The Salvation of Vengeance (Wanted Men #2) (4 page)

Where the hell could it be?

Nika continued her search, keeping the sound of the shower first and foremost in her mind. When the water shut off she’d have to quit.
Dammit.
She shoved one side of the suitcase back against the water-stained wall and stood. Could Kevin have taken the memory stick into the bathroom with him? But all he’d worn was a towel. She shuddered at the memory and looked around. Maybe he’d had it tucked in his armpit. Because it sure as hell wasn’t out here. She’d looked everywhere.

She squatted again, feeling around the edges of the suitcase—
Wait. What is—?

The water shut off.

And Nika wanted to scream—even louder when she heard the metal rings of the shower curtain slide against the rod. She whipped her fingers back from the long bump she’d been prodding on the inside seam of the case and stood quickly, moving to the bed as fast as her high-heeled feet would carry her. She plunked down, her heart slamming against her ribs, hands shaking as adrenaline flew through her bloodstream.

Had she found it? Had that small rectangular object been her ticket to escape?

Her head snapped up as Kevin strolled out of the miniscule bathroom in a cloud of steam. She sat there, nerves knotting her gut, hands clasped in her lap.

“Stand up,” he ordered. “I wanna see how you look.”

She stood.

Enjoy it while you can, asshole, because if I’ve found what I think I have, your days are numbered.

Before starting her search, she’d put on the gold dress that covered too much for a warm July evening, but that couldn’t be helped. The bruising had to be hidden.

Kevin nodded, his eyes disgustingly invasive as they roved down her body. She stayed silent and allowed the repulsed shiver to run through her once he turned away. Nika glanced in the mirror attached to the dresser and watched through the reflection as Kevin padded over to the suitcase. She pretended to fluff her hair and adjust her gold hoop earring when he glanced back at her. The second his head swiveled, her eyes were on him again, and her knees nearly buckled at the sight of him pulling one of his T-shirts over to hide the area of her recent discovery.

Oh, my God!

Her knees gave out, and she fell heavily onto the hard mattress, struggling more than she ever had before to keep her face free of expression. She’d found it! She’d really found it!
Oh, God!

Do not cry! Don’t you dare cry!

“I’m sending you to this bullshit thing on your own. Your cab should be here in five.”

She blinked stupidly and attempted to stop the flow of moisture from filling her eyes. Uh, had she just won some unknown lottery or something? Had she even heard him right? Sending her . . . on her own? In a cab . . .
by herself
?

“I don’t understand.” What was the joke?

Kevin zipped up his jeans, leaving the button undone, and put on the same wrinkled T-shirt he’d worn all day. Why would someone shower and then wear dirty clothes?
Ugh.
He was pale and had gained some weight over the past year. She hated to think that was because of the meals she’d cooked for him. She also hated to think that if he went outdoors more often and got some sun, and maybe grew out his hair, he’d be considered good-looking.

“I’m meeting up with my cousin. Tonight was the only free time he had.”

She tensed as he came over. He stood before her, roughly grabbing her chin to tilt her head back.

Do not glare, Nika.

“You go see that bitch say ‘I do.’ Then you come straight back here. You got me? No side trips, no fuckin’ around. Or I’ll make you real sorry, Niki.”

He squeezed her jaw before letting go to trail his fingers down her throat to the neckline of her dress. Her skin shrank to nothing as he dipped inside to cup her breast, beneath her bra.

“I’ll fill you in on the meeting when I get back. You better be here.”

She swallowed repeatedly in an effort not to vomit at his touch. “Yes. Right back,” she promised. And for the first time ever, Nika looked forward to returning.

CHAPTER 3

Seven fifteen.

Vincente dropped his arm back to his side and once again stared out the French doors at the large pool out back, his usual perch. His ears continued to twitch as they listened for the doorbell.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Vincente?”

He turned to see Samnang Oung, their Cambodian housekeeper, standing expectantly. The sweet old guy, along with a small loyal staff, had been taking care of him and the boys for years now. Ever since he, Alek, Maks, and Gabriel had bought the twelve-bedroom monstrosity in Old Westbury that he stood inside now.

“Nah. I’m just waiting on the guests, Sammy. Thanks.”

Samnang nodded his perfectly round head and moved his skinny body over to begin lighting what had to be a hundred candles, straightening the already-perfect flowers arranged all over the polished surfaces in the room. Vincente stepped away from the doors, eyes roaming, noting how the place had been overtaken by subtle feminine touches that included silky white cloths over every surface, the aforementioned flowers in crystal vases, and candles in sparkling silver holders. The effect? Strangely . . . beautiful.

Fuck.
He felt like a chick for noticing any of it.

“Such happy occasions, weddings,” Samnang said. “Nothing better than new beginnings.”

He grunted to let their caretaker know he’d heard him.

“Miss Eva is very excited for her father’s arrival, and that of her friend. I hope the girl won’t be late. She is, after all, the maid of honor.”

Yeah. He wanted to honor her all right.

“Uh, Mr. Vincente?”

He blinked as Samnang appeared next to him, his whole face crinkling in a smile.

