Page 35 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

A charming murderer

The handshake is firm, but warm and polite. “Nice to meet you, James.”

“People who don’t have giant Russian logs up their asses call me Mac.”

Dimitri’s brows come down. “It is how you first introduced yourself to me. And you, as Wesley.”

The big guy with a model’s face and golden retriever energy ignores Dimitri’s explanation. “But I’ll answer to anything—Jim, Mac, Mackenzie, Kenzo, sharpshooter, hey you—”

“Pretty boy,” the other one—Wesley—pipes in.

“Right. Just don’t call me late for dinner.” He flashes me a grin that feels weird—unexpected, like something meant to put me at ease.

I roll my lips inward to keep my jaw from falling slack. My dad used to make that joke all the time.

“Anyway, would you give me a hand with a jump, D? Battery won’t turn over; must have left a light on.”

“ Da , I will assist,” Dimitri answers, though his attention is on me. I can tell he’s watching for signs that I’m too uncomfortable to be left alone.

Before turning to leave, James reaches out and shakes my hand again. “Glad to meet you, Nicole. I’m a big fan of your work,” he says with a cheeky grin and a meaningful glance at Dimitri’s twin black eyes, so stark and purple against his pale skin .

I try not to balk or laugh, and I’m caught halfway between both reactions with a disbelieving snort. Wesley joins in with a low chuckle of his own, and my eyes cut over to him.

James may make terrible jokes, and Wesley may have kind of a hot nerd air about him, but I’m trying not to be fooled by it. I know they’re all as dangerous as each other. Dimitri’s team may lack the overtly sinister air he has, but they aren’t regular Joes—I have to remember that.

I just… expected a group of men who “do bad things to bad people” to be more severe—serious, gruff guys who did things like pick their teeth with Bowie knives and show you their kill souvenirs just to watch the blood drain from your face.

I didn’t expect a heavily tattooed British junk food addict and a Southern boy who looks like he’d take being called earnest as a compliment.

I wasn’t prepared for how playful their dynamic would be.

“Go ahead.” I shrug at Dimitri, feeling his eyes on me, still asking the question. I don’t need a babysitter. He trusts his team—he wouldn’t leave me if he didn’t.

“I will not be gone long.”

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t get too lonely,” Wesley offers, winking suggestively at me.

Dimitri scowls at him, crossing his arms and letting the unvoiced threat hang in the air. After a few seconds, Wesley clears his throat awkwardly and holds up his hands in surrender. “I will keep my hands, eyes, and famously sharp wit to myself.”

My lips twitch. He’s a charming murderer, I’ll give him that.

Dimitri closes the distance between us and presses a kiss to the top of my head. I freeze at the casual, open display of affection, and my heart lurches into my throat as my face fills with warmth. He did it so… easily. So intentionally. So… in front of Wesley, almost like staking a claim.

I have to clear my throat to pretend like I’m not filled with fizzy happiness as Dimitri disappears down the long hallway .

I know I’m free to explore the house—might as well start here. I step into what is obviously Wesley’s office and look around.

There are parts of the room that feel original to the space, like the bookcases and comfy couch and desks pushed against the walls, but then there are a dozen boxes of various sizes and shapes, blinking and whirring like some kind of alien technology.

I know they’re all doing something because this room is warmer than anywhere else, and it smells like the ozone off-gassing of massive electricity consumption.

It’s enough hardware to give any computer nerd a boner.

He’s got two curved monitors, and even his keyboard is wild—one of those RGB-lit ergonomic split boards where you have to know the exact location of every letter to be efficient.

I’m more of an internet-and-spreadsheets kind of gal, but I still thought I understood all the variations of what a computer could look like. Apparently not.

True to his word, Wesley’s not even looking at me, hunched over and focused on his screen.

“So, you’re the tech guy, huh?” I ask.

He glances up and gives me a crooked smirk. “That’s what they tell me.” He shoves another salt and vinegar chip into his mouth and washes it down with his energy drink. I see a recycling bin full to the brim with empty cans by the window behind him.

Huh. A charming, environmentally conscientious murderer.

When my perusal of the room ends with me in a spot where I can see his screen, I can’t stop myself from taking an interested glance.

Then I do a double take.

“Is that the coroner’s report from Kyle’s death?

