War (Romanian Mob Chronicles Book 5) (12 page)

M
ilan

W
hen I awoke
, the first thing I noticed was the bright sunlight that lit every inch of the room. The second was the gnawing hunger that ate at my stomach.

The third was that Priest was nowhere in sight.

I glanced at the clock, which read 12:04. I’d slept past noon, which explained the sun.

Given the situation, I’d been far too nervous, angry, and scared to eat, which explained the hunger.

Priest’s absence?

That was all my doing.

As I showered and dressed, I replayed the conversation from the night before in my head. It probably hadn’t been wise to be so honest with him. As I’d spoken, I’d seen the denial in his face, seen a rare, at least to me, loss of control, seen his fierce disagreement.

But I hadn’t wavered in my belief at all, not even when he tried his best to change it.

Couldn’t really, because, the more he’d tried to convince me he was “Priest,” the more I saw the person he pretended not to be.

The more I saw Nikolai.

Maybe he was right and I was cracked. Maybe I was completely, utterly wrong. I had no answers, only maybes. But everything in me said I could trust him, told me he was good. I truly believed it, believed it enough to stake my future on it.

Still, that belief didn’t exactly tell me what to expect when I saw him, though I had a good idea. I walked into the living area and saw him, dressed in a full suit and tie as usual. He was reading something, and didn’t move an inch when I entered, nor when I walked past him.

I made no effort to hide the fact I was watching him. If I didn’t know any better, I might think he hadn’t heard me or realized I was there. But I knew better.

I wouldn’t push the issue, though. There was no need. He’d made himself clear, as had I. Besides, there was a more pressing matter to attend to as the stabbing hunger pangs reminded me.

I washed my hands, evaluated the contents of the refrigerator, and decided that today was a chicken francese day. A dish that wouldn’t take too long and one that I had the ingredients for. I liked to cook, which was part of the reason I’d stuck with catering for so long. It wasn’t a passion, but it always took my mind off whatever trouble was weighing my mind, and I decided today would be no different. So I started to work in the thick silence, and as I moved, I felt him watching me, though he still hadn’t spoken.

Most times, knowing that he, or anyone else for that matter, was watching would have made me self-conscious, but his gaze on me was welcome, wanted, even. It gave me comfort, was a reminder I wasn’t alone.

It was also an emblem of Priest’s stubbornness. Not once while I cooked did he utter a single word. Nor did he speak when I set a plate in front of him and took the chair next to him.

I didn’t push the issue, though. Instead, I said my grace and then began to eat, content to watch the birds that flew around the backyard.

I was more than halfway done with my food before he took the first bite of his and almost broke the silence when I heard his appreciative grumble. It was pure vanity, but I enjoyed people enjoying my food.

Still, I stayed silent, determined that I had said what I needed to say, and if he took issue with it, that was his problem.

So I ate and watched the three birds in the yard and then shifted to the squirrel who scampered here and there.

I blinked rapidly and then focused on the blip of light that had caught my attention.

It was bright almost like a coin in the sun, but there was something off about it.

And then I saw it again, and the most sickening tremor of fear went through me, turning the food in my mouth into sawdust and threatening to send what I had already swallowed back up.

“Get down!” I screamed, an instinct I couldn’t name and didn’t have time to question driving me into action. Then, using all my might, I launched myself at his chair, sending it and the table toppling over to the floor, the loud clatter of plates breaking exploding the previous silence.

My shoulder screamed in pain at the impact, but I ignored it and began crawling toward him.

“What—”

His words were cut off by the window shattering, and as I looked up at it, he sprang into action, crawling toward me as I did him.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Oh my God.
I recognized that sound. It wasn’t the same as the one at the church; these were quieter, muffled-sounding. But I recognized it nonetheless.

Bullets. Someone was shooting at us.

“Follow me, Milan. And stay low,” he whispered in my ear, his voice as urgent as I had ever heard it.

