Chapter 2

Nikolai

What the fuck?

What the fuck is wrong with this girl? Nobody, and I mean nobody, had ever dared to talk to me about the rumors regarding my family. Even Jack treaded lightly on the topic, and he was like a brother to me.

My relationship with my father was complicated at best, but more often I would describe it as a cross between antagonism and disgust. I hated being associated with him, especially in the context of the organization I once admired, but now avoided at all costs. Her request was the stupidest fucking thing I’d ever heard. What the fuck could she possibly need from the mob? Did she want to score some blow for some party?

After that thought crossed my mind, I quickly reconsidered. Based on her appearance, I couldn’t imagine what party she might be attending. She was average height but wore baggy jeans and an oversized sweatshirt that did nothing for her body. I couldn’t even see her shape.

Her face wasn’t bad; she had pale skin that was now flushed as she wilted under my angry, baffled stare. Her blue-violet eyes looked dramatic against the frame of her dark rimmed glasses, but the glasses were slightly crooked on her face, like they were bent. I knew girls did the messy bun thing to look cute, but her bun was genuinely messy, like she’d slept on it or something. She looked a little homeless. God, was she homeless?

Whatever. She’d pissed me off. I grabbed her biceps and pushed her against the wall, prepared to tell her how dangerous, fatal even, it was to talk about my family.

"You might want to think very carefully about whatever the fuck is going to come out of your mouth next." Once again, I felt rage pumping through my system that this nobody would bring up my connection to the Bratva. Did she have a fucking death wish?

"Why the fuck are you talking about my family?" I demanded. Was she some kind of plant from another organization? The Italians? I looked her over again. No way.

Her eyes widened, and she started to shake. "I . . . I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. I just need help."

I released a snort of disbelief. Help? Nobody went to the mob for help. In fact, most people needed help in order to deal with the mob. It wasn't the fucking United Nations.

I paused for a second to look at her. I didn’t even know her name. I thought it was something with an H. Heather? Hillary? Didn’t know, didn’t really care.

As she stood in front of me, I could read the worry and fear in her expression. I’d gotten to be an expert at reading those two emotions. She definitely didn’t look like a soldier for another family. She looked fucking terrified. As I felt my anger recede, I became less suspicious and more curious. Why the hell did a high school senior from the suburbs need me, or Christ, the mob, to handle a problem for her? This girl probably wasn’t dangerous, just stupid.

"Why the hell do you need help?" I snapped in a tone I thought sounded calmer but, by the way she jumped and started stuttering like a snare drum, clearly didn’t.

“It’s—it’s a long story,” she finally got out. Her chest was heaving and, fearing she might have a panic attack, I gave her some space. I moved back and leaned against one of the desks, folding my arms and sighing in impatience. A long story. Fuck. But I'd asked for it, so I guessed I should shut up and listen to whatever crazy shit that was inevitably going to come out of her mouth.

She tipped her head back and took a deep breath. "Do you know Jeff Connors?"

"The principal's son?" Connors was a clean cut, preppy-looking asshole who thought he could do whatever the fuck he wanted because his dad was in charge. Usually he was right, but he knew who not to fuck with. Namely, me. He seemed more like a petty dickhead who used his father’s position more to act tougher than he actually was than to present any serious threat.

The girl nodded.

I should probably ask what her name was at some point.

"Yes. Him. Well, ever since middle school, he has . . . been interested in me. He’s asked me out repeatedly, and I’ve always turned him down. Initially, I was nice about it. I wasn’t looking to hurt his feelings.” She frowned, as if she regretted her earlier sensitivity. We were only a few sentences into the story, but I could already see one problem this girl had. She was too fucking nice.

She took a deep breath, which pressed what looked like a nice rack against her baggy sweatshirt and continued. “Things didn’t really start getting bad until high school. He didn't start asking me out directly until freshman year. He just hinted a lot before that, so I was able to avoid it by pretending I wasn't picking up on his hints. Then he started asking. I told him I wasn't allowed to date, which worked my freshman and sophomore years. That was believable. However, junior year, he was more…" she paused, frowning at the memory, "persistent. He went to my mother’s work to ask her if I could date him. My mom didn’t know anything about what I’d been dealing with. She just saw this clean-cut kid who seemed interested in her daughter. A safe prospect.” She laughed humorlessly at her characterization. “So, she said yes. After that, he got relentless, no matter how many times I turned him down. He would call me constantly. I even changed my number a few times.”

“You were changing your number? How could your mother not know what was going on?” I interrupted, aggravated by her mother’s inaction.

“I would tell her, like, a drug dealer or some criminal had the phone before me, and I was getting weird calls.” Her mouth lifted in a half smile. “The weird calls part was accurate.”

“How did he get the new numbers?” I asked, watching her body language. She looked much more relaxed now, leaning against the wall with her feet angled out in front of her. Telling someone about her situation was loosening her up. When her face wasn’t tense with anxiety and terror, she was kind of pretty. Her skin looked smooth, and her lips were pouty and full when they weren’t pulled into a grimace of misery and fear.

Her brow creased in consideration. “I think he would call my mom's number, which is on file with the school, and say the school needed the new number. I don’t imagine that would be a red flag to her, since I had been changing my numbers.”

I found myself frowning in agitation over her mother’s obliviousness. She must have read my expression because her next sentence answered another question I’d had.

“I didn't want her to know what was going on. She's a single parent with a lot on her plate, so I didn't want to bother her, you know?" She looked at me, as if imploring me to understand her dilemma. I was beginning to understand it just fine, and I didn't like it at all. Against my will, I was being pulled into her problems. She had no protection, no help. Instead, she was protecting her overworked mother from another hassle when she was the one in jeopardy.

"Continue," I prompted.

She sighed again, her posture drooping as if the weight of this escalating problem was literally resting on her shoulders. "He kept hassling me all last year, but I managed to hold him off. Our class schedules were totally opposite, so I would run to and from classes as fast as I could and leave school the minute the bell rang so I could avoid him. He would still show up at my house, but I could at least avoid that. My mom works a lot, so he would pick times she wasn’t around. Usually, he would just sit in his stupid car outside my house. For hours. Although, to be honest, he loves that car almost as much as he loves hassling me, so I’m sure it was no hardship for him to sit in it for hours at a time."

"What the fuck . . .? What’s your name?" I finally thought to ask.