Page 33 of Trust Me

Kostya took a handkerchief from his suit coat pocket and patted the bead of moisture that had formed on his brow. With a snarl, he raised his beefy middle finger at Raphael.

The drunken remark on my tongue made a break for it. “I think that’s Russian sarcasm for ‘I got you, mate.’”

Raphael gritted out, “For Chrissakes” at the same time one of Kostya’s men growled, “Shlyukha!”

My brain vibrated in my skull, and the room began to spin.

The word was a trigger, and inebriated Willa had a poor sense of danger.

My dinner knife was in my grasp and I was lunging for the Russian.

Guns appeared from every direction as Raphael intercepted me and seized my wrist, but not before the blade connected high on the chest of an unintended target.

Liam grunted, and the knife crashed to the floor.

Scarlet seeped through his dress shirt just beneath the collarbone area.

My heartbeat thumped in my ears. “No—no—no ...”

I tried to reach for Liam, but he shrugged me off at the same time Raphael hauled me back.

“It’s nothin’. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, lass,” Liam drawled, seeming more confused than angry.

Raphael’s arms tightened around me as he held me to his chest. I made out the sound of his voice, but the details failed to register. Then he helped me into my coat and patted the top of my head like I was his precious pet who’d done something naughty.

Raphael’s lips feathered against my ear. “Time to go home, darling. I’m craving dessert.”

On the way out, I grabbed a bottle of beluga.

Willa

Liam’s boisterous laugh told me he found my offer to drive the Rolls hilarious if not absurd. I pleaded my case with drunken flair, but then all traces of humor dried up the second my fiancé barked at Liam to get behind the wheel and take us bloody home.

I guzzled vodka until Raphael snatched it away, lowered the back window, and tossed the bottle out into the night.

“You know it’s been illegal to litter for like fifty years—right?”

Raphael leveled me with a look that said, “Really?”

Right.

The man ordered hits in his sleep, killed people with one hand while shaking Father O’Brien’s with the other, and still rubbed elbows with law enforcement. He could contribute to the destruction of our planet on Earth Day down on Newbury Street and they’d probably honor him with a park bench with his name on it at that very spot.

Deep pockets and dark souls—keepin’ the American dream alive and well.

The ride to the Flynn estate was silent, but my brain was a factory for risky thoughts. I couldn’t deny that a part of me thrived on the notion that Lucifer had sought revenge against the Russians because I’d been hurt in last night’s attack.

I chewed on my bottom lip while that theory played out in my mind like a mafioso romantic ideation.

The vodka was working overtime.

“Did Lucifer really kidnap the son of the Pakhan?” I blurted, drunk enough that I didn’t bother masking my fascination and loud enough for everyone in the car to hear.

Raphael turned to me. He was quiet at first, but I could sense the storm brewing within. “Get the fucking stars out of your eyes.”

The callousness in his tone was a reminder, and his threat from last night came flooding back.

Raphael already had enough reasons to want me dead, and I was managing to drag Lucifer down with me. Disappointment in myself took an ugly hold of me.

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