Page 7 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

When you meet a Russian guy, don’t assume he’s in the mafia.

The music from the wedding sounds much louder as we get closer to the estate house.

The party is still going strong, and there’s some kind of call-and-response happening right now on the dance floor that I have no interest in being a part of.

I dread the noise and the crowd, like it’s going to break the spell I feel like I’m under.

I’m honestly not sure what to do with all six-foot-freaking-eight of the guy ushering me around the fountain.

I’m actually getting a little flustered because I’m so unused to having to crane my neck this much, especially once I put my heels back on.

The sheer size of him is making me feel some kind of way, and it’s more than his height.

I got a good feel when he let me use him for balance, and his shoulders are almost unbelievably wide, and so firm even under layers of fabric.

I don’t think my fingers would meet if I tried to circle his bicep with both hands.

His neck is thick, and even his Adam’s apple is a prominent bulge that feels oppressively masculine.

I’m not used to feeling small around anyone. Frankly, it’s a new feeling. And frankly, I like it more than I’d ever admit out loud.

His face suits his powerful frame. The shadow of stubble growing in, and his thick brows are dark, as is his short hair.

White, straight teeth set behind thin lips give him a severe air that’s undercut by a slightly rounded nose.

He’s got that big, old, deep scar that throws off the balance of his features, but it’s not enough to distract from the cut line of his jaw, high cheekbones, and slightly hollowed cheeks.

He’s not handsome exactly, but his face is so interesting. Interesting things are always the most fun to look at.

But I can understand why he holds himself like he keeps expecting to find me staring. I’m a nurse—I’ve seen scars—and honestly, they just make him feel more… raw. They fit him because he’s fucking intense.

I like to give people the benefit of the doubt, even as I assess them for potential concealed weapons in the ER. But he’s intimidating. I’m intimidated, even if I’m doing a B+ job of not showing it.

Some people just have an intensity about them. From years of working in a super high-pressure job, I like to think I’m fairly immune to it, but Lev is on a different level entirely. He feels dangerous , and I’ve never thought that of someone before with such certainty.

Not that I think he wants to hurt me… in a way I don’t want, anyway. It’s kind of thrilling just being near him.

If it were just one thing—the height, or the quick, dark humor, or the sheer size of him—maybe I could deal. But then he had to have all this predatory charm on top of it? And he’s pointing it directly at me?

I mean, he got down on his knees and went all Cinderella’s prince on me!

And maybe it says something about me that I noticed, but he also tied them perfectly —they both have the same tension, which is tight enough so they stay on my feet, but loose enough not to cut off any more of my poor pinky toes’ circulation.

Makes me wonder what else he knows how to tie up perfectly, since he’s clearly got some experience…

Heat flashes in my belly, gathering between my legs in a thoroughly distracting kind of way.

We walk along in silence, and I grasp for something to say to break it.

Normally, I’m good at this kind of thing.

I have plenty of practice. I may not like small talk—who does, really?

—but you can’t succeed in a public-facing job without some skill in it.

And it makes for a more enjoyable first date, since the part where you’re unraveling the mysteries of a new person is usually the most fun.

I’m curiously tongue-tied now. A dozen questions make it almost all the way to my lips, but I can’t quite bring myself to ask them until I know my voice won’t break.

My body is practically shaking with nervous energy at his light, guiding, almost possessive touch on my lower back.

My heart is racing with how close we just were.

And then there’s the million-dollar question: how much do I really want to know?

My conversation with Emma echoes in my head again. Russian Bratva . It can’t be just a coincidence that he’s got such a thick Russian accent. Is he one of them? He definitely looks and feels the part.

And what if he is? I desperately want to invite him back to my place, but… beyond the fact that our combined weight would probably pop my air mattress, I’m not even sure if I could really do it.

Could I sleep with a man in the mob? What are the implications, even if it is just one night?

I don’t want to get whacked for giving a bad blowjob.

But what if he’s not? I’ll have made all these assumptions, made up this totally far-fetched scenario in my head, and it will be mortifying. It’s much more likely he isn’t. And then I’ll have missed out on what is sure to be the wildest of rides.

