Where the Sun Hides (Seasons of Betrayal #1) (11 page)

Nathaniel blinked, then blinked again as he seemed to
become aware of the gun that Kaz had trained on him. He was no stranger to
Kaz’s surly nature, but never had Kaz blatantly held a gun to the man’s head.

“I was doing inventory in the freezer,” Nathaniel
explained, sounding far too calm in the face of Kaz’s anger. “I didn’t hear
shit—not until the shots.”

Hanging up—the good doctor hadn’t answered—Kaz finally
withdrew his weapon, already dialing another number, getting to his feet.

“Stay with him.”

Nathaniel didn’t question the command, just did what was
asked of him and remained where he was. Just as Kaz had done, Nathaniel checked
him over for injuries.

Turning away, Kaz was brimming with fury by the time Vasily
picked up, and when he did, he didn’t waste a second. “We’ve got a fucking
problem.”

Once again, Kaz found himself with a cigarette between his
lips, fighting the urge to do violence. He had expected the nicotine to help,
if only for a spell, but it did nothing. But he wasn’t out committing murder,
so it must have been doing something.

Back inside his house, Ruslan was getting checked out by
Marcus Fray, their resident doctor, and one of the few men that knew secrets
about them but wasn’t officially a part of their organization. Kaz had stuck
next to Ruslan the entire time, at least until his brother had demanded he go
away once he’d come around.

That’d been ten minutes ago, before Kaz’s cigarette, and—as
the door to his place opened—before Vasily’s arrival.

Tossing the butt over the railing, Kaz headed back inside.

Ruslan’s face was clean of blood, though the bruising was
bad, as was his chest. Now that his clothes were gone—doctor’s orders—it was
far easier to see what all had been done to him, considering he was already
bruised and it had only been an hour.

It wasn’t just fists that had been used on him—Kaz knew
firsthand the kind of impressions those made on the body. A bat, probably,
judging from some of the large markings, especially along his back. But despite
the obvious pain he had to be in, Ruslan didn’t complain. That wasn’t his
style.

Vasily glanced in Ruslan’s direction, taking in the
multitude of his bruised body before he frowned. “What happened?”

Ruslan, who had grown used to Vaily ignoring his presence
entirely, was slow to realize that Vasily was asking him the question. Kaz
leaned against the island in his kitchen, folding his arms across his chest as
he waited for the answer he wanted to know as well.

“There were five of them in front,” Ruslan explained. “One
came at me from behind with a fucking aluminum bat.”

It seemed Kaz was right about that. “Did you recognize them?”

“Not immediately, but they were fucking Italian. That was
clear enough before the idiot in the front introduced himself. Can you believe
that shit?” Ruslan ran a hand over his mouth, scowling when he caught sight of
the blood on the back of it. “Said his name was Franco.”

Kaz was mildly impressed. Even he didn’t go about
announcing his name when he came to make a point, but he didn’t think it had
anything to do with arrogance—which Kaz had in spades—but more to do with
stupidity. “What the fuck was his problem?”

“Something about a girl—his girl, apparently.” Now, it was
to Kaz that Ruslan looked, a hint of accusation there. “The girl, whatever the
fuck her name was, that I took home that night, she told him I drugged her.”

No one spoke a word—there was no reason to. If there was
one thing they all knew, even Vasily, the likelihood of him drugging a woman
was nonexistent.

“What are we doing about it?” Kaz asked, cutting to the
chase.

All eyes turned to Vasily, waiting for his response.

After a brief hesitation, he gave them their answer.
“Nothing. You’ll do nothing.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Kaz asked pushing off
the island to cross the floor and stand toe-to-toe with Vasily. He didn’t care
that the others were quick to excuse themselves, knowing what was coming next.
“You make your point about boundaries and lines, getting on my ass about it,
but now you want to let this go? Fuck that.”