Then he began to crawl, his belly close to the floor as he made his way to the garage.

I did the same, though the fear that ran through my blood like sludge almost made it impossible for me to move. I stayed as close as I could, but I’d never move as fast as he did. Still, I tried, crawled low and as quickly as I could, even when my muscles began to burn.

I felt like a sitting duck, the brightness of the room only reminding me that there were so many windows, so many ways a bullet could find me. But I couldn’t focus on that thought, because if I did, I would be frozen, and then I would die.

So I kept moving, my eyes glued to Priest as he finally made it to the garage. He reached around the corner and when he lifted his arm again, I heard a series of even louder pops as he shot out of the broken window.

“Stay low, Milan. Come toward me,” he said as he shot.

I tried to keep moving, but turned to look over my shoulder and saw nothing in the yard. No happy squirrel and little birds that had been playing there moments ago. No shooter. But the bullets still came.

“Come on!” he said.

His voice broke the spell, and I moved as fast as I could so close to the ground, my legs and arms soon groaning from the strain of the unfamiliar position.

“We’re going into the garage. Watch out,” he said.

I moved past him and toward the garage door, but when I reached for the knob, I felt his fingers on top of mine, which trembled so badly I doubted I would have been able to open it.

But his were steady, and he turned the knob and pushed the door open and, still crouching down, he went to the passenger side of the car.

He opened the door and then quickly pulled himself inside. A moment later, the car flared to life and I saw him gesturing toward me, now in the driver’s seat.

I tried to mimic his crouch walk and as quickly as I could made it to the passenger seat. I pulled my body in, and then jumped when I heard another
pop
. I started at the car door, not wanting to believe what I was seeing, but there was no denying it.

There was a bullet hole in the door, and now, I finally realized, more shots coming toward us.

“Close it,” he whispered.

I pulled the door closed and at the same time, Priest began to reverse. He didn’t wait for the garage to open and instead accelerated as fast as he could, slamming through the sheet of metal.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

I listen to the sounds and knew that it was bullets raining into the car.

I wanted to scream, wanted to do something, but I didn’t do anything but wait, staying next to him frozen. He accelerated, drove fast, as fast as any car I had ever ridden in.

Soon, there were no more pings.

P
riest

“
A
re you hit
?” I asked Milan as I sped down the road faster than was reasonable, but not giving a fuck. I needed her away from danger, needed my heart to stop pounding so hard it threatened to punch out of my chest.

“Um. I—”

“Are you hit!”

I yelled this time, needing the answer more than I wanted to not to upset her.

“N-no,” she finally said.

I glanced at her quickly and then back at the road. Hearing her words had slackened some of the tension that gripped me, enough that I could ease my foot off the accelerator and try to come up with what I would do next.

I’d fucked up and bad. Had gotten distracted by Milan and let myself get comfortable, allowed myself to believe that at least for a time, the safe house was safe.

Fucking stupid, and if I hadn’t been so fucking preoccupied, I would have never allowed myself to be lulled.

But I had, and the results had been disastrous.

It was a miracle she hadn’t been hit.

It was a crime she had been there in the first place.

My crime, one that I would make amends for.

For now, though, I had more practical matters to consider.

I turned the car into a parking lot, stopped, and then looked at Milan.

“You good?” I asked.

A stupid question. How could she possibly be?

But she nodded, faintly at first and then with increasing vigor. Still, I searched her eyes, but other than her dilated pupils, an uncontrollable side effect of the adrenaline that probably still coursed through her, she looked fine. My heart slowed just a little, the roaring gallop now more of an intense race.

“Change of plans,” I said.

“I’d imagine so,” she replied, giving me the hint of a smile.

That helped, further cracked the icy tension in my gut. “We’re on foot now. I need to regroup.”

“I guess it’s not smart to drive around in a car with bullet holes in it,” she said.

“No,” I replied. I left out the rest of the sentence, though, the part where I wondered if it wouldn’t just be bullet holes that gave us away.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked.

