Refrain Page 11

  “Don’t worry about it.” He points toward the corner. “You can set them there.”

  Once I do, there’s nothing else to do with my hands. I’m forced to wring them together, wincing as my thumb jars the row of stitches on the injured one. He doesn’t attempt to forge a conversation. It’s like he knows I’m distracted by the thick, accented drawl crawling through my thoughts.

  Moya lyubov...

  “I should probably get out of your hair,” I blurt out, suddenly desperate for him to say something. Even goodbye.

  “Or not,” he says, fulfilling my wish. “I take it that you’ll be needing a job, too.”

  I flinch, shaking my head, but a fitting excuse won’t come. “Think your friend would mind?”

  “He will,” Espisido admits. He’s got another cigarette in his hand, inhaling more of it than the oxygen around us. Between puffs, he adds, “But I’ll take care of him. I’ll admit that it doesn’t hurt that you have a pretty face.”

  I must make a sound, because he looks up sharply, his gaze homing in on how my fingers curl into fists.

  “Fuck, I don’t mean it like that. Arno’s just a pig. That’s all.”

  “It’s all right.” It’s not his fault that life in the club ruined that word for me, stripping all sense of compliment or affection from each syllable. Pretty. “D-don’t apologize.”

  “Remember, you need to keep those dry,” he scolds, eyeing my arm. He’s by my side in an instant, frowning at what he sees up close.

  I had to take the gauze off to shower, and residual soap bubbles dot the visible stitches.

  “Clean and dry,” he insists. “Say it for me at least one time so that I have a solid defense when you sue me for infection.”

  “You should worry about yourself.”

  He’s still bleeding, just a faint reddish streak along his hairline. I don’t realize I’ve touched him there until my fingertips register the clammy flesh of his forehead.

  “I’ll live,” he says, shrugging me off—and not for the first time.

  Whenever I touch him, he reacts the same way—defensively.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m beat.” He approaches the couch and plumps the pillows, arranging them in a more ideal position to sleep. Then he surprises me by stepping back. “You can crash here tonight. I’ll take the floor.”

  “You don’t have to,” I protest, but he’s already backing up against the wall.

  His back hits the surface, and he uses it for support to slide down to his knees. “I’m good here. Go ahead.” He closes his eyes before I can argue. In an instant, his expression relaxes, but the stern set to his shoulders gives him away. He’s awake and alert, sensing my every move.

  Maybe it’s the noose of my own lies that finally draws me over to the couch. I smell him in the cushions, muddling my brain and combining with the dark, violent thoughts that threaten to descend. I don’t know if he serves as an antidote or merely a more potent poison, but my mind clears a little.

  Just as long as I breathe him in.

  It feels like I’ve only had my eyes closed for a second before I’m peeling them open again. A melody of hushed voices is all that gives context to the darkness looming around me. My chest constricts. For a sharp, blistering moment, I’m not sure where I am…

  “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

  Just like that, I’m rescued from the grip of the nightmare, even as my heartbeat quickens at the lie. Safe? When I finally turn my head and spot a pair of familiar blue eyes, they seem more serious than mocking. He might believe those words.

  Standing in the center of the kitchen, he’s wearing a pair of dark pants and another hoodie. Domi is beside him, wearing jeans and a shirt similar to his. A jacket is draped over her arm, and she found a pair of tennis shoes, too.

  “You want that job I mentioned?” Espisido wonders, drawing my attention back to him. He has the hood of a sweatshirt pulled low over his face, and a lit cigarette held to his mouth—what I’m beginning to suspect is his signature look.

  When I don’t answer, he seems to take my silence as a yes.

  “Come on, then,” he says. “You ladies are late for your interviews.”

  The playful humor doesn’t disguise what lurks underneath. Tension laces his posture as he drags on the cigarette for a second too long. For our destination being a supposedly “safe” place, he seems pretty reluctant to head there.

  Rather than ask why, I stand and do my best to shake off any lingering exhaustion.

  “Here.” He already has a hoodie and a pair of sneakers that look slightly too big waiting for me.

