Raze & Reap (9 page)

Again, there was no response, and I realized I wasn't going to get anything from this man. I studied his sharply featured face. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, but with dirt and dried blood covering his face, in reality, he could have been older.

I found myself desperate to know his story. Why was he here? Who was he? But his silence pushed me away. I sucked warm air into my lungs in an attempt to calm down. I didn't know why this was so important to me. But I
had
to know why he was collecting money. What was it for? Did he really need help?

I kneeled there for minutes just listening to his deep breathing. Then I sighed and placed the care package of food and blankets at his feet.

“I … I'd better go,” I announced and slowly got to my feet. I was about to turn around when the man cleared his throat, and I froze.

“Mnny,”
was all I heard, his gruff, deep voice unintelligible.

I turned to face him. His head was still downcast.

“What?” I asked urgently and bent down until my knees hit the ground, praying he would speak again.

His fingers gripped the jar and he tilted it up in my direction. “Money,” he growled.

I visibly shook at the deep timbre of his feral-sounding voice. It was primal, animalistic. I slapped a hand on my chest as I fought to breathe. I dipped my eyes to try and meet his, but his chin lowered until it almost touched his defined, ripped chest. He could sense I was trying to make eye contact, yet he wouldn't let me see him.

Filling my lungs with the humid night air, feeling their ache, I asked, “Money? You need money?”

A grunt told me I had it right, and I bent down farther. “How much?”

Nothing happened for several seconds, before one of his rough hands let go of the jar and he reached into his pocket, pulling out a tattered piece of paper. He held it out for me to take. I reached out for the scrap. When my finger brushed his warm finger, a current like a bolt of electricity shot through my body. I almost leapt back at the sensation. He must have felt it too as no sooner had our fingers touched than he pulled his hand back and tucked it into his pocket.

With trembling hands, I unfolded the crinkled paper and my eyes saw a number: ten thousand.

My eyes locked on the man whose full lips were pursed.

“Ten grand?” I whispered, yet he said nothing. “Ten grand?” I said louder, betraying my disbelief. “What do you need that kind of money for?”

His free hand clenched slowly into a fist and the split skin began to seep with droplets of blood. I was gripped by fear as I watched the droplets fall to the sun-parched ground.

“Revenge,”
he snarled.

I startled at the severity of his tone, at his rough voice, his voice that caused sparks to ignite deep in my stomach.

“Revenge?” I whispered in confusion, fighting to keep the nerves from
my
voice.

His clenched hand slackened and once again resumed its place on the jar.

“Revenge … revenge on the man who lied.”

I slowly stood, not knowing what to do, not knowing whether it was right to fund his …
revenge
. I wanted to push him for more, but he was back to being a statue. I looked down at the money in the jar. He had about fifty dollars, if that. He was never going to raise that kind of money out here on the streets.

It was hopeless. What he was doing was hopeless.

I ran my hand through my hair and almost laughed. What the hell was I doing? And was I seriously contemplating giving him ten grand? For
revenge?
Up to now, the very thought should have sent me running for the hills, but I was a princess of the Bratva, the only daughter of the Pakhan. Revenge put food on my family's table; it ensured we all lived to see another day. Revenge was my family's M.O., my family's legacy.

And ten grand was nothing to Kirill Volkov's family.

I could get this amount tonight from the safe at the gym. No one but me knew the cash was there. Hell, no one would miss it. It was the gym's Christmas donation to the church. But I was in two minds. It was charity and it was earmarked for the church; however, I was now pretty convinced that giving the money to a single man hell bent on revenge, though not the Lord's original idea of alms, was charity enough. This mysterious man had saved my life. He killed
my
attacker to save
my
life.

It was blood money, payment for a sin against the flesh. What was ten thousand dollars compared to that?

Crouching down, I placed the piece of paper on top of his jar and promised, “I'll be back later tonight.”

Turning on my heel, I jogged back to the truck and, from my cell, called Serge to pick me up. Ten minutes later, he arrived and I made my excuses to Father Kruschev.

