Grievous (Wanted Men Book 5) (32 page)

His mouth turned down at the corners when his phone buzzed. He took it from his pocket and still he didn’t look away as he answered. “Sorin.”

The change that came over him had Yasmeen sitting up. As he continued to listen, she found herself barely drawing a breath so as not to attract attention to herself. His demons. She was looking right at them as they writhed and swirled in his darkening ocher stare.

He said something in his language, got to his feet, and was out the door before she could even think to stop him.

Her lungs burned as she sucked in some air and sank back into the pillows. She stared at the dark hallway through the open door and drew the blankets up to her chin. If the eyes really were the window to the soul, she was the pet of Satan himself.

The trip to New York was the longest sixteen hours Lucian had ever spent. Plans had been cemented, and the long wait was finally over. Their Baikov contact had confirmed Sergei was ready to move on his uncle.

The Fane organization was now in position to move on him.

Lucian looked out the window of the lead chopper of the three flying in a V formation, but he wasn’t watching Long Island whiz by below, he was seeing Sergei Pivchenko’s dead body. He couldn’t arrive and find that.

And didn’t.

The choppers landed. Their team got into position. Lucian was held back as a shot rang out inside Vasily’s compromised home. And only when Gheorghe deemed it safe did he lead them in.

Lucian entered the debris strewn foyer he’d crossed many a time to attend one of Vasily’s rare social functions or simply to share a meal with the Russian leader. He had tunnel vision this day, his sights set on his brother’s murderer who was currently being chopped up by a man seeking his own revenge for a multitude of acts performed against him and his family, one of which being the attempted murder of the infant daughter Alek had only just learned he had. Sorin yanked one of Markus’s best friends off their target and shoved him between two poised MP5s.

Lucian didn’t hesitate to reach down and drag Sergei to his feet. He was missing an arm and was unkempt, but alive. Cupping the back of the killer’s head, he poised a long, curved blade beneath a weak chin.

“Finally. You have come out from under your rock.” Feeling something roll into his foot, he looked down to see the missing arm. He kicked it away. “But it will not be your cousin who has the pleasure of killing you. It will not be your uncle, either. My brother, who you took for nothing, was not only innocent, he was
mine
. He was
mine
, and you stole him. So, now, I will steal you.”

He brought the sickle he’d found in the lower level of the castle down, plunging it into the soft spot under Sergei’s collarbone. The tip escaped through an exit wound but curled around the clavicle to act as a hook. When it all became too much for the Russian’s body to process, it shut down, and Sergei went limp. Using his makeshift hanger, Lucian took in nothing of his surroundings as he dragged his prize away. He was intent on getting him into the chopper where one of the best surgeons in the country waited to perform a patch job.

In no time at all, they were landing on the helipad behind Lucian’s Southampton home. It took two hours for the surgeon to properly tend to—mainly cauterize—Sergei’s injuries. Lucian stayed in the infirmary the entire time, glad there was a reason important enough not to order the others out so he could be alone with his prisoner. It gave him time to bring himself to a place where he was able to separate what he wanted to do from what he would do. He dug deep and found a detachment. How? By picturing his pet waiting for him. Whenever the urge to kill rose, he jammed Yasmeen’s image in his frontal lobe, and found the distraction he needed. Usually by picturing her sitting on her feet, her hands on the floor in front of her, not a stitch on save for her collar and that tail she’d so beautifully taunted him with. Mmm. He had to fuck her with that dark fur wrapped around his fist. He could work the plug in and out in time to his thrusts and watch her smash to pieces right in front of him.

“Lucian.”

He looked up from where he was staring at the hole in Sergei’s skin and found himself smiling. That must look odd.

“Yes?”

Sorin hadn’t spoken to him the entire trip except in regards to the operation they’d just completed. “Can we get this piece of shit taken care of so we can go home?”

Home. Yes. “Of course.” He waved two of their men over. Both were medically trained. “Take him out to the front lawn.”