  I pull them on, and together, the three of us leave the house. I can’t tell from the pitch-black sky above, or the silence encasing the streets, whether it’s late at night or early in the morning. The time seems to be irrelevant anyway, as this part of the city lives well after the sun goes down. Poverty and grime form a beautiful monochromatic blend of shadow, perfumed by the stench wafting from overflowing dumpsters. Judging from the abundance of empty warehouses, I suspect we’re on the farthest outskirts of the industrial district, well beyond Grey’s and my beat. It’s an infamous area, known to be controlled by one gang in particular.

  My gaze flickers to the man walking steadily in front of me, this angel with cotton wings. First, he mingles with Russians. Who else?

  The question has more weight to it when we turn the corner and approach a bar at the end of this block. I recognize the name instantly, if only from the rumors of who owns it. Mulligan’s. On the battered sign above the door, someone crudely scribbled II in permanent marker beside the name. Taken in all of its ratty glory, the strip of wood shines like a beacon, christening the castle of this self-proclaimed king.

  “Let me do the talking.” Espisido pulls up beside me, his mouth near my ear, his breath fanning my throat. Too warm. Too real. I have to shift slightly out of his reach to avoid the crossfire. “I can’t guarantee he’ll say yes, but just…just trust me.”

  Trust him. A laugh trickles from my throat. It’s almost possible to overlook the audacity of the request for one reason alone—He’s anxious again, his jaw rigid as he pulls ahead. Feeding off his unease, Domi falls into step between us, and we march almost single-file through the wooden door marking the entrance.

  What place might an angel deem safe? Well, hell, of course.

  It’s loud inside—louder than Moe’s. A deafening rift of shouting melds with the heavy rock music hammering against my eardrums. There are people everywhere, a sea of flailing limbs and blurred faces crammed within a backdrop of dark walls and wooden floors. It’s a sweaty, claustrophobic version of the fiery pit.

  A bar counter resides along one wall, across from a row of pool tables. At the back of the space is a stage where a half-naked woman demonstrates just how many ways she can swing from a metal pole without falling off. In one of the corners, men openly count obscene stacks of money while bellowing out bets, apparently on “Who says Arno kills that fuck?”

  The winning odds lean overwhelmingly toward “yes.”

  “This way.” Espisido takes my wrist, guiding me down a narrow hallway where some of the intensity of the noise fades. “He’s up here,” he tosses back over Domi’s head. I suspect that the commentary is for my benefit, reinforcing his previous warning. “Just follow my lead and take everything he says with a grain of salt.”

  It’s a subtler way of phrasing keep your mouth shut, no matter what. As if to illustrate the urgency, he tenses as we approach a closed door.

  A man is standing beside it, his arms crossed. “You might want to come back later, kid,” he warns. “Arno’s busy right now.”

  Espi opens the door despite the warning, revealing the chilling scene within.

  Two men are sitting on either side of a table. One of them is holding a gun to his head, nestled in a sea of red hair, while a crowd of at least ten men watch on.

  “You ready, you little shit fuck?” The man holding the gun flicks the trig
ger. Once. Twice. On the third attempt, he pulls it.

  My hands rush to cover my ears, but the resulting sound is too soft. Just an impotent click quickly followed by raucous laughter.

  So this is Arno. Cold, green eyes stare through his opponent as he offers the gun on the palm of his hand. “Your turn.” A heavy accent shapes each word—distinctive of one of the city boroughs. “You feeling lucky, motherfucker? Or do you finally want to talk?”

  I can’t see the other man’s face from my position as he chokes out a watery laugh that fails to convey any bravery.

  “I’m not no fucking snitch, asshole—”

  “You hear that?” Arno asks the group of men surrounding the morbid table setting. He throws his hands into the air and releases another chilling chuckle. “This motherfucker ain’t no goddamn snitch.” He turns the gun again, holding it out trigger-end first. It’s a familiar gesture that makes my blood run cold. “Then prove it,” Arno snarls. “Put your goddamn money where your mouth is.”

