Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1) (4 page)

At least they were getting their money’s worth for the
entrance fee.

After a short walk through a back hallway, Violet and her
friends were shuffled into an office that was far bigger than what she was
expecting, considering how it looked from the outside. There was a couch along
the back wall, two stuffed armchairs, and a large mahogany desk that dominated
the space. Bookshelves were built into the walls with rows of books and tombs
on various subjects lining them. Though the decor was understated, there was
definitely a masculine feel to it.

The man who had stopped them earlier waved at his
counterparts, and the three men who had escorted the girls into the space
disappeared before the office door shut. Amelia had been placed on a couch, and
Nicole moved to sit beside her.

Violet figured her friend had Amelia handled, so she faced
the man who wouldn’t let them leave.

“I—”

“Quiet,” he uttered. “What did she take?”

Violet clenched her teeth. “I don’t know. That’s why we
were leaving.”

“Does she need a hospital?”

“She needs a bed and water,” Nicole interjected.

“You need stitches,” he said, glancing down at Nicole’s
arm. “You’re bleeding all over my couch.”

Nicole just glared.

Violet held back her grin, knowing it wasn’t the time.

“We’re really sorry,” Violet said, hoping to appease the
guy so he would let them go without any more trouble. “We just wanted a good
time—this club is supposed to be the hottest thing on Coney right now, and
someone must have spiked our friend’s drink. We don’t want problems. We
really
don’t want the cops involved, so if that’s what you’re worried about, don’t
be.”

The man’s lips drew into a thin, grim line as he looked the
girls over. “I will make sure you all get home safe and sound.”

Violet didn’t like that idea at all. She could still hear
her father in the back of her head, repeating his warnings.
Keep out of
Coney Island, don’t go too deep into Brooklyn, and stay the hell away from
Russians.

It was more likely that whoever this guy was didn’t have
anything to do with the kinds of Russians her father demanded she stay away
from, but Violet knew where the lines were drawn with Alberto Gallucci. She
often tested them, occasionally even jumping over them when her father wasn’t
looking.

Russians were not one of them.

“We can take a cab,” Violet said. “We took one here.”

The man didn’t look all too impressed with that idea. He
opened his mouth to speak, but the office door opened from behind Violet,
stopping whatever he was going to say.

“Everything good,
brat
?”

Violet turned fast on her heel at the new voice.

And froze.

He was tall—over six feet—and built like he ran a ten-K
every day. The black suit he wore hugged his frame, but the jacket was left
unbuttoned, showcasing a white silk dress shirt that was pulled taut across his
chest.

The man was cut.

Violet swallowed hard and met the man’s stare.

Gray eyes, like the other man’s but more intense, looked
her up and down with a slow, predatory fashion. His face was framed by a strong
jaw dotted with a couple days’ worth of scruff and sharp cheekbones. His lips,
full enough to draw in her attention, curled up at the edges into a grin of
sorts.

She thought it looked more like a smirk.

He raised a hand and ran it through his short, dark hair
that was tapered at the sides but a little longer down the middle.

But it wasn’t so much the action that caught her attention,
but the black ink marked on his hand. An upturned spider that looked to be
crawling up under the sleeve of his suit jacket rested upon a web.

Her gaze cut back to his when he dropped his hand back to
his side.

He looked familiar. She was sure that she should know him,
but in her semi-drunken state, she was coming up with nothing.

The man’s smirk quickly faded into a mask of cool, calm
nothingness. He looked past her to the man behind her and said one word that
chilled her entirely.

“Gallucci.”

“Someone’s on the wrong side of the bridge,” Kaz said
casually, almost smiling at the way her mouth twisted. Turning his attention to
his brother, he switched to Russian, ensuring that the Gallucci girl and her
friends wouldn’t understand. “What’s the damage?”

“
Fuck
the damage,” Ruslan returned in the same
tongue. “She needs to leave. Now. I have enough problems without having to
worry about who else is going to show up at my door looking for her.”