“We go there,” I said, nodding toward the train station at the other end of the block.

“From there?” she asked.

“A few stops. Then we lay low,” I replied.

“Then let’s go,” she said.

We were out of the car and on the train in under ten minutes. I hated being out in the open like that, exposed, on every camera, but there was no other choice. I led Milan onto the first train that arrived.

We rode for over two hours, switching directions and routes at random intervals. If whoever pursued me had access to the train’s cameras, I was even more fucked, but this was the best alternative. We had bought some time.

I needed a few things, so I stopped at a convenience store.

“Wait,” I said, when Milan went to follow me.

She tilted her head but didn’t speak, and I glanced up at the security cameras that covered the store’s front door.

“I’ll be in there less than five minutes, but I don’t want to risk us on camera together. Just stay put,” I said.

Again, I could see her desire to protest, but she eventually gave in and nodded. I walked quickly toward the store, trying to give off an air of impatience, not desperation, and as I’d promised, I was back in under five minutes, the supplies I needed in hand.

A half hour later, I stopped across the street from a hotel. Not cheap, not fancy, and one that had interior doors, which gave us a least some veneer of safety.

“Here. Rent the room with this,” I said to Milan as I handed her a credit card.

She peered at it and then back at me. “Who’s D. Stott?” she asked.

“You. You’re D. Stott. You’re just staying over for the night.”

“Priest, is this a stolen credit card?”

“No. It’s prepaid, fake name. People get suspicious when you flash cash,” I said.

“I don’t have an ID,” she said.

“Make something up. You have a trustworthy face,” I said, turning her toward the hotel’s entrance. “Use it.”

M
ilan

I
’d cranked
the air conditioner to high and jumped into what I hoped was a clean bed.

I was in no position to care, because my heart was still beating a mile a minute, my entire body shaking from the remnants of jittery nerves. I’d been shot at today, yet somehow, I’d still been nervous when I’d lied to the clerk at the front desk.

When she’d finally swiped the credit card and given me the key, I’d been so relieved my knees had gotten weak. Priest’s pleased nod when I’d come back to get him had been worth it, though.

“Can you believe—”

I cut off short when I sat up and saw Priest. He’d taken off his shirt and jacket and was now unbuttoning his pants.

A sight I would have welcomed were it not for the expression on his face. I’d so rarely seen a crack in his facade and never in a moment as seemingly calm as this.

I saw one now.

It was almost imperceptible. I’d almost missed it, and I’d spent an inordinate amount of time watching his face, learning every millimeter of it. But I saw it, the slight wrinkle between his brows, the even slighter tic in his jaw.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. I had no idea what, but we’d handle it together like we had everything thus far. Assuming I could convince him to tell me what it was.

“What are you doing?” I asked as he took off his pants, neatly folded them, and then grabbed the bag from the drugstore.

“Stay here,” he said.

Then he strode into the bathroom without looking at me. He probably expected me to stay put, and if I’d had any sense of all I would have, but I didn’t. The last three days had proven that, so after a few moments, I stood and followed.

I knocked on the bathroom door, and when he didn’t answer I turned the knob and pushed it open.

He sat on the edge of the counter, one leg on the floor, the other inside the sink. And in one hand, he held a knife, long, sharp-looking, dangerous.

“What are you—”

My words died in my throat when he buried the knife in his calf.

P
riest

M
ilan
and I would have to discuss her bad habit of defying me.

Later, though, once I found what I was looking for.

I clenched my teeth hard, so hard I thought they might break, and then pushed the tip of the knife deeper.

The surgeon had been smart, placing the device shallowly enough it could be retrieved but deep enough that getting it out would be a most unpleasant task, one that would require a steady hand and a high tolerance for pain.

Fortunately, I had both, so I ignored the pain and dug deeper. At first I only felt flesh, some scar tissue from the original implantation. Then the tip of the knife hit something that wasn’t me.

