Page 11 of Devious Madness

I hobble the rest of the way into my apartment, turning on only one light. For once, I’m grateful for the extremely small space I live in. Just the light over the oven being on is enough to illuminate the rest of the place.

It’s more of an attic than an apartment, but it has heat and air conditioning and a full bathroom. More importantly the rent is insanely low, so I can’t complain.

And it’s helping right now because I don’t have time to be running around looking for things. I need to throw what I can into a backpack and get the hell out of here.

As I stuff underwear into my backpack, the numbing agent they gave me for my head wears off, leaving a burning tingle behind. As much as it hurts, and as powerful as the throb in my head gets, I push forward.

I pack clothes and all the cash I have stashed in the coffee can in the freezer. I almost have enough to wire Megan the two thousand for this month, but not quite.

It’s going to take me time to get settled somewhere else, find a place to stay, and get a job. This cash is all I have to keep me afloat until then. But if I don’t send the money, Marco could go after Megan for it.

Rage at the impossibility of my situation boils just beneath the surface, and if I give it any attention at all it will erupt in volcanic proportions.

Damn you, Nico!

And damn me, too.

I take a second, because I barely have even that to spare, to suck in a breath and push the emotion back down. Analyzing how horrible things are right this moment, and how I let myself get entangled in them, isn’t going to help me.

My phone.

I need to find it and charge it. Maybe there’s amessage on there from Megan. Maybe she deleted my last text from the burner and didn’t have the number to message back. Maybe she sent me something explaining why a huge man named Rurik Mikhailov would be hunting me down.

And who the hell is Alexander Volkov?

It’s a lot of maybes, but it’s all I have. Throwing open the little drawer next to the sink, the cellphone I’ve had for years slides forward. It’s dead, of course, because I haven’t had the balls to turn it on in the last six months.

Marco may not be able to track me by my cellphone, but that detective could. And if he can find me, Marco can find me. And if Marco finds me talking to the detective again, even when I say nothing that would implicate Marco, the DeAngelos would have my head.

The portable charger has just enough juice in it that it should charge my phone while it’s tucked in my bag. After I get that stuffed into a pocket, I do one more quick sweep of the place.

I haven’t accumulated anything while I’ve been here. It’s easy to live bare minimum when you’re saving every penny you earn.

“Okay,” I say to myself, taking another calming breath. “You left your car at the bar, so just get to the bus station and get on the first bus leaving town. I can do this. You can do this.”

My little pep talk doesn’t do much to bolster my confidence, but I don’t have any choices here.

I haven’t had anyin months.

Shucking the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I throw open the door, ready to run off into the night.

“Mira.”

The coldness in his tone freezes my feet to the cheap, peeling, linoleum flooring.

Rurik stands on the other side of my door. The porch, if you can really call it that, is barely large enough for two people to stand on it. If they’re okay with being really close to each other. Rurik takes up the whole space.

He’s all height, and muscle, and shoulders, and muscle, and that square jaw. I’ve heard the term Greek god, but this guy isn’t Greek.

Russian maybe? Do they have gods that look like this? Like someone took a chisel to marble and just decided to create the most handsome and dangerous looking man alive?

“Fuck.” The word drops from my mouth just as he moves inside, pushing me back a step to keep from being stepped on.

“Hmm.” He invades my space until I move further in, allowing him to kick the door closed behind him.

He takes in my apartment with a frown. The crease of his brow gets deeper as he looks toward the kitchen area.

“You live here.” He doesn’t ask as much as he accuses me.

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