“I’ve allowed your blatant disrespect—ignored your petulant
behavior. If you want me to treat you like a child, Kazimir, I will. When I say
stand down, that’s exactly what I mean.
Stand down
. I am not to be
questioned. This is not a fucking democracy. You do what I say, when I say it,
or so help me, Kazimir—even if it breaks your mother’s heart—I will put a
bullet in your fucking skull. Now mind me and
leave it
.”

With that parting remark, Vasily took his leave.

Once the door was shut, leaving Kaz and his Ruslan alone,
Kaz looked to his brother. Before he could speak, Ruslan shook his head, coming
over to sit on the couch, wincing as he slowly sat.

“One day he’s not going to be so nice,” Ruslan warned,
grabbing the remote and reclining back like he hadn’t just had the shit beat
out of him. “You shouldn’t goad him.”

“Fuck him.” This wouldn’t be the first time Kaz had said
those words. “You know I’m right.”

“You may be, but you can’t change his mind. I don’t see why
you try.”

Ruslan was always the rational one, imploring logic even
when Kaz didn’t like to hear it. That was why, after all, he was the older
brother.

“How are the ribs,
brat
?”

“They’d feel better if someone pried them the fuck out of
me,” Ruslan admitted.

Damn.

Kaz took a seat beside his brother, careful not to drop
down too fast and cause Ruslan more agony. “The girl, they said.”

Ruslan didn’t take his gaze off the television. “That’s
what they said—he said. Just the one spoke.”

“Franco, yes?”

“Apparently. What kind of fool goes around introducing
himself like that?”

“One that believes he is just and untouchable,” Kaz said.

He filed the Italian’s name away. Before morning, he would
know exactly who this Franco was. Regardless of Vasily’s opinions, Kaz wanted
to know why the Italians thought they had any right to be in Coney, never mind
attacking Ruslan.

A boss would have needed to give some kind of approval for
that, considering it could start a damn war.

“Stop,” Ruslan said.

Kaz’s knee quit bouncing instantly. Sometimes, when he was
overthinking shit, he got that way in his daze. “I’m not doing anything, Rus.”

“You’re thinking about doing
something
. That is
enough.”

“I’m supposed to be okay with my brother being jumped by a
bunch of Italians over some female’s lies? You want to be like Vasily and tell
me to look the other way?”

Ruslan grunted under his breath. “Leave it alone. Maybe now
they’ll fuck off, yeah? They made their point, Kaz.”

Kaz didn’t think it was that simple, but given the state of
his brother, he wasn’t about to argue the point with him. Ruslan was all about
keeping the peace where other people were concerned. He didn’t put himself into
shit that would cause problems, and he didn’t like to make others uncomfortable
if he could help it.

While Kaz typically appreciated that in his brother, he
didn’t find it to be a virtue when Ruslan looked like he’d just gotten stomped
on by a bunch of horses.

A bit of guilt swam through Kaz as he looked his brother
over again. It was, in a way, his fault that Ruslan had been put in this
situation at all. If it hadn’t been for him ordering Ruslan to take the girl
home, she wouldn’t have been able to lie about who had drugged her.

Following that guilt was a hell of a lot of irritation and
rage.

Her friends had to have known the truth. She was fucked up
in that office, and long before she entered it, too
—
if their stories that night were any indication to go by.
While he didn’t know much about the other two girls, Violet Gallucci didn’t
seem like the type to throw others under the proverbial bus to save her own
ass.

But if she knew her friend was lying to her boyfriend to
save face, then that’s exactly what she had done to his brother.

And that pissed him off.

“If you’re going to keep that bouncing shit up,” Ruslan
said, still flicking through channels on the television, “then I am going to
make you leave.”

Kaz stilled again. “You’d think after having your face beat
in, you’d be a little quieter.”

Ruslan laughed, a wince following right behind. “Yeah,
you’d think.”

But that wasn’t Ruslan’s style.

Out of the corner of his eye, something on the television’s
guide caught Kaz’s attention. “Wait, go back.”

“I am not watching fashion shit, Kazimir. If you suddenly
took possession of a vagina between your legs, feel free to go home and watch
it on your own flatscreen.”