I jumped in the backseat of the car and Serge turned his body to face me, worry etched on his face. “Miss Kisa, what's wrong? Has something happened?”

Shaking my head, I asked, “Serge, I need a favor. Please, can you take me to the gym, then back here?” I looked up at him through my lashes, the guilt of this request playing heavy on my heart. “But don't tell Papa or Alik.”

Serge stared at me and his gray eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you in trouble, Miss?”

I shook my head.

“Is this going against something you were ordered not to do?” Serge pushed further.

“No,” I whispered. “It's something I
want
to do for someone … something to pay back a debt. But Alik wouldn't be happy. He'd think I would have betrayed his orders.”

Serge blew out a long breath but, dropping his head, turned around and buckled his seatbelt. “I hope you're not lying to me, Miss Volkova,” he said, and I exhaled a pent-up breath.

“I'm not, Serge. I
swear
.”

Serge gave a curt nod and silently pulled out onto the street. A while later, we arrived at the gym. Serge guarded me as I slipped inside and ran to my office. I quickly opened the safe hidden in the wall, pulled out the cash, and stuffed it into my purse.

After locking my office door, Serge looked at me with suspicion in his eyes, but I brushed past him without saying a word. Dutifully, he followed me outside into the car.

In another twenty minutes, we pulled back in front of the street where the food truck had stopped, only this time everywhere was deserted. The church truck was gone for the night and most of the homeless were asleep under their blankets.

I went to open the door, clutching my purse, when Serge opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

“Serge? What are you doing?” I asked in panic.

Serge folded his old but still beefy arms over his chest, his black suit looking too tight. “Miss Volkova, I might have agreed to escort you to the gym and back here, even though it wasn't on Mr. Volkov's or Alik's approved list, but there is no way I'm letting you walk around these streets alone at this time of night.”

I stepped forward, a pleading look upon my face. “Please, Serge. I need to give a homeless man here some money and I must do it alone.”

Serge shook his head in exasperation and stormed forward, gently gripping my bicep in his hand. “Kisa, what the hell is going on?”

I dropped my eyes. “I … I…” I blew out a sharp breath and met Serge's eyes. “Serge, I was attacked last night while doing the church's work. I was in an alley, alone, where I was told not to go, handing out a care package to one of the regulars, when some guy tried to steal my purse and put a blade to my throat. He … he was going to kill me.”

Serge turned a deathly shade of white, eyes searching all around us. “Who? Who the fuck attacked a Volkov? I'll kill him!”

“No!” I hissed and shook Serge's arm. “That's what I'm trying to say. Another homeless man came to my defense. Hell, Serge, he ended up killing my attacker. I … I owe him, and he needs money. I want to help him in return for saving me.”

“Fucking hell, Kisa!” Serge groaned. I could hear how pissed he was from his tight accented voice. “Why the hell didn't you tell your father when you got home?”

“I couldn't, Serge. Alik would've found out. He wouldn't understand that the man saved me. He would think there was more to it. He'd kill the man who saved my life, out of jealousy. You know he forbids me to speak to men.” I paused and let that hang in the air. “You know this, Serge. You know what he's like.”

Serge checked that the area was clear. “Let's go. You have ten minutes.”

I took off in the direction of where the man had been sitting. Turning the corner, I was relieved to see he hadn't moved. His hood was firmly pulled down and his hand was still wrapped around the Mason jar.

“There,” I whispered to Serge. His eyes followed the direction in which my finger pointed … and he reared back in shock when he laid eyes on the beggar's large frame.

“
That
man? Christ, Kisa!” he asked.

Without giving him an answer, I trotted over the street, motioning for Serge to hang back a bit. He did so, reluctantly.

Cautiously approaching the man, I let my heels click on the asphalt so he would hear my approach. I kneeled down before him and, exactly as before, saw his hands tense. It was as if he were expecting to be struck … or he was gearing himself up to fight.

“It's okay … It's me, again … from before,” I said and rolled my eyes at how stupid I sounded. It was pathetic.

