She shoved the door flush with the jam—and froze.
Was that blood?
Reopening the door to let in the light, she shifted for a better look.
It was blood. A decent-sized streak of it that carried across the door jam and was roughly the same height as her dad. A quick check outside showed two fat drops on the stoop as well.
Her stomach lurched and a mangled cry lodged in her throat. She slammed the door shut once more, threw the bolt and scrambled well out of reach.
This was bad.
Very bad.
Wiping her hands on her hips, she paced to the open side window, scanned the street outside and pulled the blind back down.
Okay. She just needed to think things through. Figure out the right thing to do.
“The cops,” she said to the empty room. “Everyone calls the cops.” She hustled for her phone in her backpack, pulled it out and fired up the screen.
Um. Tiny problem, hot rod. This is your dad and Kevin we’re talking about. You call the cops and there’s no telling what trouble you’ll bring down on them.
She stared at the phone a beat longer, punched the button to put it back to sleep and dropped into the spot she’d cleared out for herself on the sofa. Even if she did risk it and call the cops, they’d probably rope her into the mess as well—guilty until proven innocent and all that.
Hell of a predicament when you couldn’t call the people who handled shit like this for a living. Talk about your damned if you do/damned if you don’t situations.
Jaw clenched, she planted her elbows on her knees and glared down at the bag lying between her feet. Cops weren’t an option. Kevin’s buddies weren’t an option. Neither were her dad’s. The only people she knew outside her family’s friends were good law-abiding people who’d be scared to death to step foot in this neighborhood.
She let out a slow, steady breath and forced the muscles in her shoulders and neck to relax. Between the open zipper of her backpack the corner of the laptop Cassie had given her peeked out, the brushed aluminum an almost space-aged touch compared to everything else in the room.
Hold up.
Maybe there was a non-law-abiding option.
Not Cassie. She was as good and sweet as they came. But Cassie’s new man Kir and those badasses he ran with were rumored to be mobsters. Russian ones at that. Surely one of them would know what to do in a situation like this.
Of course, she’d have to call Cassie to get one of them to help, and calling Cassie meant exposing the ugly side of her life. Not an ideal plan considering how far she’d gone to hide it from her new friend. Even if she dared to let Cassie see where she hailed from, didn’t calling on the mob always end with a debt being owed?
She stood, paced to one side of the living room and back, all the while eyeballing the blood smeared on the ivory paint around the door. There had to be another option. Something that fell between bringing cops into the equation and making deals with mobsters.
Stopping mid-path, she planted her hands on her hips and glared at the bloodstain. Really, the only other options were to walk away and leave her family to fate, or to venture out on her own and figure out what happened—neither of which were likely to generate results.
She can’t leave. If they see her, she’s fucked.
Right. Another problem if someone was watching the house.
Her gaze slid back to the MacBook.
Funny. The slick device Cassie had gifted her with after her man had hooked her up with a newer and more powerful one to further her photography work was probably the most valuable possession Bonnie owned.
Including her broken down car.
Cassie hadn’t asked for a single thing in return. Had just said she liked hanging out with Bonnie and wanted to pass some goodness along to a friend.
No strings.
No agendas.
Just a smile and a hug before she’d gone off to a photo shoot.
Of all the people you know, she’s the least likely to judge.
Part of her wanted to believe the thought. Part of her was too tainted by the two-faced people who’d marched in and out of her life.
The fact of the matter was, the only family she had left was missing. And, from the looks of things, they hadn’t gone peaceably.
She palmed her phone once more and fired up the screen.
A knot lodged at the base of her throat, and her blood buzzed like she’d had nothing but caffeine for days. She scrolled to Cassie’s number and tried to ignore the way her thumb shook over the keypad. She hit the call button, lifted the phone to her ear and muttered to the room, “Swear to God, if my fucked-up family ruins the one good friendship I’ve got, I’m gonna kill ’em both myself.”
Chapter Two
Thick coats and scarfs? At only forty-five degrees?
Roman shook his head, steered his Ford Raptor past the elegant historic homes on either side of him and chuckled at the two boys walking down his pakhan’s block. If they needed coats when it was this warm, they’d never make it in Mother Russia. Their January temperatures averaged highs in the mid-twenties at best. And the nights?
Brutal.
Stinging cold. Especially when paired with a bone chilling wind.
He steered his truck into Sergei’s long drive only to find the men assigned as guards outside the restored estate equally bundled up, their hands buried deep in their pockets.
Ah, well. Who was he to judge? If all the natives of New Orleans had to endure was a periodic kiss of winter, then so be it. They and their city had offered him a new life. A fresh start with a family he could be proud of. If they needed thicker layers to bide a short cold snap, then he’d buy every man in his crew a Russia-worthy parka.
He put the gearshift in park, killed the engine and headed inside, sharing quick greetings and nods with the men stationed along the way. One step in the back door, the scent of whatever Olga was making for dinner hit him—rich spices with a bite that made him wish he could forgo the four hours of work ahead of him in exchange for a seat at his vor’s table. While the kitchen itself stood empty, voices sounded from the dining room beyond, the laughter that went with one of them unmistakably belonging to Sergei’s son, Emerson.
Roman headed that direction, a warmth that had nothing to do with central heating spreading beneath his ribs with each step. His pakhan was truly a blessed man. His brother, Kir, as well. In the time since they’d laid roots in New Orleans, both of them had found exceptional women. Exceptional happiness. And while he knew better than to ever hope for the same himself, he took great satisfaction in watching his brothers from the sidelines. Sergei and Kir were good men. Wise men deserving of such blessings.
Exiting the cozy dining alcove adjacent to the impressive kitchen, he strode into the formal living room. The silk curtains and plantation era furnishings gave a nod to days long past, but Sergei’s wife, Evette, and Kir’s new bride, Cassie, were all modern-day family as they bracketed Emerson at the table.