Then again, Mikhail would never see to it that a member of the bratva would be a girl. He’s the Pakhan, the leader of the Russian organization that operates in New York City.
“Do you need to stop and pick up some clothes?” Sadie asks.
It’s not like I’m supposed to know where I live, and I don’t have any house keys in my pocket. “That’s a tough job, considering I don’t remember anything,” I say.
She clears her throat and glances briefly at me. “I can loan you a few dollars. We can stop by a Target or Walmart and see what fits you?”
I’m tall and robust, and while I’m sure there are jeans and t-shirts that I can purchase, I won’t be wearing my usual suit and tie attire. Not that I particularly need to be in a suit coat lounging around the hotel. And where the hell else am I going to be able to go if the bratva is after me? I’ll need to lie low and stay out of trouble.
Not something I excel at, given my expertise.
“I don’t want to put you out,” I say.
“You won’t. You’ll pay me back.” Sadie gives me a thousand-watt smile. “If you need a job, you can always clean my apartment. Ihatecleaning.”
I groan under my breath. That’s not the kind of work I enjoy doing. But I’ve done worse, cleaning up dead bodies—an apartment with dust and dirt, that should be a breeze. And maybe I’ll even do a little snooping around. There’s something about Sadie that I can’t quite put my finger on. Probably the fact that she’s here, willing to help me, and I’ve been in a coma for six weeks.
Who does that?
What kind of a person waits around for a stranger to wake up?
“You’re too kind.” And I mean every word of it. If she knew the kind of man I am, the things I’ve done, she wouldn’t look at me with such a hopeful gaze. The girl is innocent, and just being around me will ruin her.
Sadie smiles, her hands on the steering wheel. Every so often, she glances at me like she’s thinking something but doesn’t want to say it aloud.
“What?” I have a knack for reading people, especially pretty young ladies.
“You don’t remember anything?” Sadie quips. She pulls up to the Target parking lot and shuts off the engine. I’m relieved to climb out and stand, stretching my legs. I swear she bought a clown car. Sadie follows me to the front entrance, her arm linking with mine again. “I don’t want you falling over, mister.” She chuckles.
“I don’t even remember my name.” The lie is getting easier to tell as I’m trying to convince myself that I don’t know who I am.
“That’s wild.” She glances me over as she stalks toward the carts. “Do you need to hold on, or are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but thank you for asking.” I’ve gotten my land legs back, and while my head does throb, I ignore the sensation.
Convinced that I’m okay to walk on my own, Sadie grabs a cart and pushes it through the store, leading me toward the men’s department.
Is the girl about to help pick out my wardrobe? It’s a little too domestic for me, but I refrain from saying anything offensive. Sadie is trying to be helpful. I need her if I’m going to stay off anyone’s radar.
I don’t have to worry about the surveillance cameras recognizing me. I’m not a man who is wanted, and I’m pretty sure they all think I’m dead.
Anger sizzles inside of me, wanting answers. The report earlier on the news with Anton and Savannah has me itching to find access to the internet to do a little digging and reconnaissance of my own.
But I won’t get those answers with Sadie at my side. She’s too good, too kind and innocent to be around the violence and bloodshed amongst the bratva.
They used to be men whom I aligned myself with, but I no longer recognize myself or where I fit in the grand scheme of their organization.
I grab a few items off the rack, nothing that will stand out or be flashy. I don’t need to put a target on myself. They think I’m dead. It’s better to keep them unsuspecting.
I need a plan and a weapon.
I’m not likely to get caught without identification or contacting an old source who might give me up.
I’ll get a knife later when I’m not having the cute little ray of sunshine tagging along—no sense in scaring the girl.
I clear my throat after dropping enough clothes for two days in the cart. “Let’s go.” I’m done shopping; this isn’t my idea of fun, and the painkillers the hospital had me on are wearing off.
My mood is slipping with it, making me grumpy and anxious.