He had a valid point. There was a reason for the lines that
divided their two organizations, and Kaz didn’t doubt that she knew where those
boundaries lay—she was the only daughter of Alberto Gallucci after all. There
was no doubt that the Italian boss wouldn’t look too kindly on his daughter and
Kaz being in the same room together.

Glancing over at her, he had to wonder if that was what
she’d wanted by coming here tonight. There was always the chance that she
hadn’t known who this club belonged to, but what were the odds of that?

And if she did … well that made her a little more
intriguing to him. It made him wonder what other lines she was willing to
cross.

“Don’t worry, brother.” Clearing his throat, Kaz switched
back to English. “Nathaniel is going to take you …” He gestured to the girl
with the bleeding arm who was actively scowling at him.

“Nicole,” Violet supplied quietly.

“Right. Nathaniel is taking you to the hospital.”

Before Kaz could go on, Violet interrupted him. “We don’t—”

He silenced her with a look and whatever she’d thought to
say, she swallowed it back. “Ruslan, get the other one home.”

The one needing the stitches—Nicole—looked to Violet then,
an emotion in her eyes that Kaz couldn’t read, but he didn’t expect an answer
from her, he waited for the Gallucci girl to explain.

“That’s unnecessary. Like I said, we can catch a cab.”

Now it was Kaz’s turn to scowl. “That’s not how we work.
Take a look,” he said pointing to her friend. “She can barely hold her head up.
Do you really want her out in a cab where she can’t protect herself? My brother
wouldn’t touch her.”

He waited for another argument, or at least another excuse,
but when she remained quiet, he went on. “Address.”

Hesitantly, as though it was being forced out of her,
Violet rattled it off. Kaz nodded to Ruslan, giving him the go ahead. He didn’t
argue, but he did send Kaz a look before he helped the girl to her feet and
called Nathaniel for Nicole.

When it was just Kaz and Violet left in the office, he
studied her, admiring the way she kept her chin tilted up, as though she was
looking down her nose at him though he was a good few inches taller.

She was a pretty girl, beautiful really, with wide
expressive eyes a shade of green that lightened toward the pupils. With a
dainty nose, and pouty lips that were currently turned down at the corners, she
was perfectly fine with letting her irritation show. Blonde hair that looked
soft to the touch tumbled down around her shoulders in waves, and if not for
the fact that he knew the legacy she came from, he might have thought her
benign.

But looks were deceiving. He knew that better than anyone.
Kaz hadn’t been sure, not at first. He hadn’t anticipated anything more than to
find three drunken girls way over their heads waiting in his brother’s office.
The last thing he had expected, or even wanted, was Violet Gallucci standing
there staring him down.

“And me?” she asked breaking the silence stretching between
them.

Pulling his keys from his pocket, he held them up for her
to see. “Looks like we’re taking a ride to Manhattan.”

S
omehow, in the span of
a little more than thirty minutes, Violet’s night had turned to shit in the
worst way. This was supposed to be her night, the one where she could be free,
forget about the carefully controlled life she lived, but not anymore.

Not when she was about to climb into a car with the one
person she knew she
really
shouldn’t be around. But what other choice
did she have? It was only a matter of time before her father found out where
she had been, especially with Nicole on her way to the hospital.

The man who’d walked right in and taken charge was leading
the way out the back and around the side of the building toward a monstrosity
of a car that was parked there. While she might not have known much about cars,
she could tell that this one was expensive just off the brand alone.

She might not have liked
him
, but his car was
another story.

The lights flashed as he unlocked the door, and though she
had expected him to climb into the driver’s seat, he surprised her as he came
to her side first and opened the door, gesturing for her to climb in with a
tilt of his head. It was unexpected because she hadn’t thought of him as a
gentleman, not in the slightest.

When she was safely inside, and he’d closed the door,
rounding the front of his side, she took in the sleek interior. All black
leather, chrome detailing, and while it was only a two-seater, there was plenty
of space to stretch her legs out.

There was a moment as he climbed in—inserting the key and
starting it up, the blue lights of the dash cutting through the darkness—that
she became all too aware just who she was seated beside.

And that she didn’t really know him at all.

“It’s a good hour and a half, maybe a little more, of a
drive back to Manhattan,” he said, his tone gruff. “Settle in.”

