In which the “getting to know you after I almost killed you” stage is a bit awkward.
Alexi…
Sweet Lucya Dubrovina. Kolibri.
The little girl I remember had endless energy, fluttering from place to place so often that I nicknamed her Kolibri, the hummingbird. My older brother Dmitri, who is not funny and also a fucking piece of shit, laughed, saying that Lucya’s “fat ass and stubby legs weren’t exactly hummingbird material.”
Fortunately, she’d been too far away to hear the asshole ridiculing her.
But here and now, this is Lucya? She’s tall, too lean, but beautiful, even in her shabby black server’s uniform and huddled against the dirty brick wall. Her dark hair was pulled up in an untidy ponytail, and her green eyes were huge over the hand covering her mouth… That was the moment I knew who she was, it was the color of her eyes. No one else had that translucent green shade, like sea glass on the beach.
Frowning, I watch the bruises darkening around her throat. “What were you doing out there? You know better than that.”
“It didn’t occur to me that you’d lured the Albanians out there to kill them all,” she says sharply. “But given your job description, I should have.”
“Why did you follow them? Do you have any sense of self-preservation? I saw those fuckers harassing you. I would have killed them just for that ass grab. They’re lucky it was quick.”
“I just-”
“Why did you come out there?” I ask, suddenly, unreasonably furious.
“I just wanted to see you!” Lucya snaps. “I thought… you would remember me.” She looks down, embarrassed at her outburst, and smooths her skirt back down her thighs. Pity. I was enjoying the view.
Pulling into the clinic’s parking lot, I glance over. Her cheeks are red and she’s staring straight ahead. I can see the glitter of tears in her eyes. “Kolibri. I would not have ever wanted you to see that. But you have. I know you’ll keep silent.”
“Of course,” she agrees. “Look, this isn’t necessary. “I’m Bratva. That doesn’t change whether I’m in St. Petersburg or Boston. Can you just drop me off at home? It’s not far.”
“I nearly snapped your neck. You’ll be checked out before I’ll let you go home.”
“Let?” Oh, now my hummingbird is upset. “You don’t have any authority over me, Alexi Anatolevich Turgenev!”
Opening her door, I lean down to capture her chin between my fingers and thumb, pushing it up until she’s forced to look at me. “Say that again.”
“You… that’s…” she sputters.
I pull her out of the car and into my arms. “That’s what I thought.”
“Aside from the fairly severe bruising on her neck,” the doctor says primly, “she’s in good shape. I checked her throat, and the swelling is already down.”
The clinic is small, tucked away in a residential neighborhood, but it’s exceptionally clean and holds hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of medical equipment. If she had to, Dr. Keller could perform open heart surgery with this setup. She’s in her fifties, a strong, no-nonsense woman who can subdue even the largest man if she has to. She’s used to sudden visits at all hours, so she didn’t bat an eyelash when I shoved the door open, carrying a protesting Lucya.
Lucya is drinking some anti-inflammatory concoction the doctor handed her and glaring at me. It’s about as intimidating as a rabbit staring down a wolf, but I admire her spirit. The girl I remember was always shy, usually getting into trouble, and didn’t stand up for herself. Bratva families are cruel and don’t reward sweet, gentle girls. She’s grown a spine, this one.
“Is she ready to go?”
“She is,” Dr. Keller says. Turning to Lucya with a smile, she cautioned, “If your throat closes up and you feel like you can’t draw a full breath, contact me immediately. You had a cut on the back of your head. I put in a couple of stitches, but the bruising around it is big enough that you might have a concussion.” She looks over at me. “Can you stay up tonight and keep an eye on her? You’ll need to wake her up every hour.”
“Oh, I don’t-” Lucya starts.
“That will be fine,” I cut her off. “I’ll take good care of her.”
Dr. Keller looks like she’s fighting back a smile. “I’m sure you will.”
“Really, I’m fine.”
Kolibri’s tone is plaintive. I’ve been ignoring her requests to take her home. I know nothing about her living conditions and taking care of her is my responsibility.
“I’m sure you are,” I agree while scooping her back up in my arms. She irritably kicks her legs.