“Shut the fuck up. No, there was one—Gallucci Fashions, it
said. Go back.”

Grumbling under his breath, Ruslan did what he was told.
Sure enough, it was a live shot of Andrea Gallucci’s latest collection she had
released. Beside him, his brother sighed and muttered on, but Kaz was too busy
scanning the faces in the crowd behind the models.

Front row and center, he found her.

Violet.

The camera quickly left her position as it continued
following the model’s walk, but what he had seen was enough for him to consider
a few things.

Her friends had been sitting on one side of her. Her
brother on the other. An empty chair was between them, probably reserved for
Alberto himself.

Except the man wasn’t there.

Fury filled Kaz’s throat with a sickening taste all over
again, and he clenched his fists tight enough that his fingernails bit into his
palms.

Had the Italian boss decided to forgo his wife’s show
because he had better business to attend to, say like making sure his orders
were followed through?

Kaz wasn’t sure, but he didn’t like the look of it.

“Are you done watching this?” Ruslan asked.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Ruslan changed the channel, but not in quick enough time
for Kaz to miss the camera’s next shot landing directly on Violet and her
friends again. It lingered a bit longer the second time—long enough for him to
see her perfectly coiffed like she always seemed to be whenever she was out in
public.

That wasn’t what irritated him the most, however.

It was seeing her with the other two—mostly the one who
lied and caused his brother to be beaten like an animal. She had to have known
her friend was saying falsehoods about what had happened that night, and yet,
she didn’t correct the lies.

And those who didn’t correct other’s lies were just as bad
as those who spoke them.

No, she was sitting right there with the other girl, even
as she wore that fucking red dress that he’d chosen at the boutique. It was
almost like she was taunting him, even if she couldn’t have possibly known that
he was going to see her wearing it.

He wanted to know
why
.

If Kaz wasn’t allowed to go after the Italian who attacked
Ruslan because of his father's orders, Vasily had said nothing about Violet.

... for once.

Kaz stood from the couch, still simmering in his fury and
settled on his decision. Manhattan might be a warrant for his death, but he was
willing to risk it after tonight.

“You’ll be all right, yes?” Kaz asked his brother.

Ruslan glanced up, a knowing glint burning behind his eyes.
“Stay in Brighton, Kaz.”

“I’m not planning on going anywhere. You heard Vasily—I was
told no … and called a child.”

“That doesn’t mean you’ll listen.”

“I’m going home,
brat
.”

Ruslan let out a heavy breath, turning back to the
television. “Sure you are.”

V
iolet snatched a flute
glass filled nearly to the rim with champagne and tossed the bubbly drink back
in one long pull. She knew it didn’t look well on her to be drinking like that
with so many people around to watch, but her nerves were frayed enough to make
her reach for a second glass as soon as she finished the first.

Just holding the second one was enough.

It was there if she needed it.

Out of the whole event of her mother’s fashion shows, the
one thing Violet usually enjoyed the most were the after parties. While she
could get an up close view of high profile people and celebrities sitting along
the runway at the actual event, during the parties afterwards, she was rubbing
elbows with those same people.

Most of the time, it was surreal.

Tonight, she was not in the mood.

It didn’t help that her friends had all but deserted her
after arriving to the rented private upper-Manhattan loft space that her mother
preferred to use for her after parties. Both Nicole and Amelia were gone off
into the crowd of guests somewhere, putting their faces in front of the right
people and smiling just the way they had been taught.

Violet knew the game. She used to play it, too.

Not tonight.

Glancing around the loft, she took in the black with chrome
detailed decorations that matched the theme of her mother’s show. Chandeliers
full of glittering crystals hung low from the vaulted ceiling. Most of the
people had changed attire from what they had been wearing at the show, to
sexier nightwear that they could move and dance in. Music from a DJ filled the
space.

Violet’s mind was somewhere else entirely.