“Please. May I bring you a drink? To relax?”

The man’s bony fingers removed the now-crushed tablecloth that had laid so perfectly over the pool table from Vincente’s clenched fists.

Shit.
He was wired. “No, thanks. Uh, sorry.”

Samnang flitted off, coming back seconds later with a handheld steamer, which worked wonders on the wrinkles Vincente had caused.

He pulled at his collar again. The expensive black button-down felt too damned fancy for his T-shirt-and-jeans taste. But for G, he’d wear it. At least until the vows were exchanged.

The new boss hadn’t wanted to single any one of his friends out as best man, so, being the diplomatic guy he was, Gabriel had asked all of them to stand for him. Vincente, Alek, and Maksim would be at his side.

He and Gabriel had known one another since they were little, hanging out at weddings and baptisms and shit, but it hadn’t been until they were in middle school that they’d become close friends. One of the first things Vincente had noticed about the youngest Moretti was his wariness when dealing with their classmates. Even as a boy, Gabriel had operated with caution. And Vincente had seen firsthand why.

Stefano.

He wondered idly if Gabriel’s brother would show tonight, but he doubted it.

They’d been in sixth grade, and Vincente had been late for school that day—he’d had to drop his sister off first because their mama had a doctor’s appointment. He’d come around the corner, aiming for the front doors of the building, and had seen Gabriel, who’d been oversize even then, same as him, crouched down picking up his books spilled around the pavement, backpack empty. His older brother, Stefano, had been standing over him.
No backbone
, Stefano had said with a sneer as he kicked a math textbook just out of Gabriel’s reach.
Why don’t you call Pops? He’ll teach you how to stand up for yourself, you spoiled little shit.
With no reaction to the words, or the bullying antics, Gabriel had reached over, gathered the rest of his belongings, straightened, and walked away. As he’d passed by to enter the school, he’d given Vincente a too-mature-for-his-age nod and carried on about his biz. Ten fuckin’ years old.

That was the first time in his life Vincente had known what it was to be impressed by someone. He’d hooked up with the youngest Moretti that very day at first recess and had been with him ever since, at his back, where he’d stay until one of them took his final breath.

The sound of voices had him looking up to see Vasily Tarasov in the foyer. He nodded to Eva’s father, head of one of the most powerful Russian organizations in the States today. The guy headed straight upstairs, clearly anxious to hang with his kid.

Vasily’s two heavies, Dmitri and Aron, could be heard talking with Vito, their own doorkeeper—enforcer—of the night, ensconced in the alcove at the entrance, his ball game on the small plasma screen set inconspicuously into the wall.

How would Nika greet him when she arrived?

Would she smile at him? Would those emerald eyes flash with remembrance of the last time they’d been together? Maybe she’d walk over in that relaxed way she moved . . . Yeah, with her old man trailing behind.

He glanced up when heavy footsteps sounded and almost groaned when Maksim sauntered in.
Great.
Just what he needed. Ten minutes of the Russian’s penchant for riding Vincente’s ass until he wanted to throw down.
Uh-huh.
G would be real proud with them, clothes torn to shreds, faces and knuckles bleeding, standing next to him as Eva walked down the aisle.

Maks spotted him and came right over, snagging a couple of carrot sticks off a tray on the bar as he passed. “Parents and brother were murdered,” he said before crunching the vegetable between his even white teeth. “Found in their home with their throats slashed. No forced entry. No one ever charged.”

Vincente stared at the freak of nature. Guy was six feet seven inches of
I’ll-fuck-you-up-with-a-smile
. His massive body was hard and muscled and covered by tattoos only another Russian mobster would know the meanings of. He’d recently begun to grow his hair out, after having shaved it clean off for more years than Vincente could remember. Maks was now sporting a dark Julius Caesar do that worked liked nobody’s business.

And if it hadn’t? Who would have told him?

Well,
he
would have. So would Alek and G. He and the boys would have ridden the shit out of the irreverent prick and been thankful for the opportunity.

Maksim crunched loudly into another carrot, his eerie silver eyes trained on Vincente as he waited for a response.

“Could’ve been a burglary gone wrong,” Vincente tossed out.

“Nope.” Maks held up his phone to show a guy with buzzed-off hair and eyes that said there was something missing upstairs. Nollan. Vincente looked a little closer and saw the weak chin and pasty skin he’d missed outside the hotel earlier. Guy looked anemic.

He gave up on his study of the pic when the urge to growl rose up his throat. “Suspects?” he asked around a jaw that was stiffer than it should have been. How the fuck had a guy like
that
landed a goddess like Paynne’s sister?

“Handwritten note in the corner of the formerly sealed police report fingered our boy as suspicious, but they never tracked him down for questioning. Murders took place in a small town in Michigan called Lapeer.”

“How’d you get—?”

Maks held up a big hand. “V. Seriously? You dare to question my expertise? And I’m not through yet. That was just a surface sweep of the most obvious channels. I’ll be digging deeper tonight after the par-tay. Speaking of, I saw Vasily drive up. Where is he? And there’s a cab traveling the drive as we speak.”

