Page 30 of The Bratva's Christmas Bump
Hollie falls silent all the way down to the car, yawning occasionally behind her hand. Her phone sticks out a little from her jeans pocket which reminds me of her desire to contact her own parents. It wasn’t difficult bugging her phone. But as soon as she talks, as soon as she spills anything, the damage will already be done. I’m lost on how to secure her silence outside of maintaining the threat that I’ll kill everyone she talks to.
Once in the car, Stu’s driving and we settle into an amicable silence weaving through the streets of New York. Hollie drums her fingers lightly on her thigh as she gazes out the window, watching the world. My attention remains on her despite the phone in my face and the constant encrypted messages flooding my phone about attacks from the Irish, threats from the Italians, and unrest among other Russian families under us.
Hollie shifts subtly in her seat once. Then a moment later, she does it again. Her drumming fingers increase and she moves her other hand over her abdomen. My interest peaks when distress warps over her face and our eyes lock as she takes a soft, deeper breath.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Stu!” Rapping my knuckles on the protective glass between us, I raise my voice. “Pull over.”
“But we’re in the middle of?—”
“Pull over. Now.”
He obliges and thirty seconds later, I stand at the mouth of an alley with Stu pacing nervously nearby while Hollie pukes behind a trashcan. I replay everything she consumed and reason the meal last night, plus her combined stress, must be taking its toll on her. People move around us like waves lapping at a rock, countless ants hurrying to get to work and go about their day. A few send judgmental glances our way when the sounds of Hollie’s puking reach the ears of the crowd, but each look is met by my angry gaze and they all hurry on with their lives.
Five minutes later, Hollie appears at my elbow wiping her mouth. “Wow.”
“How are you feeling?”
Sweat glistens on her forehead just below her hairline and her skin is slightly pale. “Kinda wrecked, if I’m honest.”
“Was it something you ate, do you think?”
She shrugs. “Probably. I just get ill in the mornings sometimes. Stress, I think.”
“Here.” Stu approaches from the car with a fresh, unopened bottle of water and hands it to her.
“Thanks.” The crack of the seal breaking cuts through the air, then she gulps the water down like she hasn’t drunk in days.
“The apartment isn’t far.” I gaze out over the crowd and spot a small cafe in the distance. “How about we walk instead?”
“Boss—” Stu warns immediately, but he falls silent at my cutting glance. I know what he’s going to say. Walking out in the open like this without our usual security detail is typically a death sentence, but putting Hollie back in the car doesn’t feel right.
“We’ll be fine,” I assure Stu. “We can stop at that cafe over there and see if we can find something that will settle your stomach.”
Hollie’s visible relief warms my heart and she nods. “Sure.”
The cafe is small and cozy with a long counter stretching from the door to the restrooms as the far end. The rest of the floor is dotted with several cute tables, each covered in a lace tablecloth and featuring different-colored birds, depending on where you sit. We choose the table furthest from the window with a cloth covered in bright blue and green birds. As we sit, Hollie races off to the restroom.
“You think she’s making a call?” Stu asks as he sits at the next table. His cloth is covered in parrots.
“If she were, it would redirect to my own phone,” I say. “Besides, I don’t think she guessed the passcode.”
“I’ve messaged Rex, by the way. He’s pissed that we stopped here.”
“Understandable.”
“He says if you get assassinated, he’ll bring you back and kill you himself.”
Scoffing softly, I nod and relax back in the wicker chair that creaks dangerously under my weight. “I’d expect nothing less.”
Hollie returns after a few moments and groans as she sits. “I feel terrible.”
“Are you ill? Is there medication or anything I should know about?”
She leans heavily on the table and rests her chin on her upturned palm. “No. Strongest medicine I use is a special ointment for my hands.”
“Your hands?” I glance down. Her hands look like regular, beautiful hands with short nails painted a light pink and the gold band of her wedding ring nestled around her finger.