  The other man finally takes the gun and presses it to his temple. An eerie hum echoes throughout the room, building in intensity. At first, I almost believe that it’s the man’s heart beating that loudly—but no, a glance down reveals that the steady thump is being made by Arno as he taps his fingers.

  “Tick fucking tock,” he growls.

  The man pulls the trigger. Click! The poor fool can barely smother a sigh of relief, though he can’t hide his body’s reaction—a small puddle is forming around his feet.

  “My turn.” Arno snatches the gun and brings it to his mouth, wrapping his lips around the opening. He shoots, and another blank shot rings out. “Bang,” he says. “There are still three chances left. You want to keep playing or fucking talk? Though I will say that this is the part where the game starts getting fun…”

  “Okay, okay.” The man shakes his head. “I didn’t see nothing—”

  “Then what the fuck are we talking for?” Arno reaches into the pocket of his jacket and draws a gun that I suspect has every chamber loaded.

  “Arno…” Suddenly, Espisido’s closer, his shoulder jarring mine, as a ripple goes through the ragtag group of spectators.

  They’re watching with more than just amusement now, like a pack of dogs anxious for the first drop of blood to be spilled.

  “And there he is.” Arno hones his gaze in our direction, still aiming the gun.

  It’s like a million words pass between him and Espi—judgment, arrogance, assertion, guilt.

  “Where the fuck are my manners?” Arno wonders gruffly. “Allow me to set the stage. This motherfucker sucks dick for the Cartel, and one of their warehouses went up in smoke less than two hours ago—”

  Smoke. Fire. I struggle to piece the details together in context with what happened at the Russian club.

  “Little Benny here was meant to be guarding the door—obviously, he fucked up. But he saw something.” With little fanfare, Arno aims the barrel of the gun squarely over Little Benny’s forehead and caresses the trigger. “I went out of my fucking way to invite him to my party, but he seems to think he’s too good to talk. I might have to make it easier on him to keep his fucking mouth shut.”

  The man in the hot seat races to display his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Hey! Hey! I didn’t see nothing, but I heard, okay!”

  “Who?” The sound of the weapon cocking gives a finite backdrop to Arno’s command.

  “Some bitch. I don’t know who, but she gave the orders—”

  “Some bitch?” Arno raises an eyebrow. “A woman?”

  Little Benny frantically nods. “Yeah. She kept to the back, but I heard her.”

  “You didn’t see her?”

  “N-no,” Benny admits. “But she had an accent. Some kind of Spanish—”

  “Spanish,” Arno echoes. After a harsh moment of silence, he puts the loaded gun away. “What else?”

  Benny shakes his head. “That’s all I got before they started wiping people out. I barely got the fuck out of there with my head—”

  “Story time’s over,” Arno interjects. “Boys. Take our friend here and show him what other games we like to play.”

  The command snaps two of the spectating thugs into action. They rush to the table and grab Benny by either arm before dragging him to his feet and past us, into the hall.

  “Everyone else, get the fuck out,” Arno bellows. “Except for you.” He jabs a finger in Espi’s direction before he can move. “We need to talk.”

  “Fuck,” Espisido grunts under his breath. “Give me a second.” Sighing, he spares a glance at Domi and then flags one of the passing men down with a wave of his hand. “Hey, Francisco!” He mutters something into the man’s ear on his way into the room. Then he looks over his shoulder, meeting my gaze. “Stick around,” he says. “I’ll come find you when I’m done.”

  The door closes behind him as the other man advances toward Domi and me. Francisco, I presume. He’s tall, with wiry, dark hair and chiseled, gaunt features that have seen better days.

  “The kid said to show you around,” he says rather than introduce himself properly. “So let’s go.”

  With a wary glance shared between us, Domi and I follow him.

  The music is just as deafening the second time in, but somehow, I manage to hear Francisco bellow above the noise.

  “Espi said you two want jobs. I won’t even ask your ages”—he tosses a pointed look at Domi—“and I don’t have time to be a fucking babysitter. Pick a spot, and you learn the ropes as you go along. Consider this a working interview. So, what about you, little girl?”