As they walked behind the stretcher, he and Sorin had a short discussion. When the surgeon, who came along out of curiosity, deemed Sergei fit for a photo op, Sorin arranged to have some materials waiting for them.

It took some doing, and much direction from the medical professionals, but in the end, Lucian, Sorin, and six of their men stood back to look at their handy work.

“You can’t leave him up for more than a few minutes or he’ll bleed out.”

Lucian nodded. He took his phone out and snapped a photo of Sergei Pivchenko resembling a scarecrow. They’d impaled him on a twenty-foot-long spike that was speared into the ground in the very place Lucian and Markus used to stand and talk when they wanted complete privacy. Not even his professionals had found a way to install listening devices on blades of grass.

“I have what I need,” he said as he turned away. “Take him down.” He stopped next to the surgeon and wasn’t surprised to see Claude and Gheorghe had come out. “You will tend to him just enough so he does not die. I mean no disrespect, Claude, but is this an assignment you would rather pass on?”

“No.”

“Very well. I want regular updates.” As he walked away, he sent a text to every contact he had in his phone. He included the picture he’d just taken. If it came down to it, he would not be afraid to re-enact the tale and add row upon row of spikes, one for every man who dared cross him. “Sorin?”

“I’ll call the airport.”

Lucian nodded. “I will be ready after a shower. I suggest you take one, too.”

As they entered the house, three Dobermans sprung up from where they were sprawled around the foyer. Their nails ticked as they came to Lucian and Sorin, stubby tails wagging, ears down. Their chains jangled as they were greeted with subdued strokes.

A man appeared under the arch that led to the living room, and further down, a rec room that didn’t get much use. Zlatan Novak. He was over six feet, lean and deceptively relaxed. He had dark hair, and eyes that were as blue as the Mediterranean. Currently, they were trained on the iPad in his hand.

After a moment, he lifted his head and nodded, raising the device. “I have news I think you might want to hear.”

Highly doubtful. Lucian motioned him to go on.

“Before he was taken down, your lawn ornament tried to kill Alek Tarasov. Apparently, Vasily took the bullet in his nephew’s place. He was hit in the chest, and that was
after
he’d already taken one to the gut only moments before. Davidenko still has him in his operating room.”

Lucian didn’t do or say anything for a moment. He stood there and tried to find the affection he held for the leader of the Tarasov Bratva. It was as if he was seeing it through an impenetrable glass case; he just couldn’t reach it. But it was there.

“Where have they taken him?”

Zlatan texted, and got an answer. “Kirov says they are still in the infirmary in Vasily’s home.”

“Send them the best we have. It is doubtful, but maybe—”

“Our best are here to keep our prisoner alive,” Sorin cut in.

Lucian looked to the front door and didn’t have to think long before making a decision. “Keep Brian and send Kurt. Once Sergei is stable, Brian may go over, too. Sergei can suffer; Vasily should not. Leave word to do whatever we can to ensure that man does not leave us or the family that is no doubt at their wits end right now. We cannot go through this again so soon.”

As Zlatan made arrangements, Lucian went up to shower. As he stood under the spray and watched the pink water circle the drain, he was tempted to send up a prayer for his friend, but didn’t. He and God had parted ways long ago, why ever would their creator do him any favors now?

♦ ♦ ♦

After waking alone, Yasmeen showered and got her search on. She was looking for Sorin, not Lucian, but ended up finding neither.

Hour after hour passed, a couple spent in the sitting room, a few in the library, a handful outside petting the nose of one of the horses while a man with a semi-automatic stood fifty feet away.

She thought and thought. About how Lucian had lost his father and siblings. About his obsessive need to get her under his control. To keep her hidden away. She wondered how he’d had his mother killed. Would he tell her if she asked? She thought about the way he touched her. How lost she became, and how addictive that was. The look on his face when she’d showed him the tail. She thought about what he’d done to punish her for trying to leave him. His cruelty. Had he extended it to last hours because she’d taken off her collar?