Occam’s razor, right? Doctors love that saying. When you hear hoofbeats, don’t assume zebras. When you meet a Russian guy, don’t assume he’s in the mafia. Emma’s wild imagination just planted an idea in my head, and I need to let it go.

“How do you know Matt and Jenny?” I ask, nearly wincing at how it comes out all high-pitched and full of forced brightness.

“Business,” he replies curtly. “And you?”

Okay… not really helping dispel the mafia associations…

“Jenny’s a distant cousin. ”

“Tell me, Nicole…”

I love the way he says my name, pronouncing it like Nee-cole , with a kind of softness in his accent. “Yes?”

“What would you say if I asked—Felix?”

We’ve arrived at the top of the stairs, and he straightens like someone poured ice water down the back of his jacket. He scowls, eyes fixed on something—or, more likely, some one named Felix—inside, and takes a half-step away from me.

I feel the loss of the warmth of his hand on my back immediately, and a chill shudders through me. “Lev?” I ask.

The glance he shoots me is one of confusion, then hesitation and apology.

“I have to…” he doesn’t finish the statement as he starts moving.

Then, as if remembering he was in the middle of talking to me, he turns back.

“Excuse me. I have just seen someone I must speak with. I will find you later, Nicole.”

Then he’s just… gone. It’s amazing how such a large man can move so quickly and quietly.

Disappointment swells, hot and sharp. Over before it began, and here I am, left holding up all those hopes.

Should I wait for him to find me? The pessimist inside of me assumes he won’t, and that I’ll be stuck waiting here like a silly, hopeful fool for hours. The optimist wants to give him a chance—so, so badly.

What was he going to ask me to tell him? I think I owe it to myself to find out.

Maybe I can ask Jenny or Matt for more information about him. Or is that a stalker-y thing to do? The guest list is so big; I wonder if Matt’s even the one who invited him, or if he’s a friend of the family.

Damn, I hope he’s not someone else’s date.

“Oh, Nicole! I’m so glad I found you!”

I can tell it’s my great-aunt Margaret from the scent of the powdery perfume that envelops me as her soft, round arms come around me from the side. I try not to stiffen, but being touched unexpectedly isn’t my thing. “Hi Aunt Margaret, good to see you.”

“You too, dear!” she cries over the music. The beads on her dress clack together as she moves, sparkling in the light, and the silver tone matches her steel gray curls. “Where is that mother of yours?”

I shrug. “Greece, I think. She and Steve and the kids have had this big Euro-trip in the works for a while.” And my mother is not one to prioritize her old family over her new one.

“Why aren’t you with them?” she asks, aghast. “Didn’t you want to go to Greece?”

So badly. But I’ll get myself there one day—no reason to tag along on a family vacation where I’m not wanted. “I have work,” I lie.

“Oh,” she nods, like she understands my struggle, and brightens just as quickly. “Speaking of which, I was hoping you could take a look at this cyst I have.”

Without waiting for my answer, she leans forward and tilts her neck. The papery skin succumbs to gravity and dangles around the front of her throat. There is indeed a pencil-eraser-sized lump on the back of her shoulder that’s rubbing raw from the neckline of her beaded dress.

“I’ve had it for a few months now. I’m just not sure why it keeps coming back after I drain it… and the smell—”

I clear my throat. Being a nurse is a minefield sometimes.

“I can’t be sure without properly inspecting it, and I don’t have any gloves or anything, so I wouldn’t want to do it here.

I recommend finding a dermatologist. It would help put your mind at ease to have a doctor look,” I say, my party line.

She purses her lips in chagrin and shakes her head, a motion which doesn’t even budge the steely gray pin curls. No one enjoys being told they should see a doctor when they were hoping to get free medical advice. “I suppose. Do you know a good doctor? ”

“I believe that St. Luke’s has a few on staff, if you wanted to come in,” I say, doubling down on what I know she thinks is unhelpful advice.

“That’s in the city?”

“Fifth and Vine.”

Her nose curls as I name an area of the city she’s likely scandalized just to think about. “No, that’s… that’s all right. I’ll ask my family doctor for a referral.”