That was it.

I kept my knife hand still, applying pressure to the device, and then reached for the tweezers. I slid them into the incision, right next to the knife. Then, ignoring the sweat that now beaded on my forehead, I slid the knife out and pushed the tweezers in deeper.

When I hit that tiny piece of metal, I clamped down quickly but steadily, closed the tweezers, and then pulled them out.

I held them up in the dim light of the bathroom and then looked at Milan.

Her mouth was open, shock etched on her features, and that expression only got stronger when I smiled.

“I found it,” I said.

She looked to my leg and then back to me, her expression wavering somewhere between amusement and disgust. “You just cut… You’re fucking crazy,” she said.

I felt myself smiling. Yeah, I probably was. But I’d found it, and I’d found a way to finally shut Milan up.

I set the tweezers on the edge of the sink and then proceeded to stitch my leg.

“Do you…?” I looked up at Milan, who shook her head. “Do you need help?”

She looked annoyed at even asking the question, but I thought it was rather sweet. “You know how to sew?” I asked.

She frowned and then shook her head. “On second thought, you seem to be doing a fine job,” she said.

I laughed again as she rushed from the bathroom and finished sewing my leg up.

Milan was right. I was fucking crazy.

My life, such as it had been, was in shambles, everything I’d ever built at risk. I’d been shot at—not a big deal—and stabbed myself—a much bigger deal—and yet…I was having fun. The most fun I’d had in years, maybe ever.

And it was because of her.

I hated the fact that she was in danger. I hated the fact that every second with me was one that brought her closer to death. Even more, I hated the fact that my own weakness left me unable to fully protect her.

But I didn’t hate that she was with me.

Didn’t hate that all.

I finished stitching and then cleaned the wound, then picked up the tweezers, crushed the tiny device in them, and then flushed the pieces down the toilet.

When I emerged from the bathroom, I found Milan sitting in the middle of the mattress, her legs folded underneath her.

She looked at me, her eyes wide, her gaze lingering as she looked down my body, across my chest, and then lower.

I was wearing only underwear, and knew that she could see my desire.

Her gaze snagged there, and then dropped down to my leg.

“What did you do to it?” she asked.

“Stitched it, sealed it with glue. Better than anything they could do at a hospital,” I said.

As I spoke, I hooked my hands in my waistband and began pulling off my underwear.

I stepped out of them, my cock hard and at full attention and looked up at Milan, whose gaze was riveted on my hardness.

“Are you suggesting that something might happen now?” she asked when she finally managed to meet my eyes again.

“Not a suggestion,” I said.

Then I lifted my hand, let the foil packet dangle between my fingers and almost laughed at the way Milan’s eyes lit up.

She quickly closed them, though, narrowing her gaze at me.

“I take it you got that at the drugstore. Just the one?” she asked, sounding casual though her eyes were bright with arousal.

“No,” I said as I opened the packet and retrieved the condom. Then I rolled it down my length, not moving in any particular hurry. I wanted her in the worst way, but that desire was tempered by a playfulness I had rarely felt. I was in no mood to rush.

“Awfully presumptuous,” she said as she stood and pulled her shirt over her head.

I stared at her, the fullness of her breasts enclosed by her black bra enticing, and my cock got even harder as I thought about touching her, thought about the way her breasts would feel against me, the way her soft stomach would cradle me as I pounded into her.

“No,” I said, getting closer.

She met me halfway, put her hands on my shoulders.

“You just stabbed yourself,” she said, letting her fingers trace against my chest. “I could be disgusted. That might have been the last proof I needed that you are certifiable and I should get away.”

But as she talked, she moved her hands against my sides, squeezing at my flanks and then stopping to nestle her fingers in the hair at the base of my cock.

“Perhaps,” I said, my voice calm although my body was aflame with the desire that Milan touching me intensified. “But I don’t think so.”

She circled her fingers around the base of my shaft and then cupped my sac.