The one he’d placed around her neck last night, no matter what she did, would not come off.

I do not love you, Yasmeen. So why would I feel compassion for you?

As dinnertime approached, she once more made her way to the kitchen. She’d popped in and out all day, hoping to find the elusive cooks but had found nothing but prepared food. This time, she was tickled to see two women in residence. Both shared the same dark tones as the locals she’d seen in town when she’d gone in with Sorin. They stopped what they were doing to turn and smile at her. One was early thirties, the other mid-fifties. Yasmeen blushed when she realized the older one was the same woman who’d given her the ice tea the other day. She’d also served dinner the night Lucian had collared her.

“Hello.” She smiled but tried to hide her glee at finding them. “Um, do you by any chance speak English?”
Pleeease, speak English.

Nothing but smiles.

Fuck. “Okay. Uh, Lucian? Mr. Fane?” She put her hand up to show someone tall.

They nodded, smiling.

“You know, that tall, brutally sexy dickhead who ditched me without so much as an I’ll-see-you-later?”

They came forward, shrugging, and even though they were darlings, Yasmeen wanted to scream in frustration. She swallowed the urge and held her friendly look.

“It’s okay. I’ll just continue wandering around this goth paradise and wait for the sound of my madman’s footsteps. Sorry to bother you. Maybe I should take this opportunity to run my ass off and hop on the next train to Paris, huh? Do you by any chance know where he stashed my passport? No? Damn. Okay, well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go cry my fucking eyes out then jump off one of the turrets.” She smiled widely and turned only to nearly run over a young boy who was gawking at her. He looked to be around twelve or thirteen.

“Oh! Hello,” she said carefully.

“Salut.”
He was shaking his head as he looked to the younger of the two women. He pointed at Yasmeen and he ripped something out so quickly in his language she had no hope of recognizing it even
was
a language. The women gasped and grabbed Yasmeen’s arm. They started talking at once, the older one cupping Yasmeen’s face and patting her cheeks in a way she must do with her grandchildren all the time. For some reason, that made her throat sting.

“Hey, er, guess there’s no point in me asking what’s wrong because you can’t tell me anyway,” she muttered as she patted them back. Her smile was slipping.

“Lady say jump. Mihai tell.”

At hearing words she actually recognized, she spun around to face the boy. “What? What did you say? You speak
English
? Oh, my God. Really? That’s amazing! Will you…wait, what did you say?”

“Lady say jump. Mihai tell.” His expression grew dazed as he stared. He began smiling. Weird little guy.

She looked to the fretting women. The older one had her eyes closed and her hands clasped. She was praying.

“Oh, shit. I didn’t mean it, kid. I was just being silly. Sarcastic. Do you know what sarcastic means? Oh, God,” she groaned as she patted the woman’s shoulder and shook her head at his mother.

“Boss bring the bad time if lady jump. To Mama.” The boy’s staring was interrupted by his mother moaning. “Boss make go. No food.” He patted his stomach and his mother grabbed Yasmeen by the hand and shoved her into a chair. She spoke for a good five minutes to the boy then motioned him to repeat it.

“Er, boss smile for lady. Like lady. Er, no die.” He motioned around the room. “Bring the bad time.”

“I won’t die. I won’t jump. I promise. No jump. It was a joke. You know? Ha ha.” She cringed. Lucian liked her? He smiled for her? When? Why hadn’t she seen it? More tears tried to choke her. Christ, she was turning into a wimp. “I won’t jump. Never. Never ever. Okay?”

He said something to the others that made them clap and cheer, but there was a new wariness in their eyes. Yasmeen stood, held up a finger, and left them alone. The older one started chanting something.

Returning some minutes later, she held the dictionary she’d thumbed through earlier because it had English words in it. She waved it and read the few words she’d found during her walk back.