Page 28 of Skin Deep

“I want to be a part of your life, son.” He leaned forward and put a hand on mine.

I jerked my arm away. “You should have decided that before I turned thirty-six. Before it was convenient for you.”

He sighed, shoulders sinking. “What must a father do then? Do you want blood? A pound of flesh from me? Where will you make the cut? What can I give that I haven’t already?”

I glanced over my shoulder at the deli clerk before fishing the USB drive Xavier had given me out of my pocket and placing it on the table between us. “I need you to place this in any device hooked up to the central network at the station downtown.”

He’d know exactly which station I meant. No need to say it aloud.

Nikita sat back, clutching his tea. “It’s true then. You mean to go after this ripper.”

“Someone has to,” I barked in English.

He pursed his lips and tapped one of his rings against the teacup. “You always have fancied yourself something of a savior, haven’t you?”

If he’d been anyone else, I would have told him to go fuck himself on a broken glass bottle, but he wasn’t anyone. He was Nikita Volkov, son of Simeon the Immortal, the most feared half-dead Russian in the country, and he was the family lawyer. I needed him. For now.

I bit my lip, the spark of pain a grounding reminder of past pain. I’d endured that, and worse. I could get through this.

He sipped from his tea. “When you were a boy, while most children were still learning to read, you were obsessed with fantasy books. Do you remember?”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “I remember.”

“Dragons, sorceresses, knights battling evil…” He held out his hand, gesturing as if he were in a sword fight and then chuckled. “Remember on your ninth birthday that time you snuck into my office to play with that old cavalry saber? I had to stop you from swinging it around and hurting yourself.”

“Every kid wants a sword,” I grumbled.

Nikita lowered his teacup. “Not like you did. Your mother put you to bed every night reciting tales of some bogatyr, or the ancient Rus, Roman generals and gladiators… And the books. God, the books.” He chuckled. “You read those big fantasy books like you were starving for them. What was that one you liked so much? The one they made into a movie?”

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “It wasThe Lord of the Rings, and it was a whole trilogy of movies.”

“That’s the one,” he agreed, snapping his fingers. “You even went out for Trick or Treat dressed like an elf once.”

“What’s your point?” I snapped, impatient. The last thing I wanted was a walk down memory lane with the man who’d ignored me for most of my life.

He sighed and stared into his teacup. “The point is, you’ve always lived in a fantasy world, Warrick. The world is not made of black and white morality. It is painted in varying shades of gray. Men like us—”

“I amnothinglike you,” I growled.

He stared at me across the table in silence for a long moment, his expression schooled into the neutral mask he wore at court or when talking to other mobsters.

“You used to rescue moths from spiderwebs,” he said eventually. “Do you remember? Your grandfather saw you do it one day, and do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Nikita, that boy of yours is too soft. You should beat him more so he doesn’t become a queer.’ When he heard you wanted to be a plastic surgeon instead of a proper doctor, I had to talk him down from having your hands broken in a vice to teach you a lesson. He thought you were better suited for holding a gun than a scalpel. I imagine when he finds out you’re fucking a Black man, he’ll try to have him killed too.”

My fingers curled against the tabletop. “If he does, I’ll show the world Simeon isn’t so immortal after all when I cut off his fucking head. Racist prick.”

Nikita smirked. “Do you know what else is soft? A polar bear. I still would not fuck with one. You are your mother’s son. I admire your propensity for violence, but if you want to protect your lover, you must take a proactive approach. There are ways to make him untouchable. You will want to do that quickly. My father has many eyes and ears on you, Warrick.”

“How?” I snarled.

He opened his jacket and brought out an envelope, sliding it onto the table to rest next to the USB drive I had offered, the implication clear. This was to be a quid pro quo arrangement. Typical with him.

“Bowen Ivanski,” Nikita said, watching me carefully.

My hand closed around the knife on the table, knuckles going white as a long-buried memory sparked at the mention of that name.

Dark. Days after my eighteenth birthday. My nose aches. I think it’s broken, but I don’t know yet. I’m too focused on the man in a black coat towering over me. There’s a gun in his hand, but it’s not pointed at me.

I rise to my knees and make a weak plea, the copper tang of blood on my tongue. “Please don’t.”

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