“You’re pouting,” I said as I looked at the frown on her face.

“I wanted to put it on,” she said, and then she looked up at me.

I gave her a smile.

“Next time,” I said.

“Promise?” she asked.

“I promise,” I said.

“And you always keep those,” she said.

I nodded, and she let go of me and then turned suddenly.

As she walked away from me, she pulled her panties down and stepped out of them, then kneeled on the edge of the bed.

She arched her back and lifted her hips in the air, offering herself to me. Then she looked over her shoulder, her bra still on, the contrast of her covered breasts with her bare ass one of the sexiest things I had ever seen.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked.

“Excellent question,” I said as I walked to her, my cock bobbing as I moved.

I reached her, grabbed one of her full hips with my hands and watched as she sank her teeth into her lip.

I lined our bodies up, moved my dick up and down her lips, the slick, wet heat still apparent even though I was covered.

I pressed it against her opening, nudged ever so slightly inside of her, and then paused as both of us moaned.

Then I rocked against her, my strokes shallow.

“You want me to fuck you from behind?” I said.

She dropped her head and arched her back more. “Yes. I want it deep and hard. You can give me that, can’t you?” she asked.

A smile crossed my lips at her words. How like Milan, disguising a demand as a question, pretending to be coy when we both knew she was anything but.

I teased at her entrance, pushed my cock ever so slightly inside her, pleasure, satisfaction filling me when her pussy started to close around me.

“Next time. I want you face to face,” I said.

Then I lifted her and flipped her flat on her back.

I stepped between her splayed thighs and looked down the gentle swell of her stomach, lower to the dark patch of hair that covered her sex, slick, wet from her juices.

After I gripped my cock at the base, I rubbed it against her slit, my heart starting to pound and my grip on her hip tightening as I touched her.

“I was right,” I said, probing at her entrance with my latex-covered cock.

“About what?” she said.

“You weren’t disgusted, Milan,” I said, wanting to meet her eyes but unable to pull my gaze away from her dark, slick lips, the witness that flowed from her. “If you were, your pussy wouldn’t be dripping for me,” I said.

Her only response was a moan as she splayed her thighs wider. The movement pushed her lips apart, flashing me the wet, pink skin of her core.

I thrust against her, and she pushed down. My own breath started coming out on a broken pant as her pussy swallowed me.

“Look, Milan,” I said.

She rose up on her elbows and looked down, inhaling sharply as she watched me push my cock the rest of the way inside her.

She threw her knees apart even wider, and I tightened my grip on her hips, pulled out and then pushed in, so hard, our pubic bones hit.

My gaze was riveted to the sight of my dick entering her, and though I wanted to see her eyes, I couldn’t look away.

“Are you watching, Milan?” I asked, my voice strained as I pushed in and out of her.

“I’m watching,” she whispered, her voice coming out on a broken moan, her fingers tight against my biceps.

Then I couldn’t speak and instead began to move faster, harder, watching as my cock disappeared and reemerged, her body under me, her tight walls around my shaft threatening to send me over.

But I held off, wanting to make this last as long as it possibly could.

Milan held me tighter, her fingers now bruising against my arms, but still I couldn’t look away, couldn’t stop, and continued to pound into her over and over again, her pussy holding me so tight I thought I might lose it. But I was so determined to make this last.

She wasn’t, though, and I could feel her walls clamp down on me as she squeezed my arms even tighter.

Saw the way her body pulled tight as she climaxed.

Still I continued. Kept going, slamming into her over and over again, until I heard the single word.

“Nikolai.”

She was holding me tight, her voice barely audible through her climax, but when I heard it, my name on Milan’s voice, I couldn’t hold out anymore.

With one final thrust, I pushed inside her and came harder than I had in my life.

P
riest

L
ater
, much later, she asked the question I had cut off.

“So why did you stab yourself?” she said, looking at me with curiosity brimming in her eyes.

I smiled at her.

“It’s the only way I could call home.”