” I ask, squinting at the small typeface and messy handwriting that’s as bad as any doctor’s scrawl I’ve ever had the misfortune of trying to translate.

But I can make out the name at the top, and I recognize the face from the picture attached, even pasty in death as it is .

“Erm… yes.” Like I saw something I wasn’t supposed to, he reaches up and tilts the screen away with a careful expression. Maybe he’s concerned I’m going to be squeamish about seeing a dead body.

“It’s weird that…” I trail off as I realize what I was about to do. I don’t think professional assassins would thank me for getting involved in their business. “Never mind.”

He pauses, looking at me with brows lifted in surprise. “That’s right, you’re a nurse. You’ve seen coroner's reports before, I take it?”

I nod hesitantly.

“Is there something off about this one? Have another look,” Wesley encourages, tilting the screen back towards me.

“Well…” I glance at the door. I wish Dimitri were here, bolstering me. Not because I’m particularly unnerved by Wesley, but because I feel like I’m about to cross some kind of line, and I’m more used to interpreting Dimitri’s facial expressions. He’d stop me if I were.

Oh well. I sigh and point to the cause of death. “‘Stab wound to abdomen’?”

“That’s what I thought it said,” he nods his agreement. “Either that or… stud wood a achoo , but that didn’t seem right.”

I blow out an amused breath through my nose. “It’s just… strange. I suppose that whoever filled this out might be new, though usually the new ones have much better handwriting.”

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s not the stab wound that kills you—not exactly. It’s blood loss or sepsis or shock or damage to an organ, or something else. The stab wound is the cause of the condition that causes death. Most coroner’s reports I’ve seen are more specific about that.”

“Hmm. Do you see any other mistakes?”

I narrow my eyes, lean forward, and scan the document. “No.”

“Then, perhaps this was a slip-up, or intentionally vague in case anyone checked. ”

I shrug, feeling in no way qualified enough to make that assessment—especially since I don’t know what the implications are.

The look he’s giving me is so strange that it makes me take a step back. “Huh,” he eventually huffs again, turning back to the computer with a faint, uncertain smile on his lips. “Good catch, Nicole. Cheers.”

And that’s my cue.

Well, that and a rumbling stomach. There’s an incredible smell coming from somewhere, and it’s making my mouth water.

Exploring the first floor is an exercise in trying not to fall over because I’m craning my neck so hard to see everything at once.

I knew the house was big from how long it took my eyes to scan the back of the building when we stepped outside of the pool house, but it was almost deceptive. Inside, it’s somehow bigger.

The ceilings are high, the rooms are large, and the hallways are long.

I feel like I’m in some kind of weird, modernist museum curated by someone with boring taste—artwork that’s, like, a circle and a line on a canvas; that sort of thing.

I know it’s expensive, but art is subjective, and I don’t like this style at all.

All the cavernous spaces in the house appear to make sound carry well because I can hear two people squabbling. I follow the sound down the hallway towards the kitchen, and I can immediately identify a voice.

“Yes, I am. I am throwing it all away.” Dimitri’s tone is clipped, angry.

Gee, and I thought I was the only one who got to see his prickly, domineering side.

A flash of something—definitely not jealousy—makes me swallow reflexively when I see that he’s arguing with a woman.

“—or you could try not eating something unmarked in the fridge just to see what it tastes like!” she snaps back, hands on hips.

“I told you to label things!”

“And I told you not to eat my yogurt, so sounds like we’re both out of luck. ”

“What did he eat?” I ask, stepping into the soft lighting from a multitude of recessed fixtures.

They both react to my voice, Dimitri spinning all the way around, and the woman he’s towering over tilting her head to the side to see around him.

She’s pretty—taller than average for a woman, with long legs.

She’s got gorgeous dark hair, running halfway down her back in waves, and a severe line of bangs that cut her round face in half.

Her cheeks are somewhat red from shouting, but she stands up to Dimitri’s ire—despite being a full foot shorter—without fear, like they’re brother and sister. Or lovers.

She doesn’t sound Russian to me, so it’s probably the latter. A pang in my stomach has me looking away to regroup. Well, that’s… unfortunate.

Maybe I’m not the only girl he wants to ruin. Kind of felt like it was implied.

“Sourdough starter,” she replies, picking the jar up from the counter and making a face as she removes the spoon he must have used.

“I thought it was yogurt,” he says, spitting into the sink.