An Obsession with Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 3) (32 page)

Andy grinned, shrugging. “I watch TV. Heard it all before.”

He ruffled his hair and held his hand out. “I’ll make it so your phone can’t be traced or your info hacked.”

“Like, right now?”

He nodded, and when the phone was handed over with enthusiasm, he opened it up and got to work. “Sorry we had to pull you away from your buddy’s place,” he said as he tapped, closing and deleting a few files, while opening and altering others.

“No big.”

“This your girlfriend?” Maks nodded at the screen saver, which was the photo of a smiling girl about Andy’s age. Her eyes were dancing and she had a tipped-up nose sprinkled with freckles. Cute, even though twelve was ridiculously young to be hooking up.

“No. That’s my sister.”

The bottom fell out of Maks’s stomach. “Come again?”

“That’s Eleanor. My aunt Emily’s daughter. They took her away from us last year after my aunt OD’d,” Andy mumbled, eyes closing. “But she’ll always be my sister.”

Vasily would have loved hearing that, Maks thought, touched by the sentiment himself as he continued to fiddle with the phone. He pulled up the kid’s messaging and texted himself the photo. Looked as though he had some work to do tonight. “What’s her full name? Do you know it?”

“Eleanor Erica Grant.”

He input that into his own phone.
Erica?
Had Emily named her after Sydney? he wondered.

“Her birthday coming up soon?” he inquired casually.

“Yeah. March 10.”

Sydney had said the kids were the same age, so he used Andy’s birth year and had to blink the moisture from his eyes when he yawned widely.

“My mom said I could swim tomorrow. Is that okay?” Andy asked as the contagious aspect of the gesture did its thing. Maks saw molars free of fillings.

He had to smile at the manners and nodded even though the kid’s eyes were closed. Done, he leaned over and put the phone on the nightstand. “Sure. Feel free to use whatever amenities you find in the house.”

“Cool. Thanks, Russia,” he mumbled.

“You’re welcome, kid.”

As he watched the boy’s face relax, Maksim was surprised to find he meant that commonly spoken expression in a much deeper way than Andy would have heard in it.

CHAPTER 20

Maksim woke with a gasp, his arm shooting out in front of him, reaching for . . . nothing but air. He blinked, hating the distress, the helpless terror making his heart slam up into his throat. He looked around to see he’d fallen asleep in Andy’s room, and amethyst eyes were watching him closely, curiously. But they weren’t the boy’s; they were Sydney’s.

Jeeeesuuuus Chrrrrrriiiist.

She slowly made her way over from the wingback where she’d been sitting in the corner.

“Are you okay?” she asked softly.

He stared.

“Maksim?”

He stared some more. Sex. With her. Was the first thing that popped into his head at the sight of his little Aussie wearing nothing but that bulky gray knit sweater more suited to winters in Siberia and thigh-high leg warmers.

But then he saw that her feet were bare.

The tightness in his chest got worse.

“Maksim? Are you awake?” she whispered with an uneasy look she tried to hide, her gaze going from him to Andy—who was snoring quietly at his elbow—as if she was suddenly afraid he might hurt the kid. He wouldn’t. Was too busy watching Sydney’s image morph into that of one of the girls who’d briefly occupied the cell next to his. She’d worn a dirty linen dress that had flowers on it, and her hair had been dark. He remembered they’d taken her clothes and shoes when she refused to have sex with them the first night they’d brought her in, vowing to return them when she gave in. Maks had been there about two months at that point and had known what would come next. He’d been helpless to stop it.

The girl never got her clothes and shoes back. But they’d had sex with her. And he’d had to listen to it, to the violence of it. The malevolence. He’d heard the terror and enjoyment, respectively. And then he’d had to listen to her cry. For hours and hours she’d cry, that girl.

A soft touch on his cheek registered. “Hey.”

He cleared his throat and wished these flashes of his past would stop coming to him. “You should put something on your feet,” he said, his voice sleep roughened.

She wriggled her toes as she drew her fingertips lightly across his jaw. “Why?”

“For your comfort.” Christ, she was too tiny. He should have been so much more careful with her. Next time he would be.

“I am comfortable.”

He nodded absently, making a mental note to hit the thermostat and crank up the temp. He looked at her feet again. How could one be so at ease that they walked around barefoot? He rarely did. Not even here at home. Directly out of the shower he sometimes slipped his feet into his adidas flip-flops, for fuck’s sake.

