceañera?"

  Always a businesswoman, she asked, "Have you run the numbers?"

  "Most of our vendors already have lines specifically for this so we're guaranteed some fantastic discounts and wholesale prices. If the sales volume is high enough, I might seek out some different designers to offer a wider selection."

  "What about marketing? Promotions?"

  "You know my friend Benny? The one who runs that Mexican bakery a few blocks over?"

  "Yes."

  "She's offered to let me put promo materials in her shop and the consultation room there. She's already put me in touch with some event planners who do lots of these parties."

  "And the advertising?"

  "I'm thinking girls in Cinderella dresses with big poufy skirts and gorgeous tiaras. I've already chatted with the photographer we used for the last promo shoot about putting together a print package and a commercial for the local networks. She's done plenty of quinceañeras so she knows the market well and has a huge list of contacts for me to use." I squeezed Mama's hand. "This will be great for the business."

  She smiled at me and gave my hand a pat. "I trust your instincts. You practically grew up in this boutique. You know the business inside and out." Her gaze turned wistful as she glanced around the office. "Do you remember when we started and were in that tiny, cramped shop space on the corner?"

  "Not really," I admitted. The business had come so far since then and now occupied an entire row of prime shopping real estate in a three-story building where we did everything—from design to creation to alteration—on site.