Violet tossed him a look from the side, admiring his
profile. “You seem to know a lot about me, but I don’t know a thing about you.”

He flashed a smile—white teeth and sinful in a blink.

“Shouldn’t that be something you learn before you get into
a car with a man?” he asked.

“You didn’t give me a choice.”

“You had a choice.”

Violet’s brow furrowed. “I don’t think so.”

Not the way it played out, anyway.

“You did,” he assured, never taking his gaze off the
windshield as he pulled the vehicle out onto the road. “That choice, Violet,
came for you when you came this deep into Brooklyn and made your way to Coney.”

Well, then …

Violet looked away when he cut her with a hard look. “I
wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“Yes, you were.”

“No, I—”

“How old are you now, about twenty-one, yes?”

Violet blinked.

He knew her name.

Her age.

That she lived in Manhattan without even asking.

He
knew
.

She ignored the drip of panic slicing through her middle.
Despite the darkness that colored up his aura, he didn’t scream entirely bad to
her.

And Violet knew bad.

“Turned twenty-one today,” she admitted.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, drawing her
attention to his tattoos again. It was only when he spoke that she finally tore
her gaze away from the spider and its intricate web.

“I am sure there are far more places in Manhattan or
Brooklyn for you to enjoy your birthday, other than my brother’s club,” he
said. “No doubt, your father has made it perfectly clear where you are and are
not allowed to go in New York, Violet.”

She liked the sound of his voice, and the way his r’s
rolled a little harder than his brother’s had back at the club.

But she really liked the way he said her name. It came out
a little differently than how most people said it. Instead of just the “i”
following the “v” in her name, he said with a hard “o” following the “v”.

She shouldn’t have liked it at all, but she did.

Violet chewed on her inner cheek. “It’s not fair that you
know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

“You know it,” he said, smiling in that way of his again.
“But I’ll remind you.”

He held out a hand, palm up, while keeping his other hand
firmly on the wheel. Violet glanced between his hand and his face, unsure of
what he wanted her to do.

“Shake politely like you’ve been taught,” he urged.

She glowered at him. “No, thanks. Only civilized people
shake hands.”

He cocked a brow. “And what does that make me, a savage?”

Violet couldn’t have missed the heat in his tone even if
she tried. Deciding she had pushed her luck enough for one night, she slid her
smaller hand into his waiting palm, and ignored the way the heat of his rougher
skin seemed to siphon straight into her smoother flesh.

His fingers circled around her hand before she thought
better of touching the man, and squeezed just hard enough to make her look up
at him.

“A savage man—one not like me—wouldn’t have bothered to get
you inside a car,
krasivaya
,” he said, his timber dropping to a lower
note. “He would have done what he wanted when he had you alone in an office.”

Violet tried to tug her hand out of his grasp, but he held
tight.

“Kazimir Markovic,” he said, squeezing her fingers once
more. “But I prefer Kaz. It’s very nice to meet you again, Violet Gallucci.”

Finally, he released her hand. Violet sat back in the seat
fast, confused.

“Again?” she asked.

Kazimir—Kaz, he’d said—resumed driving like nothing had
happened. “We met once, a long time ago.”

Violet didn’t remember that at all.

“When?”

“A long time ago,” Kaz repeated quietly. “You were helping
me to find the sun that day, if I remember correctly.”

He was talking in gibberish.

Violet was sure of it.

Then, she had a more pressing realization. It settled hard
in her gut, thick and heavy. She knew the surname Kaz mentioned only because of
who she was, and who she was supposed to stay away from. Occasionally, that
name was whispered between men at her father’s dinner table, but never
discussed for very long.

“Markovic?” she asked. “Like the … Brighton Beach Markovic
family?”

She thought better of saying Russian mafia, but just
barely.

Kaz didn’t take his gaze off the road as he chuckled. “Ah,
she finally understands.”

“Answer my damn question.”

“We prefer to call it Little Odessa,” he said. “But yes,
one and the same.”

Oh, God.

Violet went from being pretty sure she had fucked up, to
knowing she was in such deep shit there would be no digging her way out of it.

