“Why did you come out there?” I ask, suddenly, unreasonably furious.
“I just wanted to see you!” Lucya snaps. “I thought… you would remember me.” She looks down, embarrassed at her outburst, and smooths her skirt back down her thighs. Pity. I was enjoying the view.
Pulling into the clinic’s parking lot, I glance over. Her cheeks are red and she’s staring straight ahead. I can see the glitter of tears in her eyes.“Kolibri.I would not have ever wanted you to see that. But you have. I know you’ll keep silent.”
“Of course,” she agrees. “Look, this isn’t necessary. “I’m Bratva. That doesn’t change whether I’m in St. Petersburg or Boston. Can you just drop me off at home? It’s not far.”
“I nearly snapped your neck. You’ll be checked out before I’ll let you go home.”
“Let?”Oh, now my hummingbird is upset. “You don’t have any authority over me, Alexi Anatolevich Turgenev!”
Opening her door, I lean down to capture her chin between my fingers and thumb, pushing it up until she’s forced to look at me. “Say that again.”
“You… that’s…” she sputters.
I pull her out of the car and into my arms. “That’s what I thought.”
“Aside from the fairlyseverebruising on her neck,” the doctor says primly, “she’s in good shape. I checked her throat, and the swelling is already down.”
The clinic is small, tucked away in a residential neighborhood, but it’s exceptionally clean and holds hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of medical equipment. If she had to, Dr. Keller could perform open heart surgery with this setup. She’s in her fifties, a strong, no-nonsense woman who can subdue even the largest man if she has to. She’s used to sudden visits at all hours, so she didn’t bat an eyelash when I shoved the door open, carrying a protesting Lucya.
Lucya is drinking some anti-inflammatory concoction the doctor handed her and glaring at me. It’s about as intimidating as a rabbit staring down a wolf, but I admire her spirit. The girl I remember was always shy, usually getting into trouble, and didn’t stand up for herself. Bratva families are cruel and don’t reward sweet, gentle girls. She’s grown a spine, this one.
“Is she ready to go?”
“She is,” Dr. Keller says. Turning to Lucya with a smile, she cautioned, “If your throat closes up and you feel like you can’t draw a full breath, contact me immediately. You had a cut on the back of your head. I put in a couple of stitches, but the bruising around it is big enough that you might have a concussion.” She looks over at me. “Can you stay up tonight and keep an eye on her? You’ll need to wake her up every hour.”
“Oh, I don’t-” Lucya starts.
“That will be fine,” I cut her off. “I’ll take good care of her.”
Dr. Keller looks like she’s fighting back a smile. “I’m sure you will.”
“Really, I’m fine.”
Kolibri’stone is plaintive. I’ve been ignoring her requests to take her home. I know nothing about her living conditions and taking care of her is my responsibility.
“I'm sure you are,” I agree while scooping her back up in my arms. She irritably kicks her legs.
“I can walk, Alexi!”
“I’m sure you can.” Leaning into the biometric scanner, I wait for the light to change from red to green and the huge metal door swings open. My home here in Boston is in a large, empty industrial building. The developer was renovating the space into condos, but once he’d finished mine, I bought the property and halted the construction.
The first floor is grim, with concrete walls and nothing to suggest this is anything more than an abandoned building. The black elevator doors silently slide open and Lucya looks at the numbers ticking upward on the display.
“This isn’t like a murder lair, is it?” She’s not quite as fierce now.
“No.” I know she's hoping for more of an explanation, but I’m enjoying how she’s huddling against me. Her hair brushes against my jaw, the thick silk of it catching on my stubble.
The elevator doors open to my entryway and she gasps. “Wow. This is… holy crap Alexi, is this yours?”
Two of the walls are glass, looking out over the showy river of light from the Seaport District and the harbor. The living room flows into the kitchen, which I rarely use. The furniture isoversized, handmade to fit my bulk. It’s dark, almost cave-like with the charcoal-colored walls and black and grey accents.
“The Turgenev Bratva is moving into Boston,” I say, leaning against a pillar and watching her explore. “I needed a home base.”
“I would never guess this was here,” she shakes her head. “The rest of the building looks like a homicide waiting to happen.”
“I don’t like neighbors.” I notice she’s wandering toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten today?”
