Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine (Russian Mob Chronicles Book 2)
Nikolai: Taking Back What’s Mine: Chapter 8

“So everything’s okay? They’re looking after you?”

My brother Maddox’s hearty chuckle sounds down the line. “Everything’s fine, J. Compared to Wallens Ridge, this place is a country club.”

His tone is honest, but it doesn’t ease the worry brewing in my gut. Maddox has always been the quiet, reserved unit of our family. He could be eating a three-day-old reheated cheeseburger, and he’d still tell you it was the best meal he was ever served.

“I’m going to bring you home, Maddox.” When he tries to interrupt me, I talk faster, wanting to ensure I express myself before I lose the chance. Maddox’s calls are timed, and our ten minutes are nearly up. “It isn’t a possibility; I will bring you home. I’ll never stop fighting until I’ve fixed all the mistakes I’ve made. . .”

My words taper at the end when my throat clenches tightly. Most of my statement refers to my brother’s incarceration, but the small confession at the end was solely for Nikolai.

“J. . . you better not be crying. My time’s nearly up; I’ve already got the guard glaring at me. Fuck—I can’t hang up if you’re crying.” I hear him cup the phone before adding on, “Can you give me another minute? It’s my baby sister; she sounds like she’s crying.”

The guard mumbles something back, but because Maddox has the speaker muffled, I can’t hear what he is saying.

‘I’ll clean it with my toothbrush if you’ll give me another minute. Please.” The guard must agree with Maddox’s request as not even two seconds later, he adds on, “You’ve got a minute. Spill. Who made you cry? And don’t say you’re getting teary over my predicament; you shed enough tears the first month of my trial, you can’t have any left.”

More moisture burns my eyes, adoring the protectiveness in his voice. My brothers hate when I cry, even when they are the cause of my tears.

“I’m not crying,” I lie, my cracking voice betraying my fib.

“J. . .”

“I’m just emotional, that’s all. I’m a girl. We get emotional.”

“Twice in a week?” Maddox questions, his tone relaying he doesn’t believe my pathetic excuse. “Mom told me you were upset earlier this week. You’re supposed to be happy, J. You did all of this.” I can’t see him, but I can imagine him waving his hand around his space. “I’ve got a color TV, phone privileges, and Mom has been to visit twice this week already.”

I softly giggle at the grimace in his tone.

The tension in Maddox’s voice eases when he hears my laughter. “The guards love her, but if she keeps bringing them baked goods, my reputation is gonna go to shit.”

The last part of his confession spikes my interest. “Your reputation? What reputation?”

Maddox breathes noisily down the line, unappreciative of the tsk in my tone. “Things are different in here. You either man up or leave in a casket. I’m not leaving this place in a casket, J.”

I don’t have a chance in hell of holding in my tears, so I let them free. ‘You won’t leave in a casket if you’d just speak up. I know you’re keeping things from us, Maddox, vital information that could set you free.’

“Justine. . .” he growls in warning, gaining my attention with the use of my full name. Maddox only ever calls me Justine when I’m in trouble. “We’re not discussing this again. What’s done is done. We can’t change it.”

“No, Maddox,” I reply, refusing to bow to the command in his tone. “Your silence is the only reason you’re stuck in that hell hole.”

‘My silence is the only reason you’re not stuck in hell,” he interrupts, his words quickening. “I did this for you, J. To keep you safe. To keep you away from that monster.”

“Col is dead. He can’t come back from that, so there is no reason for you to continue your silence.”

My shrieked comments are met with silence—long, uncomfortable silence.

“Talk to me, Maddox. Let me help,” I mumble through hiccups a short time later.

“It isn’t that simple, J. I wish it was, but it isn’t.” He mumbles something to someone in the distance before saying, “I’ve gotta go. My time is up.”