“I can walk, Alexi!”
“I’m sure you can.” Leaning into the biometric scanner, I wait for the light to change from red to green and the huge metal door swings open. My home here in Boston is in a large, empty industrial building. The developer was renovating the space into condos, but once he’d finished mine, I bought the property and halted the construction.
The first floor is grim, with concrete walls and nothing to suggest this is anything more than an abandoned building. The black elevator doors silently slide open and Lucya looks at the numbers ticking upward on the display.
“This isn’t like a murder lair, is it?” She’s not quite as fierce now.
“No.” I know she’s hoping for more of an explanation, but I’m enjoying how she’s huddling against me. Her hair brushes against my jaw, the thick silk of it catching on my stubble.
The elevator doors open to my entryway and she gasps. “Wow. This is… holy crap Alexi, is this yours?”
Two of the walls are glass, looking out over the showy river of light from the Seaport District and the harbor. The living room flows into the kitchen, which I rarely use. The furniture is oversized, handmade to fit my bulk. It’s dark, almost cave-like with the charcoal-colored walls and black and grey accents.
“The Turgenev Bratva is moving into Boston,” I say, leaning against a pillar and watching her explore. “I needed a home base.”
“I would never guess this was here,” she shakes her head. “The rest of the building looks like a homicide waiting to happen.”
“I don’t like neighbors.” I notice she’s wandering toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten today?”
“Oh,” she shrugs, her cheeks pink, “I usually just eat after my shift.”
“So you haven’t eaten.” Taking out my phone, I message one of my men to stop by Mancini’s, my favorite Italian restaurant, and order one of every entree. “The food will be here soon.”
“This kitchen is beautiful and you have every appliance known to man and a couple that I don’t recognize,” she says. “I could just make something. Eating out is so expensive.”
Lucya Drubrovina is from one of the wealthiest Bratvas in Russia, and she’s worried about the cost of food. I remember something about her mother sending her and Inessa to the States to go to school. So why is she working herself half to death? Did she grow out of her baby fat or is her new figure because she’s been going hungry?
“I fear the only thing in the kitchen is scotch and coffee,” I say, watching her self-consciously smooth her hair back after catching a glimpse in the mirror in the hallway. “Would you like to take a shower while we’re waiting? You’ll feel better. I’ll put out some clothes for you.”
“I will never fit into anything of yours,” she laughs.
“You’ll be swimming in my shirts,” I agree, “but better my clothes than that bloody uniform.” Opening the door to my master bedroom, I lead her across to the bathroom, starting the shower that takes up half the room. It’s built against another wall of windows and looks out over the harbor.
“This is amazing!” Lucya’s exploring all the different knobs, watching each shower head spurt hot water as the room fills with steam. “That window, though. I can’t take my clothes off and be…” She waves her hands anxiously, “I’m not putting on a show for everyone stumbling out of that bar down the street.”
“I agree, I would have to kill every man who saw you naked. The window is reflective, you can see out, but no one can see in. It’s also bulletproofed.”
“There can’t be a worse time to get shot than naked with shampoo in your eyes,” she agrees, looking away from me, tugging on the hem of her shirt.
She’s not getting undressed. It’s ironic since women routinely strip down for me; in bed, the backseat of a car, a shadowy corner of a club. Kolibri, however, clearly intends to stand here uncomfortably until I leave the bathroom.
“Do you need some help?” It comes out sounding darker than I intended, but the pretty pink flush on her cheeks is making me hard.
What the hell? This is sweet little Lucya and my dick is hard enough to hammer nails. I’m a pervert.
“No! Um, thank you, I’ll just…” She waves awkwardly at the shower, steam billowing out and wreathing us in eucalyptus-scented mist. “If you could go?”
I head for the door, subtly adjusting my pants. “There will be clothes for you on the bed.” Pouring four fingers of scotch into a glass, I gulp it down, willing my cock to go down before the little girl I pulled from the frozen pond all those years ago realizes what a sick fuck I am.
She’s not a little girl anymore… The voice that represents all the worst elements in me speaks up. I pour another glass and tell my inner voice to shut the hell up.
