Page 24 of Ruinous Need
“It’s fucking unfair. I know,” I murmur against the top of her head.
CHAPTER 9
LISETTE
I’M ON THE couch reading a book when I hear an ecstatic bark followed by a snuffling sound that means only one thing.
The dog is here.
I’ve been shaken up since Marianne’s death, and Viktor hasn’t tried to introduce me to Chekhov again.
In fact, he seemed so afraid of my tears that it’s like he’s been avoiding me altogether. I’ve been wallowing around the house like I’m some Victorian woman locked in mourning, without the dramatic outfits to go with it.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that if I don’t open them it’s not real. Who let him in? Who can even get in here? Does he have a door that I don’t know about?
“Chekhov?” calls out an unfamiliar, cheerful voice. With an… Italian accent?
“There you are, boy.”
The dog mercifully leaves the couch, roaming towards the source of the voice. But footsteps keep approaching over the wooden floor.
And I’m here, eyes covered, on the couch because of my stupid fear.
“Merc. Who the fuck is this?” This voice is lower, more dangerous. There are two of them. Two Italians. In Viktor’s apartment.
I peek through my hands. Two burly men are staring down at me with raised eyebrows. They look like they could be brothers, with their matching cropped hair and tattoos.
I guess I’m about to be kidnapped for the second time in a week.
The Bratva’s clearly not worth its salt as an organized crime business if the Italian mafia have found me this quickly.
“Are you here to take me away?” I keep my voice clear and meet their eyes. Unfortunately, it’s painfully obvious that I’ve been crying for days. “I won’t go without a fight.”
The taller one raises his eyebrows and folds his thick arms across his chest. “Take you away?”
He looks me up and down as though sizing up whether I really could fight him. I guess, in their business, anyone can be a threat.
The shorter one — Merc, I suppose — opens his palms in confusion, a grin stealing across his face. He shoots a glance at his friend. “Uhhh. No. We were more wondering if V finally found himself a girlfriend.”
As if. I’ve only known the man for two days, but there’s no way he has the emotional capacity for love.
I cut him off quickly. “I’m not his girlfriend.”
That only deepens their confusion. Maybe I should have said yes to smooth things over. It would have the added benefit of embarrassing Viktor. He doesn’t seem to like me much.
“Then who are you?” It’s the tall one again. He treats me like a tough interview subject who he’s interrogating. That’s probably his usual job, judging from the shrewd way he sized me up and the way he won’t let the subject drop.
I don’t think I should tell them anything. Viktor is part of the Bratva. He said I’m in danger if the Irish find me. These guys are not Irish. They’re Italian. I have no clue if they’re a risk.
“Why are you here?” I shoot back, narrowing my eyes. I flip my hair and stand up, hoping it will give me more confidence. “This is Viktor’s apartment.” I try to inject venom into my voice.
I fear the result is laughable, with my head only coming up to their shoulders.
But they take a step back.
“We’re looking after Chekhov while V’s busy with work.”
The taller one reminds me of Viktor. Saying no more than necessary. I can see why they’re friends. They probably sit together in gruff, manly silence and watch paint dry. Or shoot guns. Or some other boring pursuit.