A chair scraping across a tiled surface sounds down the line, closely followed by, “You’ve already done me proud, J. Your trek across the country brought me closer to home than I’ve ever been, so don’t feel bad. Your boss achieved something no man could do in years. . .but he wouldn’t have done it without you. It’s enough, J. It might not be what you want, but it’s enough for me.”

While wiping away my tears, I nod my head. I want to tell Maddox that Mr. Fletcher isn’t responsible for his transfer, but with our time dwindled down to seconds, I settle on, “I love you, Maddox.”

“I’ve never doubted it, J. Now go and live your life. I didn’t plead guilty for both of us to serve life behind bars.”

Not giving me a chance to reply, he disconnects our call.

I sit in silence for the next several minutes, recalling our brief conversation. It’s the first we’ve had since I moved to Vegas. I want to tell Maddox who is responsible for his transfer, but I am also apprehensive about what his reaction will be to me seeking aid from a man so similar to the one responsible for his incarceration.

That’s why I haven’t told my parents Nikolai deserves the praise they’ve been raining on Mr. Fletcher every time we’ve spoken since Maddox’s transfer. I don’t want my mom to hear my tears for the second time in a week. I pretended my sobbing was due to my happiness about Maddox’s transfer, but my mom didn’t buy my act. She knows there is more to my fluctuating moods than I let on. And so do I.

I haven’t heard from Nikolai the past three days. Not a peep. I should be happy by his standoffish approach, but I’m not. I’m miserable. Alone. Petrified. I’m not scared about the repercussions my fight with Nikolai may cause to my family; I’m panicked at how insecure I’ve become. I only knew Nikolai for four days, for crying out loud—four, measly, pitiful days—but my heart feels like it lost its lifetime companion.

Nikolai betrayed me. He pursued and bedded me while he was engaged to another woman, but no matter how much my brain rationalizes with my heart, my devastation hasn’t diminished. I honestly feel lost—even more than when I left my family and moved across the country.

I gained so much confidence in the four days I knew Nikolai, but that all vanished the instant his lips collided with Malvina’s. My attack four years ago made me half a woman, but Nikolai’s deceit was even more damaging than that. The blow was so brutal because of the beautiful thing he did for my family only days before he shattered my heart.

It truly is a double-edged sword. If Nikolai weren’t in my life, my wish to transfer Maddox to a safer facility would have never occurred, but his presence stirred up a whole set of emotions I didn’t plan for when I moved to Vegas. I’m supposed to be here for my family, but for the first time in a long time, I want to act selfishly.

Is that bad of me to admit? Should I feel guilty I want to put myself first? If you had asked me before my conversation with Maddox, I would have said a resounding yes. Now, I’m not so sure. Maddox is the key to unlocking his conviction, but with him refusing to help, I’m at a crossroads. I’ll never stop fighting to have his conviction overturned, but I can’t keep rotting away and not living my life anymore either. I’ve barely lived the past four years, my focus more on those around me instead of myself, so can’t I put myself first for just a little while?

Suddenly, my hands shoot up to swipe across my face when the awareness of being watched washes over me.

“Margarita Thursday. You coming?”

After ensuring my cheeks are tear-free, I swivel my chair around to face the voice. For the second time in under ten minutes, an unexpected giggle spills from my lips. Trent is standing in my office door, wearing the most hideous floral shirt I’ve ever seen. He has a pair of maracas in his hand and a ridiculous straw hat on his head.

“Come on, Justine, five-dollar margaritas. No one can turn down five-dollar margaritas.” He shimmies into my office, his dance moves as horrendous as his outfit. “I’m not taking no for an answer this time. You’ve been at Schluter & Fletcher over three months, but not once have you come out with the gang for drinks. It’s time to put some hair on your chest with the sweet burn of alcohol.”

“I can’t,” I murmur, waving my hand over the paperwork sprawled across my desk. “I have. . .” My words fade into silence when I fail to conjure a plausible excuse.

