Page 11

“Let me do that.”

I look up at his deep, confident voice. Nico kneels down, seeming agile, strong.

If I were to sketch him now, I’d focus on the hard edges, his square jawline, his sharp eyes. He looks mad, but he’s softening himself for me. Could he tell how much I hate the mob?

“It’s fine.”

“You can get a dustpan and sweep the smaller pieces.”

“I’ll probably need to vacuum, too.”

He smiles tightly. “Sounds like a plan.”

I step into the back room, grabbing everything I need. There’s a picture on the wall: the owner, a wiry widow, riding a bull as the sunset bleeds over the hills toward the camera. It’s gorgeous. But I’m getting distracted. Likely I see myself in that wild woman, or who I wish I could be.

When I return, Nico has gathered all the large bits of glass on the tray. He carries it to the trash. The table of Russians all watch us, their eyes unreadable. Nico stands beside me like some sort of bodyguard, his hands crossed over his middle. For once, it’s nice to have somebody looking out for me.

As I clean up the smaller bits – wincing at the sound of the vacuum and doing that part quickly – I try to ignore the electric tension. Nico glances at me every so often, his eyes hard. It’s like he’s silently saying,I’m here for you.

It’s an undercurrent, a vibe beneath a vibe, something that an artist might dream up or might truly be happening. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me. He’s a mob monster. A stray bullet. He’d be the end of my happiness. He represents all the darker shades of my life.

“Please, let me help,” a man says in a Russian accent, approaching me as I carry the vacuum back. It’s the same man who knocked over my tray, with a broken nose, a scar on his forehead. A thin smile in place.

Nico strides into his path. “You forget yourself.”

A moment later, Viktor Barinov stands and strides toward us. The restaurant goes quiet, the Pat Green record seeming louder in the silence. Viktor stands beside his man.

“Explain yourself, Sergei,” he grunts.

“I was going to help, boss.”

“The job is already done,” Viktor snaps. “Nico, you must understand, some of my men are morons. Please, forgive him.”

Viktor is a tall, thin man. If I were to draw him, he would look like an eagle. His age adds to the look, his facial structure pressing through his tired face like a faint pencil sketch through deep charcoal.

Nico’s body is as tight as a bow. “I understand, Viktor. Sergei wanted to seem funny, so he asked if we needed help when we were clearly already done. Now, he should head back to his table.” Nico’s voice grows volcanic.

I’ve sometimes dreamed of someone protecting me, sticking up for me, for a change. So when the flurrying feeling touches me, the undeniable appreciation, I try not to freak.

“He’s right,” Viktor says coldly. “Back to the table.”

“But,” Sergei protests.

“But?”Nico growls, curling his hand into a fist, his eyes hard.

I want to reach out, tell him he doesn’t need to do this for me. But I sense he can’t be stopped. I figure he’s doing this for himself somehow, maybe to justify who he is, what he is.

He’s a puzzle. I want to figure him out. Or waste time trying.

But this standoff proves it. What if one of them has a gun, starts shooting, and then just like Mom—I can’t think about that.

“Sergei,” Viktor says in an ice-cold tone.

“But… nothing,” Sergei grits out, shuffling back to the table.

“Who is your friend?” Viktor asks casually, but I feel the question is anything but innocent. “Can I say hello? I don’t bite.”

Nico moves aside slightly but stays close enough so that he’s shielding me with his body. I like it a little too much, but it’s gone far enough. I walk around Nico. “We spoke before, Mr. Barinov. You asked me how long I’ve worked here.”