“You have no need to be scared while you are here, Allie. It is what’s on the other side of that window,” he says, jabbing a finger at it pointedly, “that you must fear. And if you keep that in mind, you will be fine.”
He says it all so seriously I could almost be convinced, if it weren’t for the fact I am fairly certain this man is a murderer.
But I give him a small nod, like I’m on his side. As if we both want the same thing. And, if he does want me to be safe, then we definitely want the same thing.
“I get that, but Mikhail, people are going to be looking for me. And my mom, she’s... I mean, a few years ago, she had a fall, and it affected her mind. Dad passed years ago, and she really needs me to help take care of her.”
His brow furrows just a bit, and he’s silent again. I know I have him considering my words. He takes his time and wets his lips, and I feel like I have him.
“If you die, your mother would be very put out then, nyet?” he says, that strange words on the end completely foreign to my ears.
“She needs me, so I can’t die,” I say, trying to choose my words carefully, even though I’m panicking that he’s going to leave and I’m going to be stuck. He can’t leave! “But she has pills. Medication she has to take, and I have to make sure she takes it and gets to all of her appointments. I don’t even know what day it is...”
He pauses a moment, but then reaches into his back pocket, pulling out a small pad of paper and a pencil the length of my thumb. He puts it down right in front of me.
“Write out the details of your mother’s care,” he instructs me very pointedly, his gaze narrowing. I feel like I’m under a heat lamp as a detective scrutinizes me.
My shoulders slump, and I sit down on the couch, pencil in hand as I try to remember everything that was in my phone. It’s pretty sad that I can barely remember, considering how routine it is.
I scribble down as I remember.
Every third Tuesday, appointment with Dr. Nevaro.
Twice daily reminders to take her pills. Blue in the morning, yellow and white at night before bed.
Once a month, hospital for treatment for osteoporosis.
I hand it back to him.
“I don’t know how to spell all the drug names, but she has real problems with me not being around. I really need to check on her, Mikhail. You have a mom, right? And she means a lot to you?”
He takes the paper from me and sizes it up before folding it and slipping it into his pocket.
“My mother is long dead,” he says grimly as he turns and walks away. My heart sinks.
But as he reaches the door he pulls it open and stops, looking back me.
“I will see yours doesn’t yet meet the same end,” he states simply, then swiftly vanishes out the door, leaving me to the simple furnishings, all by myself.
“Fuck!” I cry out into my humble cage. I can’t stay here. I don’t care how safe he thinks it is, I can take care of myself, and being held captive by a man I don’t know—a man who openly carries a gun on his hip—is not going to work for me.
He said the window was sealed shut, but there’s gotta be a way out.
Then I remember my stilettos. Maybe I could use those to bust open the glass! Or hammer the door.
No matter what, I’m getting out of this safehouse-turned-prison.
3
Mikhail
Every meeting with that girl is a struggle.
If she’s not taunting me with her natural good looks, she’s tugging at heartstrings I didn’t even know I had. It’s a fucking nuisance.
I pull on my leather jacket, make the phone call I have to, then head right out. But now I’m here, back at this dark, dingy bar. Where low life mobsters come to get work. I hate this place and almost never come. The work finds me at this point in my career, after all.
Smoking laws forbid it, but the law has no consequence in this place, so smoke lingers in the air as a bunch of guys, young and old, try and put on airs of being tough. But every single one of them is shaken by my entry.
Every one of them knows who I am, by reputation or rumor.
I could rule them. I could be boss of this whole stretch of the city if I wanted to.
But I turned that down long ago. I’m happiest doing what I do.
“Mikhail,” says Nikita behind the bar, the surprise on her face mixed with pleasure. She’s a good girl, the only good part about this dive. “Didn’t expect you here!” she says as she pulls out a glass and starts to make me a drink without even asking. She knows what I like, even now.
“I was in the neighborhood,” I say with a shrug of my shoulders, leaning in over the bar and shooting the young punk nearest me a look.
He scurries off, taking his drink further down the bar and giving me the space I want.