After my performance at the Popov compound three days ago, I’ve been relegated to intern hell. Years of studying criminal masterminds means nothing when you snarl at a client in front of your employer. Mr. Schluter’s scolding was brief but potent. Although he shredded my confidence into pieces; after the shenanigans I pulled, I’m grateful to still be employed—even if I’ve been demoted to a glorified file clerk.

“Come on, Justine,” Trent grumbles, promptly reminding me to save my wallowing until I’m in privacy. “You’ve always been a stiff, but you’ve been acting like a corpse this week.”

My mouth falls open, battered by his snide remark on my personality. I had no clue my determination to achieve goals I made four years ago makes me appear like a wet blanket. I know how to have a good time. Well, I did four years ago.

When Trent peers at me with giant, puppy dog eyes, I mumble, “Fine. Lead the way.”

I push back from my desk, nearly running over Trent’s toes since he is wearing flip-flops. If I don’t put my wheels in motion while my determination is high, I won’t leave my office before 11 PM just like the past four nights.

“Seriously, you’re coming?” Trent asks, his pitch high with shock. He is so startled by my agreement, he sounds a decade younger.

When I nod my head, he bolts into the corridor. “Michelle, get those extra clothes from your car. Justine’s coming.”

Before I can announce I’m perfectly fine wearing the clothes I have on, Mr. Fletcher’s impressive frame fills the doorway of my office.

“You’re coming out for drinks?” he asks, his voice rife with suspicion.

I nod, adoring his quirked expression. Although I got hammered by Mr. Schluter Tuesday afternoon, Mr. Fletcher kept his reprimand to a private, mature discussion on how I can better handle the situation next time a problematic client blindsides me. He never directly mentioned Nikolai’s name—or the compromising position he discovered me in the morning he arrived at my apartment unannounced—but his pep talk felt more personal than business, leading me to believe he understood the reason for my slip in composure.

“Are you in the mood for margaritas?” I ask, hesitantly pacing toward Mr. Fletcher, praying my extension of the olive branch won’t be rejected without consideration.

Before spending my weekend with a Mafia prince, Mr. Fletcher and I were close. Now it feels like I’m on the outs, not just with him, but everyone on our team.

A smile etches onto my lips when Mr. Fletcher pinches the crease of his trousers and raises the hem. He is also wearing flip-flops. Actually, come to think of it, they are identical to the ones Trent is wearing.

“Even when I’m not in the mood for drinking, I can’t pass up $5 margaritas.”

When Trent appears at his side, lugging an armful of Hawaiian-print clothes, I ask, “What’s with the clothing?”

Mr. Fletcher secures a straw hat from the top of Trent’s stack, places it on my head, then says, “Club rules. If you don’t wear the getup, you pay full price.”

I grimace. Cocktails, in general, are outrageous, but they price-gouge even more because of our hot-spot destination.

As we walk down the hallway, Mr. Fletcher’s suit jacket and long-sleeve business shirt are traded for a Hawaiian shirt and a grass skirt. With all the excitement in the air, it isn’t hard to tell Mr. Schluter’s half of the office is vacant. The pizza and beer Mr. Fletcher rewards us with when we have an all-night cram session never arrives until Mr. Schluter has left for the evening, so I doubt he’d be a fan of the current ruckus. He is as anti-social as I’ve been the past four years.

“I don’t have any more shirts, but if you whip off your blouse, your cami will go perfectly with this,” Michelle says, handing me a plastic grass skirt.

“Oh, it’s fine. My blouse will work,” I reply, slipping the skimpy accessory up my thighs and over my skirt.

When Michelle’s brows become lost in her hairline, I undo the bottom three buttons of my blouse and tie the ends into a knot in the middle of my stomach. With the floral lei Trent just handed me, I have the Hawaiian surfer chick vibe down pat.

“Ah, that totally works. Sexy and sophisticated.”

