Page 47 of Dressed to Kill
But I stood there and let him do it. Whatever beast had taken over my body that let me kill Pavel wasn’t quiet, but it was contained, at least for now.
"Clear," the guy said.
"Good." I steered Fin toward the elevator with my hand still on him. "Stay close."
Kostya rode up with us. He stood in the corner with my gun tucked into his waistband and watched the numbers climb in silence. No banter. No how’s your mom doing from me. No fine, thanks from him. Just the silence of a grave half filled.
The doors opened on the top floor.
Nikita had the place lit up bright, every light on. The hall ran straight back to the double doors of his office, which stood open.
I heard him the minute I stepped off the elevator, and I froze.
That voice. That fucking voice.
Nikolai had always sounded more like our father than me. He was speaking French with Pop’s voice, which made it sound all kinds of wrong. And he was laughing. With Nikita. What the fuck was he laughing about with my boss?
Kostya cleared his throat, and I forced myself to shake it off and keep going.
The hall was too long and too bright. Nikolai's voice came down the whole length of it, easy, warm, French rolling out of him like he was at a dinner party. I still didn't have a word for what this was. I kept walking toward it with Fin half a step behind me and my empty holster light against my ribs.
I'd spent four years not thinking about my brother. I was good at it. Now here he was, thousands of miles out of place, laughing in my boss's office at two in the morning.
I stopped just short of the door. Nikita stood behind his desk, looking more grim than usual. A handful of folding chairs had been brought in from somewhere, but most of them were empty.
All except for one, and I recognized the woman sitting in it. Lyudmila. Pavel's wife. I'd sat at her table. I'd eaten her cooking, I'd called her husband brother, and then I'd shot him in the back in a tailor shop in front of God and the Greeks.
She looked up at me, eyes red rimmed and wet. A better man would’ve felt some guilt looking at the widow he’d made, but I couldn’t find it.
“Bratishka!” Nikolai was sitting in the open window, a glass of vodka in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He pushed up the moment he saw me, finished off the vodka, discarded the glass, and crossed the room. I tried not to recoil when he put his hands on my shoulders and kissed one cheek and then the other.I fucking hated when he did that shit and he knew it. “Privyet! How are you? It’s been too long.” He said it all in Russian, which, I was annoyed to learn, he spoke better than me.
"Hello, Nikolai."
“You look terrible. You know what you need? You need a woman to feed you. Or two. Like Papa, eh?”
I glared at him because the fucker knew exactly which knife he was twisting. But that was Nikolai for you. He’d never given a shit about anyone but himself.
I was about to tell him to go fuck himself, papa and all, when I caught the movement behind him.
My cousin, Warrick Laskin, sat in the corner, all long, slim limbs and sharp features. I’d once joked that for a pale blonde guy, he could sure as fuck look grim on a Tuesday. But if Nikita was grim, tonight Warrick wore the expression of a fucking reaper. He sat with one ankle crossed over his knee, a black bag on the floor in front of him.
I knew, better than most, what that fucking bag meant because I’d seen Warrick work a man over before.
And he might not have been as brutal as someone like Pavel about it, but Warrick was precise and he was calm, where Pavel enjoyed the work. Warrick would put on fucking Madonna and tell you to stop screaming so he could concentrate. I’d read somewhere once that there were a disproportionate number of psychopaths who worked as surgeons. Guess that made Warrick a fucking poster boy for psychos.
He nodded to me, but stayed where he was, seated beside Nikita’s desk.
“Aleksi, come in and shut the door,” Nikita instructed, pouring another glass of vodka. It was the expensive stuff. That was never a good sign.
I did as he asked.
Nikita poured a second glass and held it out. I crossed the room, took it, and drank it holding Nikita’s eyes. He grunted, pleased, and stood up straight.
“Ah, you must be thirsty, malysh, standing there so quiet. Here." Nikolai picked a clean glass off Nikita's tray and started to pour. "Drink with us."
I opened my mouth to tell Fin to take it and shut up.
I was too slow.
