Page 32 of Scarlet Angel

Cold air envelops my side. I blink and am met with red and yellow bursts of light.

The sofa leather squeaks beneath him as he sits.

“You don’t like me near you.”

“I don’t like any man near me.”

“Tell me about it.” He lifts the throw, gesturing for me to move closer. “I won’t touch you. Tell me what he did.”

Swallow. Inhale.

“I’ve been told talking helps.”

Dr. Rosenthal said the same.

“You can talk to me.”

“Nikolai, you’re a stranger.”

“Nick. Call me Nick. And am I a stranger? You’re entrusting me with your life. And I’m trusting you with mine. Surely that means something.”

“How is your life dependent on me?”

“The secrets I’ve shared with you could get me killed.”

“What secrets?”

“I’m unleashing the authorities on an Italian mafia family.”

“As a syndicate member, don’t you have that right?”

The right side of his lip twitches, and his fingers drum the back of the sofa.

“I’m not sure what you’ve been told about the syndicate, but it’s not a good idea to break rules you’ve agreed to follow.”

“And they would kill you if I let on you’re involved? Someone would come after Nikolai Ivanov?”

He answers with a steely gaze. I can’t deny strength infuses my limbs with this perspective. It hadn’t occurred to me before, probably because I assumed, as a syndicate member, he was untouchable.

With the throw pulled over my legs, the glass in my hand, and enough distance, his cologne doesn’t invade my senses, and my heart rate steadies.

“Nick,” he breathes.

“Excuse me?”

“We’re friends. Call me Nick.” He crosses an ankle over his knee. He’s not wearing shoes, and my attention falls to his thick wool socks. The informality further calms me.

“Tell me something about you, Nick.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know. There’s not much of you in this house. No personality.”

“I’m not a woman.” He lifts his shoulders like that’s explanation enough.

“What does that mean?”

“I’m not into sentimental shite.”

---