“You don’t like being barefoot?” Sydney asked, her tone hushed as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Looking away from her dainty toes—the silver polish made her feet look cold—he pulled himself up a little straighter. “No.”

“Why?”

“Are you three?” he snapped. He hated his thoughts. Hated being in his own head. Hated remembering. Hated the nightmares he was once more having since shooting Nika. Hated having to talk about shit when he just wanted it all to fuck off. It was no wonder he’d barely slept in the past weeks. “Only three-year-olds repeatedly ask that one-word question.”

Her eyes flared with affront, darkening to the beautiful purple they became when she was upset or aroused. “Really.” Her voice had lost its warmth and softness, proving anger was the cause for the color change.

She went to get up, but he tightened his fingers around where he figured her wrist would be under all that soft material. “Sorry. Fuck, I’m sorry. I . . .” What could he say? “I’m an asshole.” Besides the truth. “It pisses me off to have this shit in my head, and I lashed out. Forgive me.”

She inched back down, her ass cheek snugging up to the side of his knee. An indignant sigh puffed out of her. “You also mentioned having bad dreams the other day. Do they come every night?” she asked warily.

“Haven’t had them in years. Until I shot Nika. Now they’re back.”

Sympathy cloaked her features, and her hand came out. Just before it covered his where it rested on his lap, she pulled back, denying him the simple pleasure—the comfort.
Annoying.
He reached out and rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. She watched the action and said, “If you think it might help, you can tell me about it . . . ?”

“This one was . . .” His brow tightened as he tried to get it back. “A girl was crying, and I looked up and saw Nika. She was begging me to take her to Vincente. The closer she got, the more scared she looked. She had a key in her hand. The same one I keep in my pocket. Just before she unlocked me, she was shot in the chest. I looked down, and I was holding the gun. It took me a few to look back because I didn’t want to acknowledge what I’d done . . . When I did, she was you. I tried to help, but I couldn’t reach you because I was in the cell.” He paused to breathe. “I woke up when your chest went still. Dreams are so fucked up.”

Both Sydney’s hands came out to clasp his. “Oh, Maks—”

“Sucky dream. Who’s Nika, and why were you in a cell? I always dream of the beach. We might go to Jamaica for March Break this year, right, Mom? Never had anyone die in my dreams before. Sure don’t like that it was my mom.”

Sydney was grimacing and then blinking rapidly. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed, intertwining their fingers. And just like that, she destroyed the negative emotions roiling through him when she raised his hand and dropped a kiss to his knuckles before leaning over to poke her son in the ribs. Andy jerked, but his eyes remained closed, lip stretched up where it was caught on the pillow, dark-blond hair sticking up all over the place. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Andrew,” she scolded.

“Wasn’t.
I
was trying to sleep. It’s you two who have so much to say. How early is it?”

Feeling a grin claim his face, Maks pulled the pillow from behind his back and thumped the fluffy mass across the kid’s shoulders. “Next time grunt to let us know you’re awake. There’s going to come a day when you’re going to hear something you wished you hadn’t.” He raked his gaze down Sydney’s form again, because he just couldn’t help himself, and tried not to let his body react to the sight of the tawny skin of her thighs that was visible between where her sweater ended and the leg warmers began.
Mouthwatering.

Andrew’s laugh distracted him, and he lifted the pillow to allow the kid some air—not that he was covering his face or anything. Tossing it to the foot of the bed, Maks slid by Sydney and got to his feet. “I’m going to shower. Meet me down the hall in twenty, and we’ll go up for breakfast.”

He left without grabbing that tattooed wrist and dragging his Aussie to his room with him.

Sitting in the darkness afforded by the cloudy skies and covered car park, slouched so that he couldn’t be seen, Eberto Morales waited. His brother thought he could still call the shots, tell him what to do.
Fuck him.
And that sonofabitch Russian thought he’d be intimidated by some old-school threats.
Fuck him, too.
He knew guys like Kirov. Knew they were gutless deep down. They wouldn’t go after a kid. Because there was something inside them that wouldn’t allow it.

Eberto had been born without that something. Which was one of the many reasons he’d always felt inferior to Luiz. His brother cared about people, his bitch of a wife, his son. Him.

Eberto didn’t.

He went into his pocket and took out the piece of paper he’d torn from the pad his daughter kept by the phone at home so that she wouldn’t forget to write his messages. She’d done that only once. Never again. On the paper was the flight information for a charter to Mexico that he’d written out. Putting his arm out, he let it go and watched it flutter and billow until it landed beside his foot.

