Page 9 of Pistols and Plush Toys

“You need to eat Nikolai,” Meredith said, narrowing her eyes. “And not just whatever deep-fried, double glazed, potato laden monstrosity catches your eye at three in the morning.”

“I’m wanting my food tasting good,” Nikolai said defensively.

He understood Meredith’s concerns about his bloodwork and cholesterol and whatever, but a greasy burger with a few glasses of vodka in the small hours of the night had saved him from worse on more than one occasion.

There were ugly things in Nikolai that festered at night, a loneliness that dragged at him. If he could fill it with some greasy food and a cold drink, that was better than the alternative. It kept him working, kept him functional, kept him from lingering on his broken past and his empty future.

Unfortunately, Meredith had gotten her hands on his last blood panel and taken the information personally. The string of personal chefs was a compromise between them.

It wasn’t his fault that none of them could cook a decent Russian dish.

Meredith tutted. “I still have the stack of resumes, but I won’t bring a new employee in right now. Too much risk.”

“Yes,” Nikolai said.

“Two weeks,” Meredith said like a threat. “You’re not going to french fry and soft serve yourself into an early grave.”

“American food is good.” Nikolai said. There was a ping from his phone. “I thought you were having to go.”

She gave him an icy look that told him if she didn’t value her own self-control so much, she probably would’ve reached over to cuff him across the head.

“I am,” she said menacingly. “I’ll just tell the chef on my way out that we’ll not need his services then?”

“Yes,” Nikolai said stiffly. “Thank you.”

Meredith let out another audible sigh, and took the plate and herself from the room.

Nikolai reached for his phone to check the last message. It was a text from Alex, confirming that they were fifteen minutes out and everything was continuing as planned.

Good.

Fifteen minutes later his phone pinged again to tell him they were at the gate. Nikolai had been idly reading emails to pass the time, and he shoved his phone in his pocket and stood. He wasn’t anxious, because he didn’t get anxious, but there was a swirling energy in the pit of his stomach.

He took a deep breath and pushed the feeling away. He glanced at his bar cabinet and the bottles inside.

It was fine. He could do this.

He checked the tuck of his shirt and fixed his cufflinks as he pulled on the version of himself he needed for this to work. The Nikolai Tkachenko who was cold and unfeeling. The man his father had spent so long beating him into.

It was a second skin, one he hated but needed.

He strode back to the bedroom to wait for his delivery.

Ten minutes later Nikolai heard his new captive before he saw him. He wasn’t loud, but Nikolai could hear harsh, wet breaths and bitten off cries as he was brought further into the house.

They turned the corner and Nikolai saw them, Pyotr and Alex dragging a smaller figure between them. The kid still hadthe black bag on his head, and was slumped between the two larger men.

Nikolai had seen dozens of photos of Elliot Brooks over the last few weeks in preparation for this, but his smallness still struck him. He was quivering, hands zip tied together in front of him in a way that made him look fragile.

Nikolai frowned as he looked over Brooks's wrists. He’d been restrained for less than an hour, so why was there already so much damage to his wrists?

“Trouble?”Nikolai asked Pyotr in Russian as he led them into the bedroom.

“No boss.”Pyotr didn’t appear harried.

Another heart-wrenching sound came from under the bag, a sob that was quickly stifled. It was almost worse than the pleas Nikolai had been expecting to hear.

Nikolai nodded, forcing his face into stone.

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