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When I met her, she’d been sixteen and though beautiful, it had a coltish, juvenile quality that had allowed me to keep some barrier between us. Seeing her a couple of months ago when I got back to Chicago had been like a punch to the solar plexus. There was nothing childish about her and every atom in my body noticed. Now, after standing next to her, smelling her citrus scent, feeling the heat of her body, every inch of distance I’d created was obliterated.
My fists clenched, as a tidal wave of discomfort crashed over me, my stomach twisting at the idea of injecting myself into her life, acting as her savior. Again. What the fuck was I even doing? I’d worked hard to stay away from her since I’d returned to Chicago.
Now all that was blown to hell.
The minute Callahan had mentioned Orlov’s fixation with Emmy, some kind of chaotic, discordant static started to fill my mind and wouldn’t calm down until I had her in front of me, until I could assure myself that she was safe.
I barely remembered the walk from Callahan to her, my mind so consumed with the danger Orlov posed. The only thing that pulled me from my swirling thoughts was the pissant standing next to her when I got to her side.
I watched Emmy walk back over to that fucking clarinet—saxophone—player and irritation blossomed inside me. She must have been telling him to take off because he reached out and pulled her into a hug.
Seeing his hands on her, one of them tangling in her long, dark hair, had me clenching my fists. The only thing that gave some sense of satisfaction is that little shit had been trying to make his move on her years, based on that picture, and she still wasn’t interested in the poor fucker.
That fucking picture.
I must have stared at it a thousand times since she sent it to me, my fingers tracing her face over and over. It was one of the reasons I knew I had to stop talking to her. This girl triggered me, made me infuriated and intrigued in a way I absolutely loathed, but had a hard time not responding to, as evidenced by the handful of emails we’d exchanged over the past couple of years. Well, maybe more than a handful.
Another unexplainable behavior on my part.
When I got her first email, I deleted it immediately, discomfort nearly throttling me as I read the entreaty in her words. I could feel her seeking comfort from me, just as she had that night Yuri kidnapped her.
Later that night, I found myself restoring the message, and reading it over and over, trying to understand why I couldn’t just leave it alone. I had allowed myself to keep it, but I wasn’t going to respond.
That’s what I told myself as I re-read it over the course of the next couple of weeks. I hadn’t recognized the tension building every time I read her words, the growing compulsion to respond, to comfort her in some way, brewing inside me each time I clicked on her email.
One night while staking out a rival drug den in an isolated village on the outskirts of Moscow, I’d relented. I had to turn the car off in order to avoid detection and it had been freezing that night. I learned to tune out physical conditions, but there was something about the cold, barren landscape lit only by the full moon that stirred something in me. I found myself pulling up her email, reading it again but this time, as if on autopilot, I replied.
After I hit send, I stared at my phone in a state of near disbelief. It hadn’t been much—a few sentences at most—but the fact that I had written anything at all was dumbfounding. I quickly pocketed the phone, as if the small piece of technology had possessed me, forcing me to act in this uncharacteristic way. If only it was that simple.
I put it out of my mind, hating even the idea of a sentimental entanglement. I had no desire to be responsible for the emotional well-being of anyone—ever. Unlike Katya, I remembered our mother. My chest tightened as I thought of her. I had no idea why she married a son of a bitch like my father, but she was everything a mother should be.
Then she was gone, taken from me.
I became obsessed with finding her, but I was only a boy with no resources or power, with ayounger sister just as distraught and confused as I was. We were left with a father who was neglectful and wrathful, frequently handed off to Bratva soldiers and maids for safekeeping or care taking. Every day after her disappearance, I felt another piece of my heart die.
The next woman I let into my heart led to an even greater betrayal. From that point on, I was determined to stay closed, stay unattached. I had a sister who I loved, but I couldn’t even let myself open up to her.
My heart was dead.
Unfortunately, Emmy, in her hysteria and fear, had latched on to me before I could communicate that to her.
Our entire dynamic was born from her need for emotional support that she believed only I could provide. She hadn’t given me a choice. She’d simply attached herself and didn’t let go. When I tried to separate from her, she didn’t cry, she didn’t shriek in a way that would have had me tearing my hand away in order to escape her histrionics.
No, she merely clenched my hand more tightly and looked at me, her blue-gold eyes glistening with tears and growing wild with panic.
We had been surrounded by dozens of Bratva soldiers, her sister, for Christ’s sake, but it wasn’t enough. Only I made her feel safe. She wasn’t trying to be difficult; she just couldn’t control her fear.
As I stared into her terrified, apologetic gaze that night, a small part of my withered heart began to beat.
I stayed with her all night, holding her hand, wanting to leave the minute she fell asleep, but concerned she would awaken, find herself alone, and have some kind of panic attack. This tiny girl kept me chained to her side all night in order to spare her distress. I didn’t sleep at all, barely able to tolerate the sustained physical contact. The anxiety crashing through my system had become unbearable by morning. As soon as the sun rose, I fled.
Emotional responsibility.
It was the bedrock of our relationship.And I hated it.
I shook my head, throwing off the tangle of memories and unwanted emotional reactions. I grabbed a beer, needing something to soothe my jangled nerves, and sat down across from Drago.
I took a deep sip of my beer. “We need to talk. I just spoke to Emmy, and we definitely have a problem.”