Nikolai: The Complete Collection

19. Justine

19

JUSTINE

M y tears about my fight with Nikolai are brief. Long enough to grieve the pain my poor judgment caused my brother but not long enough to forget why I’m in Las Vegas to begin with.

Private DNA testing, traveling to interview witnesses, and gifts used in bribery make the defense of the innocent a costly endeavor. Although the Petretti crew was nearly defunct after its founder, Col, was killed during an FBI sting four years ago, their influence in our hometown is stronger than any monetary value I could offer.

But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up. I’ll continue working on my brother’s case until he’s released and his conviction overturned. I’ll fight for his freedom with every breath I take. I will not give up.

I place a scrubbed frying pan into the drying rack when the creak of a door sounds through my ears. I roll my shoulders and level my breathing, preparing for the next hairpin curve on the vicious rollercoaster Nikolai and I have been riding the past twenty-four hours.

God—has it truly only been twenty-four hours? The emotions pumping into me make it seem like forever.

Suspicion arises when my body fails to respond as it usually does in Nikolai’s presence. There’s no crackling of electricity in the air, and the hairs on my nape remain stagnant. Although my intuition still alerts me to be cautious, I sense more danger than before.

When I crank my neck to the side, my full gaze meets with a pair of black, almost lifeless eyes. An unnamed man is standing at the foot of the table where Nikolai and I shared a meal nearly thirty minutes ago. Like almost every man I’ve had the displeasure of meeting this weekend, this stranger’s aura impels negative thoughts. His fists are clenched at his side. His mouth is set in a straight line, and his gaze is as stern as stone.

“Is there any left?” He jerks his chin to a plate of food on my island counter.

I nod. “Help yourself.” I keep my voice friendly, even though I am feeling anything but.

The stranger’s slit-eyed gaze glares at me. “I’d prefer you serve me,” he insists, treating me as if I am worthless.

Anger works its way from my stomach to my throat, but not trusting his lifeless eyes, I secure the plate of leftover food before gesturing for him to take a seat. With an arrogant snarl, he sits in the chair on the far right-hand side of my dining nook. From his vantage, his view of the kitchen is uninterrupted.

The rattling plate exposes the shudder raking through my body when I set the food down in front of him. “Beer,” he commands, his snarled tone failing to excuse his bad manners.

Not trusting the stranger’s motives, I save the roll of my eyes until I’m facing the fridge. After acquiring his requested beverage, I pop it open and place it on the coaster beside his plate. He grunts, rudely dismissing me so he can eat in peace. With a grumble, I return to the dishes I was washing.

“When we first arrived, we were advised this domain was out of bounds,” the stranger says a short time later through a mouthful of steak. “I guess Nikolai’s interests in you have waned since there’s no longer a man guarding the door.”

His comment bestows upon me a severe bout of indigestion, but I keep my worry unknown, ensuring he won’t smell my fear. While shoveling food into his mouth, the strange man keeps his narrowed gaze arrested on me.

It isn’t that I can see his eyes. It’s because his gaze is so tumultuous my nape is dripping with sweat.

A short time later, in the corner of my eye, I watch him throw a chunk of steak onto his plate. “If you taste as bland as this meat, I understand Nikolai’s disinterest.”

“I am an attorney, not a cook,” I mumble, the unease clutching my throat not enough to stop me from retaliating against his rudeness.

My throat works hard to swallow when he stands from his chair and steps away from the table. “An attorney, hey? You’ve got looks and brains. An odd combination for Niki’s whores.”

His haughty tone makes my fear climb, but my fighting instincts have me saying, “I am part of Nikolai’s defense team. Not his whore. Anything happening out there has nothing to do with me.”

A deep rumble fills the kitchen. It takes me a second to realize it’s the stranger’s laughter. It isn’t a happy laugh. It’s as villainous as the high and mighty gleam darkening his eyes.

“You’ve got attitude. I like that. The fighters keep things interesting.”

Flashes of my past tear through my brain, holding me captive. As fear envelops every inch of my body, I dart my eyes to the swinging door, praying someone will walk through it.

My anxiety is so high that I’d rather endure another verbal slinging match with Nikolai than be eyed as I was four years ago.

My stomach recoils when the stranger growls, “The louder you scream, the harder I’m gonna fuck you.” When he glares into my eyes, his every intention is revealed in sickening detail, all of them as disturbing as his abhorrent face.

When my fight-or-flight mode kicks into gear, my eyes dart to the door so I can calculate my most viable exit. My stomach swishes when I realize my steps to the door are double the stranger’s. No matter how fast I run, I’ll never beat him to the door.

As my back splays against my kitchen cabinets, I frantically search for an object I can defend myself with. I’m not going down without a fight this time.

I cuss out the sheriff’s department under my breath, loathing that their removal of dangerous weapons was so thorough I can’t find a weapon. Recognizing I’m not leaving this room unscathed no matter what I do or say, I charge for the door.

A squeal bubbles up my chest when the man’s thick arm curls around my waist. I kick and thrust while screaming for help at the top of my lungs, praying my loud pleas will be heard over the thumping of bass in my living room.

The man tightens his grip around my waist so much he winds me. “I haven’t even started yet, and you’re already screaming.”

He flings me across the room as if I am weightless, sending me crashing into the drying rack with a thud. Shards of porcelain spray across the floor when the plates Nikolai and I used shatter on the tiled floor.

“Come on. Fight me, bitch. It just makes me harder,” he sneers, his hot breath hitting my ear when he curls his body over mine.

With one hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my screams for help, his other hand yanks down my shorts. With my mind hazing between the past and the present, I frantically claw at him. My sharp nails break the leathery skin on his hands, but nothing I do impedes him. He tugs on my shorts so hard the steel fastener soon bursts open under the pressure.

Remembering the self-defense classes Maddox taught me in the weeks before his arrest, I throw back my head and stomp down hard on my attacker’s foot. The man howls in pain when the heel of my stiletto pierces the fake material of his polished dress shoes.

Using his imbalance to my advantage, I ram my elbow into his ribs before dropping it to his crotch.

A feral grunt seeps from his mouth when my aim on his family jewels showcases its perfection. He falls to his knees, the anger on his face pushed aside for pain.

“You fucking bitch!” His loud voice forces more flashbacks into my mind, but with sheer determination moving my legs, I race for the swinging door.

My house is crammed with mafia kingpins and women barren of souls, but I’d rather take my chances with them than continue tussling with a man without a heart.

My quick pace ends when the stranger snags my ankle and yanks me backward. “Where the fuck are you going? I’m not even halfway done with you yet.”