“Aleksandr,” I tell her, since there’s really no use lying about it.
“Okay, Aleksandr,” she says, making me smile at her attempt to talk me down and negotiate with me. “I think this is just a big misunderstanding. I’m not even sure exactly what I saw.” She gives a laugh that sounds slightly unhinged. “I mean, I’m just trying to get home. As far as I’m concerned nothing happened here. I tried to speak to Mr. Belsky, he wasn’t in his office, so I just went home. End of story.”
I ignore her and ask, “Did you like him?”
She hesitates before saying, “I didn’t really know him.”
“Did you like what you did know of him?”
“I don’t see how that matters,” she finally says in more of a whisper.
“He was an asshole,” I say, surprising her and, I guess, shitting all over her idea that you shouldn’t ever speak ill of the dead. “He was a lowlife, sex-trafficking pervert, and he pissed off the wrong people. He deserved a whole lot worse than what I gave him.”
She doesn’t say anything, and I’m guessing by her silence that she can’t think of a single thing to say in his defense.
“People are generally jackasses, Holly. You’re what, twenty? Twenty-one? Old enough to not be so damn naïve.”
“I’m twenty-three, and I’m not naïve just because I think most people are decent.”
I can tell she’s getting pissed at me, and maybe that’s a good thing. Hate will help get her through this because being all sugar-and-spice isn’t going to cut it.
“Who are you anyway? Who the hell just goes around killing people?”
I hit a red light, so I turn my head to look at her. “I’m a hitman, and I work for the most powerful Bratva in this city, and now I have a decision to make.”
“You’re an actual hitman?” she whispers, scooting closer to her door to put as much space between us as possible. “And what the fuck is a Bratva?”
I actually smile at her innocence. “Yes, and it’s the Russian mafia.”
“Russian,” she says, her voice trailing off as she whispers, “so that’s what language it was.”
I can tell she’s getting dangerously close to losing it by the way she’s avoiding the elephant in the room of her having witnessed my crime and the very obvious fact that most people don’t leave witnesses alive.
“You’re not going to let me go, are you?”
The light turns green. I don’t bother looking at her when I say, “No.”
After a few minutes of silence, the sound of her wheezing has me turning my head sharply to look at her. “What’s wrong?”
She’s huddled up against the door, and her breaths are shallow and wheezy.
“I have asthma,” she says, forcing her words out in between her painful-sounding breaths.
“You have your bag. Use your inhaler.”
Her hands clench the strap of her messenger bag so tightly I see her knuckles turn white. “I forgot it at home.”
“Fuck,” I growl, pulling over to the side of the road before turning to her. “Is this a joke? Are you faking this shit?”
The scared look on her face and the eerie sound of her wheezing tells me she’s not at all faking this. When she starts to cough, it’s a hoarse, dry, painful sound that’s ripped from her lungs, making her clutch her bag even tighter.
“Where do you live?” I finally ask, not quite sure why I’m doing it. I mean, if she dies from an asthma attack, that means my problem would be solved. So why the hell am I rushing back across town after she gasps out her address? I don’t take the time to dissect my actions, I just get her there in record time and pull up to the sad apartment building with the chipped, white paint next to an all-night laundromat. There’s a line of Christmas lights along one of the railings, but most of the bulbs aren’t working, so it comes off being way more depressing than if they hadn’t bothered to string up anything at all.
As soon as I turn the truck off, she’s reaching for the door handle. I reach across and grab her arm before she can leave. Ignoring the way her wheezing has gotten worse and the slight blue tinge to her lips, I say, “Don’t fucking try anything, Holly. We get your inhaler, and we get the hell out. Don’t make me do anything that you’ll regret.”
She nods her head slightly, not even bothering to waste precious oxygen on an actual answer. I follow right behind her, and when she attempts to climb the stairs, coughing and wheezing even harder now that she’s breathing in the ice-cold air, I groan out another “Fucking hell,” and pick her up, cradling her against my chest as I run us up the stairs and to the apartment door she’s pointing at.
“Do you live alone?” I ask, just now wondering if maybe I’m going to walk in on a husband or boyfriend. She’s not wearing a ring, but that doesn’t mean anything for sure. This is going to really get nasty if there’s a man waiting inside.