“I think that would be best,” I say, donning my best neutral face. “Would you excuse me? I need to find my purse.”

Before she can think of another ailment to solicit my opinion on, I scoot away.

I find my table and circle it once. I thought I left my bag next to my plate, but all I see is Kyle’s room key, several half-empty water glasses, and some crumbs of cake.

It’s not on the floor either. A mild panic builds in my gut—it’s a clutch, so most of what’s in there is, like, lipstick and some cash in case I needed it for the bar, but it’s also got some stuff that’s harder to replace, like my glasses, my personal phone, and the work phone they just gave me at St. Luke’s.

I only brought it tonight to build the habit of bringing it with me everywhere—my manager is going to be pissed if I’ve lost it after two days.

This event has more security than the White House, and people are dripping in diamonds; who would steal a purse?

Maybe a server saw it sitting here and swiped it for safekeeping, or maybe someone dropped it off with coat check…

“Oh, Nicoooole.”

I can barely hear it over the pounding bass of the band’s latest banger, but it still sends a chill down my spine.

I spin, cringing at the childish call that drags my name into multiple unnecessary syllables.

Kyle is standing by the wall, holding up my purse.

When we make eye contact, he waves the beaded bag at me, like he wants to make sure that I know he has it.

And then what does that asshole do? He fucking runs .

He hugs the wall, skirting around the dance floor, and darts out towards the gardens where I just was.

“What the hell?!” I cry out, barely able to believe what just happened.

Did a grown man just steal my purse and run like he wants me to chase him? What kind of moron thinks the best way to get a girl’s attention is to steal her fucking purse and run? Is this grade school?

A few people around me shoot me strange looks at my outburst, so I grit my teeth and follow him back out onto the veranda.

“What the actual fuck,” I grumble, staggering on my heels as I follow him through the garden. I miss Lev’s steadying hand—the gravel was so much easier to navigate when I knew he’d catch me if I stepped wrong in my heel.

Kyle stays within sight until I hobble to the edge of the path, then darts through a line of trees. Almost like… fuck. Is he headed for that hedge maze?

“Kyle!” I yell, glancing around as I do. A couple kissing on a bench turn at the sound of my voice, so I lower it when I call out again, “This isn’t funny or cute. Give it back!”

“Come and get me, Nicole!”

He sounds deranged—there’s an edge to his voice that’s so excited it borders on sexual.

Oh, gross.

Look, I’m not one to yuck someone’s yum, but I am not a willing participant in whatever kink this is.

I make it through the line of trees, and he’s waiting for me at the entrance of the maze, leaning into a bush and fanning himself with my bag. He cackles at the sight of me and spins away, disappearing behind greenery and darkness.

“Come on, Kyle, don’t do this. Please, just give it back. ”

As he laughs again, I realize I’m not making this any better for myself. He wants my frustration, my reticence, my desperation. I’m playing right into whatever weird bullying fantasy he’s acting out right now.

The entrance to the hedge maze looms in front of me.

I don’t know what kind of bush/tree/shrub things these are, but they must be 10 feet tall, and they’re so densely packed I can’t see through them.

My Labyrinth-loving heart would be thrilled, if not for the ridiculous, annoying context.

And I’d really prefer to be doing this with some light other than just the moon…

I open my mouth to call out for him again, but stop as I hear a commotion on my right. A group of guys is headed this way, laughing and chatting. One of them is the dude Kyle knew earlier, and I can feel his horrible eyes on me. They feel like mockery.

I hate this. I hate being out here with judgmental voyeurs, and I really, really don’t want to go in there.

A maze. At night. Alone. What happens when I catch up with him? Is he just going to give it back without some kind of altercation? Probably not. But otherwise, how am I going to get my phone?

Stepping just inside so I’m out of sight of Kyle’s friends, who appear to be about to start peeing in the bushes, I bend down and untie the careful knots Lev made.

The grass is soft underfoot, and if I need to run after this complete asshole, there’s no way I’ll manage in four-inch heels that keep sinking into the soft earth.

I hook the straps in the crook of my index finger and head into the maze after Kyle.