  Domi glances around the club, unperturbed by the noise. She’s seen worse. Heard worse. Spotting the bar, she points to it, her chin set in determination.

  “That’s my domain,” Francisco shouts back. “You better keep up. And what about you?”

  What about me? I shouldn’t even be here, but rather on a bus, or a plane, or a train. Piotr is in my head already. He’s in my skin, lingering like an itch I can’t scratch. A wound that won’t heal.

  “Hey!” A hand collides with my shoulder, jarring me back. “You wanna work or not?”

  I’m tempted to refuse. Little Espi should learn to gather his demons from better stock—good riddance. I even start toward the exit, but I catch sight of a nearby man who is leering at the girl beside me. Already, Domi is catching more attention than she should. She’s too pretty, as much as it disgusts me to use that word. Hungry eyes linger over her smooth skin and her shapely body.

  Maybe life as Chloe Parker isn’t as easy to suppress as I’d hoped—I won’t leave her alone here. For now.

  My gaze is already roving in the direction of the stage, where a woman in a glittery thong is in the process of taking it off while the men around her drool to the tune of music.

  The performance would earn her a bullet to the brain at Moe’s. Piotr prized his dancers for their “art form” over vulgarity.

  Stop. I shake my head to resist the impending trip down memory lane. Too late. I can still feel him behind me. Beside me. Inside me.

  “You want a job or not?” Francisco asks.

  I hear myself sigh above the pulsing bass, though I’m not sure if anyone notices. “I’ve only ever had one…job.”

  “Oh?” Francisco ruins his hard-ass façade by sounding genuinely curious. “Let’s see it, then.”

  I set my sights on the stage, swallowing down a bubble of unease. “But first, what’s your policy on serving shots to your prospective employees?”

  He laughs. “There wasn’t one—until now.”

  He heads for the bar while I watch the current dancer finish her set. Anna should be my focus. Running. Hiding. Not what a certain angel might think if I let him see my horns.

  Or just how far I’ve fallen from grace.

  Chapter Twelve

  Espi

  “Did you hear what that dumbass said?” Arno hisses the moment we’re alone. “Spanish.” He snatches up the bottle of rum and
drinks right from the rim. After swallowing, he spits onto the floor and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I bet the fucker’s never heard of goddamn Portuguese.”

  “That’s quite the leap to make from a woman with an accent—”

  “A leap? Do you know of any bitch in the Cartel who gives orders?” He slams the bottle onto the table so hard that most of the booze sloshes out from the top. “Oh, what’s that?” He tilts the bottle to me like a makeshift microphone. “I fucking thought so. It’s her. You know, I saw her kill a man once. It was sloppy. Messy.”

  Messy…like the murdering of a club full of Russians on Petrov’s payroll. Whoever she is, the lady certainly has a flair for the dramatic. And a death wish.

  Could it be Danny, a woman who all but grew up in the heart of the mafia? I don’t know. I don’t want to. Here I was, holding out hope for a happy-ending motorcycle ride into the sunset for her and Dante after he got her out of that hellhole.

  “What? That surprise you?” Arno chuckles to rub in my silence and takes another sip of liquor. Then another. A second later, he’s finished off the whole damn bottle. “I’ll tell you what would surprise me though.” He slams the bottle down again, his eyes gleaming in the dim lighting. “If you heard from Dante or that little bitch and didn’t think to enlighten me.”

  I grit out a sigh. “I haven’t heard from either of them—”

  “You wouldn’t lie to me, now would you?” He’s been drinking too much. The violet bruises beneath his eyes warn he hasn’t slept, either—though that can’t be completely blamed on paranoia or grief.

  In six months, he’s turned the Gardai from a laughingstock into a force even Piotr Petrov has to acknowledge. Surprise, surprise, revenge fuels most of that newfound ambition. The best of men could forgive someone for bailing on them once.

  Never twice.

  And I know better than to pour salt into his wounds now. Dante can do his own dirty work.

  “You haven’t heard anything?” he presses. “Not even a fucking postcard?”