It’s the suspicion he has concerning Alex that isn’t sitting right with me. I don’t believe it, but my judgement is clouded because I don’twantto believe it. I feel oddly protective of her. I’m sure that’ll end after she’s married off into a family I don’t care for.
But maybe Lorenzo is right. Maybe there’s more to her than she let on. Lorenzo’s judgement is rarely off. Another thing he has in common with my father.
I guess I’d better find out for myself.
8
ALEX
My pencil curves and slices across paper with a poise that’s taken years to develop. I’m in the zone. My elbows are propped on the glass case we keep the meat in, and my back is hunched over my sketch pad. My hair hangs, and I tuck it behind my ear periodically when it falls onto the page.
I move on to the shading, starting with the crown that rests on the skull and making my way down the flames. I smudge the graphite on the paper with a finger when I get to that part.
I pause, my pencil hovering over the drawing while I inspect it.
It isn’t right. The skull is supposed to have teeth, I think. The crown doesn’t have the right shape of jewels. I sigh and slam my pencil on the thick glass. This is my third try today.
The bell above the door chimes, and I raise my head to see who’s come in. There are at least four customers I expect today. Their drug of choice is sealed in a tiny plastic bag and neatly wrapped up with a couple of steaks. The code phrase is “I’d like a specialcut”. Seems a little obvious to me, but my opinion doesn’t exactly matter.
It isn’t a customer. My neck tingles, and my spine goes rigid. The door shuts, and Nikita smiles as he walks up to the counter. It’s not a friendly smile, I don’t think he’s capable of those. It’s more of a ‘I could kill you with one hand and laugh as you struggle’ smile. He’s in a suit today, as usual, and his ash-blond hair is combed to the side, in a sexy businessman type of way. He’d be incredibly handsome if he wasn’t so overtly evil.
I looked his name up once. It means ‘winner’. He’s taken that to heart.
“Hello, Mr. Petrov,” I say, my nervousness so pathetically clear. I look behind me at the door to my father’s office. He’s been gone all morning, off doing something I probably don’t want to know about, and my heart gallops knowing I’ll have to tell Nikita this. I’m guessing he doesn’t like wasted trips.
“Good afternoon, Alexa.” He leans on the countertop, folding his arms and resting on them. “How are you today?”
“I’m great, how are you?” My voice squeaks, and the bastard smiles like it’s amusing.
“Doing well, thank you for asking.”
“My father’s actually not here.” I throw a look behind me as if to make sure. “I can call him, though. He might be nearby.”
Nikita’s lips purse, and he looks down at my sketchpad. I go to close it, but he grabs my hand tightly, squeezing just to the point of pain. He lets go and turns the sketchpad around to look at it.
“That won’t be necessary. It’s you I came to see.”
“Me?” I swallow.
Fuck, what did I do?
Nikita nods, never taking his eyes off my drawing. “I wanted to see how you were getting along. A pretty girl in this life doesn’t always fare well.” He glances up at me for a moment. “How are the Italians treating you?”
I stay silent, my mouth opening and closing a few times. Nikita pierces me with a stare, and it only makes it harder to speak. I have no idea what to say. Paolo bet me in a fucking poker game, sonot good. But what would happen if I said that? I’m guessing I’m not supposed to complain.
Nikita sighs. “They’re barbarians, all of them. So attached to their version of loyalty, they can’t see what’s good for them.”
What does this have to do with me?
Nikita walks around the counter and stands close enough to me that our shoulders touch. I keep my eyes forward and focus on my breathing.
He cups my cheek and guides me to look at him. “Truth be told, you don’t belong with them.” He fingers a lock of my hair and studies it. “I almost wish I hadn’t chosen you. It’s a waste, really. Gifting them something so beautiful… Pity.” He drops my hair and sighs, meeting my gaze again. Part of me is terrified he’ll see how pissed off I am from him calling me athing, and the other part of me hopes he sees it. A glimpse, at least.
“It’s an unfortunate necessity,” he says.
I don’t respond, and I don’t think he expects me to. He turns my sketchpad to face us and nods to it. “This is very good.”
“Thank you.”