Used to Maks’s tossed-salad convos, Vincente nodded to the stairs out in the foyer, even as his gut twisted with anticipation—cab had to be her. “Your Pakhan is up with Eva.” In the Russian Bratva, the
Pakhan
was “the boss” of the organization.

“I hear Russo’s officiating. Bet that’s burning a hole in big bro’s ass.” Maksim’s mind had obviously moved on as he brought up their old high school chum, Lorenzo, who was now a detective with the NYPD. His little brother, Father Michael Russo—or Mikey, as they knew him—would be performing Eva and Gabriel’s ceremony. Vincente didn’t think Lore would really give a shit.

“Probably has cops lining the freeway to see who shows,” Maks added. “If not him, then that other asshole, Smythe. Though, from what I’ve been reading, I think he’s been put on ODMC duty. And the maid of honor? Shouldn’t she be here by now? Or is that the cab?” His crooked, baiting smirk, surrounded by that precisely trimmed goatee, made Vincente want to knuckle it off his face as the offhand comment came zinging his way.

Instead of throwing down, he looked at his Breitling again. “She—” The doorbell chimed, interrupting him, and his body began humming like a tuning fork.

“Ooh! I’ll get it!” Maks exclaimed in a sarcastic voice.

Vincente shot out a hand and clamped on to Maks’s python of a bicep. “Don’t fuckin’ push me tonight, Kirov,” he warned as he shoved the guy out of the way and headed for the door himself, already hearing Vito’s greeting.

The hot lava that was once Vincente’s blood traveled swiftly, heading straight to his groin at the sound of a breathless, musical “Hi.”

Fuck. That voice. He stalled out just before he reached the entrance, his legs refusing to work anymore. His eyes slid closed; his chest constricted at the symphonic sound. How many times during the past weeks had he needed to hear it?

“I’m Nika Paynne. Eva’s friend.”

He heard the smile in Vito’s voice as he replied, “Turn left at the top of the stairs,
bambina
. Second door on your right. She asked that you go up as soon as you arrive.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem. Oh, hang on. It says here there should be two?”

“There’s been a change of plans. I’m on my own.” Unmistakable relief coated her words.

“Good deal. Up you go.”

Yeah. No shit, good deal.
Vito, Dmitri, and Aron were probably drooling down their chins at the sight of those striking green eyes that could singe you with a single glance. And, no, he wasn’t struggling to process what Nika “being on her own” meant.

“You’re just going to stand here?” Maksim’s stage whisper came from just over his right shoulder.

Vincente barely heard him as she came into view. She clicked her way across the spacious foyer, moving like a relaxed cat, that bright hair like waves of sunshine and warmth flirting all the way down to her lower back as she began her ascent to the second floor. And, boy, was he the one now drooling. Holy hell was he drooling.

She wore a gold dress that would have made Oscar proud, the clingy thing reached mid—creamy, toned—thigh. Christ, her legs were spectacular. She had another of those silky wraps like the one she’d worn in Seattle, only tonight the shimmery little beauty was hanging over her arm. She must chill easily. His teeth clacked together when his gaze zeroed in on that sensitive spot at the back of her knee.

She went up another step, and her shoes caught his eye. He had to adjust himself at the sight of those four-inch gold stilettos. Sexy yet classy.

“Impressive,” Maks remarked as Nika disappeared from view at the top of the stairs. “Damn, V. That’s some iron control you got going on, my brother.”

He was clapped on the shoulder and then found himself alone. Like Nika.

Why had her old man let her come here by herself? Seriously. Was the guy fucked or what? The place would be teeming with single men in less than an hour.

Vincente swung away with a nasty curse and slammed out the French doors.

Nika walked down the wide second-floor corridor of Eva’s new home and tried not to appear too impressed in case there were hidden cameras—something she would have bet on. When the cab had passed through the gated entrance at the road, she hadn’t thought much of it because her brother’s clubhouse was also protected in the same way. But then the cab had driven down what seemed like a mile-long driveway and pulled around to the front of the sprawling two-story house, and she’d had no choice but to gape.

The motorcycle club didn’t live like this.

The house was beautiful. Deluxe accommodations but not pretentious. The all-masculine ambiance was more than apparent, making her wonder if any of the men who lived here, aside from Gabriel, had girlfriends. The goons at the door had definitely given the place a mobster vibe. The one she’d spoken with, Italian she was sure, had been rather adorable with his long face and droopy eyes. The other two, who’d made her think of the movie
Eastern Promises
, had to have been Russian. They’d been much more intimidating. But looks could be deceiving. Sometimes the ones who looked the scariest were the nicest.

Like Vincente.

Taking her time, Nika admired the paintings she passed. She stopped in front of one, feeling her cheeks heat at how sexual it appeared despite angels and cherubs being the subject. She reached out and ran her finger over the glass case that sat on the table beneath the picture. Sitting protected and proud was a miniature Harley-Davidson model that Caleb would have loved—a Softail Deluxe if she wasn’t mistaken. Who was the collector? Vincente maybe? He’d worn a gorgeous leather duster every time she’d seen him. Not that that meant anything, but bikes and leather usually went hand in hand.