Her father had yet to come back. It wasn’t like Alberto to
leave his wife hanging on a night that was as important as this one. Andrea was
pissed off to the high heavens, but she was hiding it well enough, with her
usual smile plastered on and a hand held out, ready to accept praise for her
latest designs.

Violet was still worried. It put her on edge, which meant
she just wasn’t in the mood for the party or the people. She would much rather
be back at her condo where she could at least feel safe.

Maybe that’s what it was.

Maybe she just didn’t feel safe out in the open like this
when something was clearly wrong.

Turning her back to the crowd, Violet stared out one of the
loft’s many floor-to-ceiling windows as she tipped the flute glass up for
another drink. The alcohol settled in her blood with a heavy quality, numbing
her senses enough to take that edge off for the moment.

She wasn’t stupid enough to think it would last for long.

“There you are.”

Violet turned on her heel at the sound of her mother’s
voice. Andrea’s smile was wide, but her eyes spoke of irritation as they
narrowed in on Violet.

“What are you doing over here in the corner by yourself?”
Andrea asked low, careful not to talk loud enough for others to hear. “I found
your friends, but you weren’t with them. Do you know the people who are in here
tonight, Violet? You should be out there talking to them.”

“I can do that on another night, Ma,” Violet said. “You’ll
have another two shows this year alone.”

Andrea’s lips thinned. “What is the problem?”

“Nothing. I’m just tired.”

“Well, get untired,” her mother snapped.

Violet bit back her retort, knowing it wouldn’t do anything
except piss her mother off further. Andrea’s bad mood was only caused because
of her husband’s absence. Otherwise, she would leave her daughter alone.

“Aren’t there people who want to talk to you?” Violet
asked.

“Yes, but at the moment, I’m busy chasing after my
daughter
.”

“It’s not like you want to be doing that, so why are you
even bothering?”

Andrea straightened, her hand clenching tight around the
flute glass she held. Violet stood still and strong in the face of her mother’s
barely-hidden anger. She felt a little proud of herself for having stood up to
Andrea for once, because she usually wouldn’t, and instead, would let her
mother criticize her as much as she wanted.

Maybe Violet was just growing up from that sort of nonsense
with her mother. As a child, and a young teen, she had constantly tried to seek
her mother’s approval in any way she could. While she loved attention from her
father, she had always wanted some sort of affection from her mother as well.

Andrea’s affection only came when she approved of
something, and not in between.

She was the very definition of conditional love.

Violet just didn’t care anymore.

“What did you just say to me?” Andrea asked.

If she held that glass any tighter, it very well might
shatter.

Violet
nodded at the glass. “Careful. We all know how quickly spilled blood can end a
good party.”

Andrea’s hand loosened a bit. “Fine. If you want to leave
like your father did, then go. God knows you’re doing nothing for me standing
here in the goddamn corner.”

She smirked, knowing her mother’s words were only meant to
hurt. For the majority of the night, her mother had ignored her, more so after
hearing her daughter be complimented on the dress she’d chosen to wear. She
hadn’t missed the looks Andrea had shot in her direction when she thought
Violet didn’t notice, either.

The red dress Kaz picked out.

Unable to stop herself, though she knew she shouldn’t,
Violet brushed her hand across the skirt of the red dress and said, “Even
standing in a dress like this?”

Andrea’s jaw ticked. “Especially in a dress like that.
You’re dressed like a whore.”

“You never did like it when someone looked better than you,
Ma.”

Her mother didn’t respond to that. Instead, she clenched
her teeth, turned on her heel, and stormed back into the flood of guests.

Violet was already heading toward the door.

Tapping his thumb against the steering wheel, Kaz stared
out the windshield, watching and waiting for the moment that Violet Gallucci
appeared. He knew she wasn’t home yet—he’d been out on the street long enough
to know that much. But he was a patient man …

In his other hand, he turned a cigarette over between his
fingers, thinking of how the nicotine within would take the edge off and give
him peace of mind. For now, he was jittery with anticipation. There was a
certain thrill to be where he was, especially knowing that he courted the wrath
of more than one man if anyone knew where he was, or worse, what he had
planned.