I smile, grateful for Michelle’s compliment, while also pleased with my quick thinking. I’m not ashamed of the circumstances that resulted in my scars—having the courage to tell a man no is nothing to be ashamed of—but I am embarrassed about my scars. Although I doubt any of my colleagues would look at me differently if they knew I was marked, my ego is too fragile to take another hit this week. I’m barely staying afloat as it is; I’m not strong enough to endure another blow.

“Was that Maddox you were talking to earlier?” Mr. Fletcher asks when we merge onto the sidewalk at the back entrance of Schluter & Fletcher.

Smiling, I nod. “Yeah. With Mom visiting him every other day, he used one of her calls on me.”

The twinkle in Mr. Fletcher’s eyes tells me he didn’t miss the sentiment in my tone. “So he’s settling in okay? Finding his way around?”

I nod again. “As well as he can for the situation.”

Placing his hand on the curve of my back, Mr. Fletcher guides us a few paces in front of the rest of our group. The reason for his sudden need for privacy comes to light when he faintly questions, “Did you ever discover who organized his transfer?”

I keep my eyes facing the front, taking some time to deliberate a response. Mr. Fletcher is a smart man, so I have no doubt he is aware my relationship with Nikolai went further than a standard attorney/client acquaintance, but with my emotions badly faltering, now isn’t the right time to admit to breaking company policy. I plan on telling Mr. Fletcher, but I want to do it in a professional manner—not when I’m a crying, blubbering imbecile.

I don’t trust my voice not to squeak, so I shake my head.

Mr. Fletcher’s lips crimp before he mutters, “Might have been an old application finally placed in the right hands?” he summarizes, his tone one he generally reserves for clients.

“Maybe,” I reply softly, hating how many lies I’ve told. Not just today, but my entire week.

With his hand remaining on my back, Mr. Fletcher directs me toward a rowdy club nestled far away from the strip. The turmoil plaguing me all week lifts in an instant when we walk into the vibrant, colorful space. I felt foolish walking down a bustling street in a grass skirt and a lei, but my outfit is tame compared to the many other patrons downing margaritas like their throats are on fire. One man has the Hawaiian look down to a T. His long brown wig sits on his shoulders, and the black markers used to trace islander tattoos on his biceps could only look more authentic if they weren’t intermingled with the sweat dripping from his pecs. He kind of looks like Dwayne Johnson. . . with hair.

“Margarita?” Kirk asks, glancing in my direction.

I smile before nodding my head. That is the first word Kirk has spoken to me since I stole his chance to first-chair with Mr. Fletcher last weekend. I had hoped his silence was because he was too busy to chat, but our staff meeting yesterday made me suspicious. Even when updating our department on incoming cases, he never looked my way.

When my hand delves into my purse to secure some cash to pay for my drink, Mr. Fletcher curls his hand over mine. “All drinks are on me,” he advises, his tone friendly.

“Oh, no, I can’t have you buying my drinks.”

I don’t know why, but I’ve always seen the purchase of drinks as something more meaningful than just friends hanging out. It is like when a man pays for a woman’s meal, is he just being nice, or is he hoping his gallantry will be awarded in a more intimate way?

Mr. Fletcher leans into my side, ensuring I can hear him over the music thumping around the club. “I’m not just buying your drinks, Justine. I buy everyone’s.” His tone reveals he didn’t miss the hesitation crossing my face.

“Why do you think we do Margarita Thursdays instead of Tequila Saturdays?” Trent shouts, obviously standing close enough to hear Mr. Fletcher’s guarantee.

“Because Carmichael is too cheap to pay full price,” Michelle, Trent, and Kirk shout in sync, their voices crackling with laughter.

When Mr. Fletcher shrugs, neither denying or confirming their assertion, I giggle for a third time today. At this rate, I’ll make up for my lack of social life in one evening.

“Are you sure?” I double-check. I’ve caused a lot of trouble for Mr. Fletcher the past week, so I’m not eager to add more drama to his life.

“I’m sure, Justine. It is just a drink. What’s the worst that could happen?”