A decoy for the Russian.

Two women walked by, their voices muffled, and then a man. And a group of older women.

Come on
, he thought. Shift change had been fifteen minutes ago. She should—

A female’s laugh sounded, and he slouched farther down, putting his hands in his pockets so nothing as light as skin showed. The car he was in beeped as the beautiful blonde he’d been told about appeared, walking around the hood, hospital scrubs on under her short jacket, cell pressed to her ear.

“. . . drove today because I had an appointment before work. I know, hands-free.” She pulled open the door and slid into the driver’s seat. “Which means I’ll have to let you go. I’ll see you after your shift? Goodie. Bye.” Slamming the door, she threw her phone and purse onto the passenger seat, but before she could insert the key in the ignition, he surged forward to nail her arm. She dropped the keys and let out a little scream that choked off when she felt his blade press into the thin skin covering her jugular.

“’Bout time you got here, Doc. I was getting lonely.”

Her breath was coming fast, her eyes wide and so fucking blue he could see their color through the shadows in the rearview mirror where they met his. She sounded as if she were being fucked, and that made him hard. But most things a woman did made him hard, so she wasn’t anything special.

“My purse is right there. Take whatever you want.”

He chuckled. “You shouldn’t say that to a man like me.” He reached his hand around the seat and slid it into the opening of her jacket to cup her breast, kneading the softness. “Because I’ll take way more than you’re willing to give.”

“Please don’t,” she begged. “Please don’t do this.”

There was a demand, an order, in her tone, despite the tremble he could feel in her as he pressed the knife harder, causing her to sink deeper into the back of her seat. He yanked her jacket out of the way and gave the other one a hard squeeze. Equal treatment. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” he growled. “Or I’ll drag you back here with me. You don’t want to be back here with me,
chica
.” He tried to get a better grip but couldn’t because her bra had that lining that prevented it.
Fuck.
He needed a bump. Should have snorted while he was waiting for her. Then again, if he was fresh, he’d have her under him by now. Pissed about that, he jerked her shirt aside, hearing it tear, and pulled her bra out of the way so he could feel her soft skin.

“I’m sorry. I won’t. Sorry. Please stop. Please.”

He shook his head and tried to focus. “Now, as much as I’d like to stay and have some fun with you, my time is limited. But I’ll try to make it back soon, so don’t let your guard down.” He laughed quietly. That would guarantee she shit herself for a while every time she left her cushy job.
Lived her life looking over her shoulder, just as they all do
, he thought, absently fondling her bare breast. “I want you to give Kirov a message for me. Will you do that, Dr. Mancuso?”

Her labored breaths faltered at the sound of her name. “Yes.”

“All you have to do is tell him Eberto got to you. When I get back,” he made sure to say, hoping she’d remember and relay that part because he needed their guard down, “I’ll find you again, Doc, and I’m going to wreck you. Then I’ll move on to the next person he loves, and the next, until I reach Sydney Martin. If he wants to save his family, tell him I’ll take her and we can call it even. Make sure he knows she’s my main target and I’ll get to her however I can. Do you got all that?”

“Yes. I g-got it.”

“What’s my name?”

“E-Eberto.”

“Good.” Knowing the security guard would be making his rounds in the next few minutes, he fully cupped the nice-size mound and wished he was in a better position to really go at her. He sat forward and moved his hand down to cup her pussy, just to let her know where his head was at. His lips thinned when her thighs squeezed his hand out. But that was okay. For now. “Thanks for this,” he added, going back up to flick her nipple hard before finally taking his hand back. “Put your head down and don’t lift it until you reach a hundred.” He went into his pocket and snapped open another blade to press under her ear on her right side so she wouldn’t try anything stupid. “Do it now.”

Down her head went, her forehead touching the console.

“Start counting.”

“One, two, three . . .”

He could tell she was crying as he got out of the car, and he didn’t give a shit. What good were tears? They never helped anybody. Fucking women were so weak. His kid cried all the time.

As he slammed the door and began a steady clip down the ramp that would lead to the street, he hoped the flight information was found soon and would buy him the clear path needed to make it so that meddling bitch would come to him. Because he’d finally accepted the fact that he wasn’t getting by the Russian to get to her.

A car door opened behind him long before one hundred was reached, and the sound of wretching followed him around the corner.