Page 103 of Vile Bastards
What she doesn’t understand is this: if the mob finds out that those three men are dead, what does it look like? It looks like the three people who ratted out Pavel Borisov for double-crossing his family have been executed. Then what? Then they come for Alexei and, because of him, Scarlett.
Alexei needs to talk to them first before that can happen.
And anyway, is Ash selfless enough to carry out such an act? Regardless of whatever dirt he might offer up on those men, he’s complicit. He’ll end up in prison and out of Scarlett’s reach, possibly forever. Could he do it? Maybe he could shoot them all in quick succession, execution style. But they have muscle of their own. Beyond that, they’re all crazy.
Crazy people are, by very definition, unpredictable.
I chuckle at that, icy wind cutting through my clothes.
Some random homeless man from the nearby tent city—within view of the penthouses at the top of the nearby skyrise—stumbles between me and Emma, vomiting on the ground at our feet.
Emma Jean stumbles away from and around him, coming over to stand next to me. For protection? Would I bother to protect her if something happened? I’m not sure, to be honest. Maybe, maybe not.
“I have a cold; I’m taking the day off. Want to tell me the reason you called me outside in my pajamas?” she asks, huddled up in a khaki coat. Emma lives in one of the many condos nearby, though I haven’t bothered to tail her to find out which one. Doesn’t matter.
“You have a spare bedroom, don’t you?” I ask, and her nostrils flare.
“You want to move in?” she asks, voice thick with suspicion.
“Not me. Alexei Grove.” I offer her up an almost genuine sort of smile. This is going to hurt. She might even die. But if there’s one expendable person in this mess who can fulfill this role, it’s Emma Jean. “He needs a place to live.”
“Alexei Grove?” She pauses and her face lights up. “He’s for sure still alive?” Emma’s eyes glitter with the promise of a good story. Fortunate, isn’t it? That she’s tempted so much by so little. Excitement bleeds into curious suspicion. “What’s in it for me …?”
“You wanted to interview him? Shit, you could write a book.” I lean in toward her as we move away from the upchucking vagrant. I have no time or patience for addicts, and that man is clearly on some sort of comedown. “That’s what you get: his story.”
Emma exhales and then pauses, bouncing up and down on her toes, and shaking out her hands. I can’t place her age for the life of me. Is she twenty? Is she thirty-two? Fuck, she could be twelve. She has a quiet diminutiveness to her, small breasts, narrow hips, a pixie face.
I find her creepy. I get the same sort of chills when I look at her as I do when I see a bright, sparkly children’s cartoon, this crawling disturbance that sweeps over me. It might be a blessing if the mob were to track her down and kill her.
“Okay, fine.” She turns to me and wraps her khaki coat tighter around herself to fend off the weather. “When does he move in?”
“Tonight.” I slide my phone from my pocket and make a call. Within a minute, Alexei Grove is walking around the corner, hood pulled up, mask in place. He pauses in front of her, and Emma’s eyes widen. She wets her lips. “Give him your car keys.”
“My car keys?” she asks, swallowing hard. With a sigh, Emma reaches into her jacket pocket and removes a key from her ring, handing it over to Alexei. He reaches up a gloved hand, gagging as she drops the item into his palm. He quickly pockets it, removing a bottle of hand sanitizer and smearing it across his exposed fingertips. Fingerless gloves are the only ones in his future; he best get used to it.
Anyway, I scored Emma Jean a new (old) untraceable car. That, and I buried the mayor’s hired gun. She doesn’t need to know that I did it for free because I’m in love with Scarlett. I demanded payment from Emma, and I’m getting what I want. We’re borrowing that same car now.
Alexei cannot come to the track with me. However, he must come.
How else are we going to test out his disguise?
“You’re really Alexei Grove?” she asks him, and he reaches up, yanking his mask down his porcelain face. Fucking aristocrats. I hate few other personality types more than this one.
“Is this enough for you?” he asks, as if his face is just that recognizable. I mean, maybe it is to someone who cares about those sorts of things? Emma Jean does, I know, but only because she studies her enemies well. She knows everyone in this hyper wealthy ring of corruption.