I
was pathetic doing this!

The man didn't say anything, not that I'd expected him to. So I opened my purse and began pulling out the cash, pushing it into his jar.

I started when I saw his head lift slightly, watching me fill his jar to the brim. In a flash, he reached out and grabbed a tight hold on my hand. I didn't react, afraid Serge would come running. Feeling flushed at the touch of his rough hand, I slotted the last of the money into the jar and picked up the sound of his heavy breathing.

“It's all there, everything you need,” I said quietly. Suddenly, the sound of a gunshot rang out in the distance. It made me jump and whip my head around to look at Serge.

“Shit! Stay here!” Serge ordered and took off around the corner to check it out, his Beretta pulled from his jacket and now firmly in his hand.

My attention moved to the man again, whose hand had released mine. He was screwing the top onto the jar whilst rising to his feet. As soon as he was upright, I stood before him and tried to gaze up into his eyes. His head dipped again and I wanted to scream out in frustration.

Tucking the jar under his arm, he backed away. I knew he was about to take off and disappear into the night. But in a moment of desperation, I reached out and grabbed his sweatshirt sleeve, pulling him to a stop. He wrenched his arm back and strode forward, causing me to stumble back in fear. My back slammed against the slick wall and I heard a low, threatening grumble emerge from his mouth, making it clear that I shouldn't have touched him. For a fleeting moment, I feared he would strike me.

Holding my hands out for protection, his broad chest slammed into my palms, all hard, defined muscles beneath his shirt as he pushed forward, my hands beginning to shake. I could feel his thumping heartbeat against my palm—he was jacked up, fuming on the spot. Every part of me filled with fear, made worse by a street light above us which flickered on and off, illuminating his gritted teeth.

“Wait! I'm sorry,” I said quickly. The man's body froze. “I … I only wanted to see your face … before you left. I wanted to see the man who saved me.”

The dark hood tilted slowly to the side, and the heavy rise and fall of his chest seemed to increase. He didn't want me to see his eyes. That only made me more curious. Keeping the jar tucked under his left arm, he stopped pushing against my hands. Taking the chance while I could, I cautiously reached up and torpidly pulled back his hood.

My eyes were trained on his face as it came into view—that strong jaw, that unruly sandy-blond hair, his dark stubbled cheeks, high cheekbones, and …

I waited with bated breath for his dipped head to rise and finally meet my eyes. He did so with painstaking slowness, long, dark lashes downcast, like he was fighting against his instincts, like gravity was keeping his eyes pulled down. Until, with nostrils flaring and his breath blowing hard, he lost the battle to keep his anonymity and his eyelids lifted to reveal the dark irises underneath and his hard gaze suddenly bored into my eyes …

Then everything stopped—time, the ability to breathe … my whole entire world.

Choking on a gasp, my hand flew to my mouth and my legs collapsed beneath me. In a New York minute, my ass hit the hard ground and cold shivers tracked down my spine.

The man's face was blank as he towered over me, knowing I had been felled by his stare. He was raw, stern, and he was glaring at me like a killer before he rips apart his victim, a predator before he devours his prey. There was no emotion in his expression, no compassion for me now sitting on the sidewalk, no thanks for a generous donation. He was as cold as an arctic winter … but he was a beautiful monster, and he had no idea why I despaired.

Hearing the kicking of a can down the far side of the nearby alley, the man pulled up his hood, his
disguise
and, in a flash, sprinted away into the darkness.

I failed to pull oxygen into my lungs, wheezing as I tried.
Those eyes
 … those eyes were imprinted into my brain, they were soldered onto my soul. My voice was stolen by the shock of what I'd just seen.

Brown eyes … a pair of rich chocolate-brown eyes, the left iris smudged with a flash of blue … the exact blue from my eyes … just like …

No
 …
how could it be?

He died …
He
had died over twelve years ago.

That man was a monster, a killer, devoid of emotion, with little ability to communicate. Luka … Luka was my best friend, my love, a Bratva boy … He died …