“Drop me off at the next intersection,” she said quietly.

Kaz laughed. “What?”

“I can’t be in this car. So you need to let me out so I can
call a cab and go home.”

“No,” he said simply.

Violet’s mouth popped open. “No?”

“That’s what I said, Violet. No. You made your way down to
Coney, knowing that you shouldn’t be there, and now I’m going to make sure you
make your way back to Manhattan and you stay there.”

Her father was going to
kill
her.

Violet’s frustration boiled over in a slew of words. “How
do you even know where I
live
? Do you realize how creepy that is?”

Were the Russians watching her or something?

Her family?

Did her father know?

For a brief moment, Kaz’s indifferent, handsome mask
cracked and he frowned. “I am not so different from you, Violet, despite the
culture shock.”

“Can you stop talking me in circles for five fucking
seconds?”

“You’re awfully combative for a woman who grew up in the
house of an Italian mafia boss,” he said.

Violet glared. “My father didn’t raise a doormat.”

“But I suspect he did raise a lady.”

Ouch.

Point taken.

Violet tampered her rudeness for a second. “What did you
mean when you said that you’re not so different from me?”

Kaz tipped his head in her direction, and a small smile
played at the corner of his lips. “I know where I should and should not be
going, Violet. I grew up being told where it was safe to play, so to speak. I
don’t suspect your raising was much different, which is why finding you on
Coney Island was such a shock.”

“I know what they say about Coney,” she mumbled. “It’s
nobody’s land.”

“Maybe so, but the fact remains, it’s too close to Odessa.”

Violet didn’t bother to argue. She knew he was right.

“But that still doesn’t explain why you know where I live,”
she pointed out.

“Quick girl,” he murmured.

Violet ignored the way that sounded like he was praising
her. “So explain.”

“If there are places I am not allowed to go being who I am,
then there are reasons for those rules.”

Reasons being people.

She understood his unspoken words.

“It took me a second to recognize you,” Kaz added, “but you
can’t exactly hide who you are to someone who makes it his business to know all
that he can about a certain family that doesn’t like us all that much.”

“What, like safety?” she asked.

“If you want to look at it like that. Let’s put it this
way, Violet. There are places that I can go, but I know I’m toeing a line. Then
there are places I can go and while it’s probably safe, I still shouldn’t be
there. And then there are other places, like Manhattan, where it’s a goddamn
death sentence.”

Oh.

The territory lines had never quite been explained to her
in that way before.

Maybe if they had, she wouldn’t have went down to Coney
Island.

“I still think you should drop me off and let me grab a
cab,” she said. “To be safe and all that.”

Kaz smirked, shaking his head. “No.”

Violet just stared at him. “Even after what you just said?”

“Even after that,” he confirmed.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not that bad of a guy, even for a Russian,” he
said with a grin, “and I was taught that every lady deserves to be treated like
one. Even if she isn’t being a very nice lady.”

Violet decided after that statement to sit still, be quiet,
and hope the rest of the hour-and–a-half-long drive went by as smoothly as
possible. It was probably unlikely that her father wouldn’t somehow find out
where she had been, but maybe—just maybe—she could keep Kaz and the fact that
he drove her home a secret.

Maybe.

When they finally did get into Manhattan, Violet didn’t
have to say a thing about where she lived. Kaz navigated the streets like he
had done it a hundred times before.

If she had to guess, she would say he had spent time where
he wasn’t supposed to.

Just like her.

Park Avenue was a great deal quieter in the middle of the
night than it was during the day. There was still traffic, but it wasn’t nearly
as bad as it usually was. Besides the occasional passerby, the street was
practically empty.

Violet didn’t say a thing when the car rolled to a stop in
front of the apartment building that belonged to her father. The fifteen-level
complex held several condos of varying size and expense. It was older, the
exterior lending credence to a time when gold detailing and warm shades were
all the rage. Hers was one of the biggest and most costly, and at the very top.
Her parents had used it on and off for years, but once she starting taking
classes at Columbia, they handed the keys over to her to make travel easier.

“Thank you,” Violet said.