Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(57)

I snatch the file from the table and stand. There is nothing left to say. Mischa can request my word as much as he’d like, but I won’t give it. Not until I know what this means for me.

Or Nakya.





Something I’ve learned about Nikolai is that he holds onto an insult with steel reinforced teeth. We’ve scarcely spoken a word in over two weeks, and I know it’s because of my comment about Dante.

It shouldn’t bother me, considering he marked me like a dog and left a proverbial arrow in my heart. I don’t want Dante, but I like to throw him in Nikolai’s face because it’s the only weapon that seems to penetrate his invisible forcefield.

I really didn’t have a good reason for doing it, but I was angry. Everything in my life is spinning out of control, and I can’t find my balance. The longer I stay here, playing whatever role he sees fit, the more difficult it becomes to see myself in any other reality. I’m at his mercy, and he won’t give me the lies I need to hear.

I want him to tell me that he won’t marry Ana. I want him to say that I’m not broken anymore, and everything is going to be okay. But his truth is bitter and loving him is too. The thief stole my heart, only to hold it in the palm of his hand, extorting my affections when it suits him.

Too often, I have found myself wandering the house at night, awaiting his return. My restless soul won’t let me sleep, and my mind won’t give up wondering where he is. Tonight is no different. Anguish nags at me as I stare out the window and trace the constellations with my finger. He hasn’t taken me in two weeks. I would be a fool to believe he hasn’t been with anyone else. It’s the mafia way, and this is the fate I’m cursed to live, whether it’s with Nikolai or with Dante.

I close my eyes and wish for sleep, but it evades me in the same way the sun chases the moon. It’s either dark, or it’s light, and there is no eclipse on the horizon.

I take to wandering the house again. Nikolai’s room is empty, and I indulge my habit by touching his things. His clothes, his jacket, his cap. They smell like him, and his bed does too. Sweet tobacco and cloves. I curl into his pillow and breathe him in. I wonder if he ever feels as tormented as I do. I wonder if he ever lays here at night and thinks about coming to my room to steal me away again.

In answer, a melancholy tune echoes from above like a soundtrack to my madness.

At first, I think it’s my imagination. But the tune plays on, and when I look up at the ceiling, I can almost feel his energy luring me there.

I’ve never been up to the third floor. Nonna told me it was off limits, and I didn’t care to find out why. But at this late hour, I can’t think of a single reason to obey. I slip from the bed and walk quietly to the landing. I’ve only ever gone down the stairs before, and it feels dangerous to be climbing up instead.

When I encounter a door at the top, my adventure ends abruptly. It’s a solid door. Different from the others in the house. It looks heavy and secure, and I know there’s no way I’m getting through, but I also know this must be where Nikolai keeps his secrets. I want to collect his secrets like he has collected my tears. I want to dissect the intimate details of the man who haunts me day and night. But there’s a barrier in the way.

My shoulders sag, and I’m prepared to take leave with my disappointment until I see the small sliver of light reflecting off the floor.

It’s cracked. Just barely, but it’s cracked.

I press my fingertips against the door, but it doesn’t budge until I put my entire body’s weight against it, creating a gap wide enough to slip through. My pulse jumps as my feet move forward. It could be the last bad decision I ever make, but desperation leaves me greedy for answers. And when I reach the threshold of what can only be described as a vault, I finally have them.

Two things hit me at once. The confounding realization and subsequent relief that Nikolai is not out with Ana or anyone else, and that he is, in fact, here. Shirtless and paint splattered in nothing more than a pair of well-worn jeans that hang loosely from his hips.

There is a suspended moment of time I’m gifted to soak it all in. He’s humming along to the music, deep vibrations rumbling from his chest as his hand moves quickly and expertly over the canvas in front of him. At least a dozen others surround him, and I feel like I’m in a dream when I see them.

Dancers. They are all dancers.

And they are all me.

It’s too much for my mind to process. What I’m witnessing isn’t what I know him to be. He is mafiya. A thief. Not an artist. But my judgment can’t argue with realism. I confined him to a box inside my mind, and he hasn’t just stepped outside it, he’s blown it entirely apart.

He created these pieces. He conceived and designed and toiled over these works.

I expected to find so many other things. Death. Torture chambers. Violence. Money and guns. But not art. I can’t fathom it. Right now, I don’t want to. I want to pretend I never saw it. It’s the only way to protect myself. But the chance is lost when Nikolai turns and catches me watching him.

I’m prepared to flee, but one command from him halts me.

“Stop.”

I freeze.

His eyes hold me hostage. “What do you mean to do by sneaking around?”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not an answer.” He discards the brush in his hand against the easel. “Tell me what you were looking for.”