The Bookie

Chapter 2-2

Chelle

I hit the elevator button eight times in four seconds, fully aware of Nikolai’s gaze setting my back on fire.

What just happened?

I’m reeling from the interaction.

The elevator door opens, and I launch into it. Of course, when I turn to push the button, Nikolai’s still standing there, watching me with amusement.

Damn him.

I just got my a*s handed to me by a mobster. That much I sort of anticipated, but it was the way it went down that shocked me.

I expected Nikolai to be terrifying. I pictured gold teeth, chains around his neck, and a revolver pointed at my head—something like that. And he certainly does seem dangerous. But I didn’t expect the suave player persona. The good looks. The charm.

His arms are covered in tattoos, but he wore slacks and a nice dress shirt, open at the throat. No chains. Nice teeth. Perfect teeth, actually, and a Hollywood smile.

Nikolai is downright hot.

What would you beg me for, Chelle?

I’m not sure I’ll be able to get that suggestive growl out of my mind. Nor can I banish his threat. He wants to s***k me?

Um, yes please.

Even now, alone in the elevator, the memory makes me blush. I’ll probably be blushing until Thanksgiving.

I hate myself for being so turned on by those words. By him.

What just happened back there?

That wasn’t the most unnerving part. It was the way he talked about Zane—like he really knew him. Like he maybe even liked him. He seemed concerned about Zane’s substance a***e problem. The one I’d been hoping didn’t exist. It shocked me awake to hear it named out loud.

Zane is into drugs. I’d been afraid of that, but honestly? I’d been avoiding that nugget of truth. It caught me off guard, so when Nikolai gave me his Dr. Phil advice on letting Zane fail, I took it in. As much as I hate to admit it, he may be right.

I can’t believe I’m taking relationship advice from a loan shark in the Russian mafiya.

The elevator doors open, and I step out. A cold wind blows between the buildings of downtown Chicago, making me wish I’d worn a jacket. I wrap my arms around my waist as I jog toward the parking lot where I left my car. I couldn’t afford the rate at the hotel garage—it was astronomical. As I round the bend, I stop and look up at the building, as if I might see through the walls and floors to catch another glimpse of my brother’s persecutor.

A shiver runs through me. I was crazy to come here by myself. I’m lucky Nikolai wasn’t awful. That could’ve gone horribly wrong.

All the righteous rage I’d harbored on my way here has dissipated. Now I’m just mad at Zane.

He did this.

Nikolai is right. Zane should figure it out himself.

The trouble is, Zane is all I have, and he’s my little brother. My responsibility. If I don’t figure his s**t out, he could wind up permanently damaged or dead.

My mind flits back to Nikolai’s comment about the hospital.

I shouldn’t find it interesting or respectable that he seemed to know just how bad Zane’s injuries were. He believed Zane didn’t require medical care. That doesn’t make him honorable.

But it does make him smart. Much smarter than I anticipated. The beat-down he delivered to Nikolai was calculated. Measured. Perhaps a prescribed remedy for late customers.

I don’t want to find out what he will do to Zane next if my brother doesn’t deliver.

I open the door to my car—the one I’d come here fully planning to turn over to the bratva—and climb in.

Well, I still have a car. I may not have a brother for much longer, but I can drive to his funeral.