There was no guarantee what this night would bring—it
wouldn’t be the first time he had made a mistake—but by the end of it, and of
this he was sure, his point would be made, whether the girl he was waiting on
liked it or not.

Glancing over at the illuminated dash, Kaz checked the time
once more, then as he contemplated withdrawing his phone, just to keep himself
busy, blinding headlights caught his attention. The town car they came from
slowed down in front of Violet’s building.

The rear, passenger door swung open, and after a moment,
the very person he’d been waiting on for more than an hour stepped out,
slamming the door shut behind her. Before she could get far, however, the
passenger’s window rolled down and a masculine voice called out to her. She
turned, a flash of annoyance in her eyes as she went back, bending over to see
inside the car and listen to what was being said.

The position made the material of the dress pull tighter
across her backside, drawing his attention there and down the length of her
legs.

Kaz might have hated the girl at the moment, but he could
still appreciate the sight she made.

After a rather brief conversation, one that had Violet
nodding, she was finally allowed to walk inside, and only when she was through
the doors did the car pull away.

Stepping out of his own vehicle, Kaz tucked his cigarette
away, making his way to the entrance. There was no guarantee that the doorman
would let him in. Though the man looked ancient, he probably remembered a face
and knew that he didn’t live in the building, but that didn’t stop Kaz.

Deftly, he pulled a hundred-dollar bill free from his suit
jacket, holding it between two fingers as he offered it to the man without
question. “I’m here to see the Martins on fifteen,” he said by way of
explanation.

Whether there was an actual Martin family, or the man just
wanted the money, Kaz was let through.

There was no sight of Violet in the lobby, but there was no
need. Knowing men like Alberto Gallucci, he wouldn’t just allow his daughter
into any apartment. No, it would need to be at the top, and one with a fair
level of privacy, in case he or any of his associates were to visit.

Arriving at the bank of elevators, he checked the numbers.
There were four, with two having never left the lobby floor, and another only
going up to the second floor. The last, however, had stopped on the 26th
floor—which must have been the one Violet had taken.

Boarding one, he pressed the number, watching the doors
close as he drummed his fingers against the railing. After a while, he curled
his fingers around the cool metal, needing to get his shit together. He had too
many tells—the bouncing of his knee, drumming his fingers—like no matter how
carefully controlled he tried to force himself to be, his nerves always
manifested themselves.

When the bell dinged—the doors opening once more—Kaz
stepped out, glancing down the hallway. To his surprise, there was only one
unit on the floor, the door at the end. As he stopped in front of it and
knocked, he didn’t bother covering the peephole, but purposefully took a step
back so that she would have a clear view as to who stood on the other side.

He waited. And waited. Then considered the logistics of
kicking the fucking door in before it swung open, Violet standing on the other
side of it, wide-eyed like she had never seen a man before.

The cameras hadn’t done her justice, not even a little. In
person, he could see the warm glow of her skin, the way her dress hugged to her
curves. She looked beautiful, stunning really, enough that it made him want to
drink her in further, and that annoyed the fuck out of him.

His brother had nearly gotten his head caved in because of
her shit, because she and her friends decided they wanted a little trouble and
wandered over to their side to fulfill it.

His anger renewed, when she opened her mouth to speak, he
snapped, “Don’t speak.”

Surprisingly, she heeded the command, her lips slamming
shut. He didn’t give her a chance to contemplate her actions before he was
grabbing her arm, dragging her back into her apartment, and slammed the door
shut behind them. He swung her around to stand in front of him.

“Kaz, what the hell are you doing?” she asked after he’d
let her go, looking down at her arm as though it hurt.

But he hadn’t gripped her hard, of that he was sure. “What
did I say?”

“Wait, wha—”

“Violet!”

She jerked violently at the sound of her own name, her gaze
lifting to his immediately as fear clouded them. Oh, was she getting it now?
Was she understanding that he wasn’t under her father and wouldn’t treat her like
she was fucking glass?