Page 3 of Pay the Piper

“But Daaaaaddy!”

“Did you watch the motorcycle safety videos I showed you?”

“Well, no. I just want to learn how to backpack, though! I want to surprise Mila when she gets back and be the perfect backpack.”

Ellie’s coo and Teddy’s muffled chuckle accompany me as I shoo Thatcher out the door, promising we could talk more tomorrow about a backpack training program. After practice…Practice. Refreshing my tea, I lay out my things for the morning with the military precision that’s as natural as breathing. It isn’t my usual uniform, that’s for sure. Checking my phone one last time, I find it quiet.

A few messages from various guys from both Thunder Bay and New York. One checking in to report he’s finally making fluffy pancakes after weeks of my tutorship. Another asking what he should do with an underling who’s running his mouth around people he shouldn’t. Nothing from Mila, which isn’t a surprise considering how hard she’s been working. Most of the other people I interact with regularly just left.

The crushing anxiety I feel at the lack of communication from Mila isn’t new. It started as soon as my plane took off, leaving her behind in what I consider to be a den of vipers. She has excellent people around her, but nobody knows her like I do. If she has a panic attack, or doesn’t have someone to cool her down when she needs it…fuck. There’s nothing for it except to hope the intrusive thoughts fade over time.

Sliding between the fresh sheets I thankfully remembered to change after Teddy and Ellie left, I set my alarm and prepare to try for a solid night’s sleep. Even when we left Thunder Bay for New York, my mental preparations for the following day had been consistent for years. It’s impossible to sleep deeply after growing up the way I did, a street urchin turned child soldier turned Bratva hit man and second-in-command. But with enough practice, I’ve managed to rest well enough with meditative breathing and a heavy focus on my mental checklists.

Lists of things that held me together for a lifetime, calming me as I mentally checked them off after a long day’s work. The relative strengths and weaknesses of tonight’s patrols around the grounds. My personal security server humming resolutely from my spy station in the corner of my room, ensuring me that if it found a hint of threat while it combed the darkest chat rooms online, it would wake me overnight with its ping of danger. Mila’s headspace following the meetings from today. Mila’s headspace for the meetings for tomorrow. Mila’s follow-up appointment for her carpal tunnel. Mila’s favorite tea that’s on backorder…

Now, my server still hums in the background, but I’m not involved in the patrol protocols at the Taranov compound anymore. Teddy told me, when I offered, that he had it handled and that I could relax and focus on Thatcher. But Thatcher, needy little bastard that he is, has a fairly boring routine in place these days, and spends most of his time ensconced within the protective walls of the compound. Most of the time, he…well, he doesn’t really need me at all.

So now, I’m here with a mental checklist of only one thing: prepare myself for practice tomorrow. My first foray into the shittiest part of my Thatcher protection assignment. I can’t remember the last time I was closing my eyes in anticipation of trying something new. Almost new. I wasn’t the greatest skater as a kid, but I’m stronger now with balance for days. There’s no doubt I’ll be a natural, but still. Misha Mavrin, Bratva god, feared assassin. Gearing up for fucking practice.

Chapter 2

The wine in my glass ripples as the violinist begins a new piece. Usually, the music at a gala like this is enough to drown out all of the voices, but tonight, it only adds to the cacophony of noise threatening to overwhelm me. All I can do is stare into my drink, where a kaleidoscope of colors flashes back at me as the lights from the chandelier reflect off the crystal. I never know what’s in my drink at these events. My husband Conor has a track record of drugging me, and truthfully, I don’t mind. At least that way I don’t remember the things he and his friends do to me afterward. Unfortunately, I’ve been nursing my glass all night, but all I feel is the familiar buzz of alcohol, nothing more. That means that I’ll be restrained so that there’s no chance of me fighting back tonight…or that he’s welcoming the fight. Either way, I’m screwed.

For the most part, he leaves me alone during the week. But on formal occasions like this, his nature tends toward monstrousness. Unfortunately, since he’s the mayor of Canada’s largest metropolitan city, they occur frequently. I’m not sure what it is about getting dressed up and parading around with the city’s socialites that gets him so excited, but I’ve never escaped an evening unscathed.

Tonight will be no different, especially with the upcoming election looming. This will be his second term as mayor, and it’s the first time in his political career that he’s behind in the polls. I knew the moment his face flushed as his campaign adviser whispered something in his ear that it would be a rough evening.

As the gala comes to an end, I swallow down the last bit of my champagne and hope by some miracle that all the drugs sank to the bottom. That by the time I’m escorted into the back of the limo, hidden from the public eye, I won’t remember a thing Conor does.

The drugs never kick in.

“Right this way, Mrs. Fitzpatrick.”

The driver ushers me into the back seat, and I wait for Conor, but he never comes.

“Um, excuse me? Is Conor not joining us?” I ask as the car takes off without him.

“No, ma’am, Mr. Fitzpatrick isn’t joining you tonight.”

Slouching down into my seat, allowing my perfect posture to falter for the first time tonight, I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I’m sure I won’t make it out scot-free, but at least I can enjoy the ride home in peace.

“Did he leave any instructions for me in his absence?”

“Only that he would be at his office late and for me to take you home. Nothing else, ma’am.”

My phone is suspiciously devoid of any communication from Conor, leaving me with nothing else to do but scroll my socials. Being Mrs. Mayor Fitzpatrick comes with lots of “friends,” although I know if it came down to it, none of the women who vie for my attention would be in my corner. I’m sure they gossip about me behind my back, and who can blame them when my husband has fucked at least half of the group.

Honestly, good riddance. The more time he spends with other women, the less time I have to deal with the bastard.

My champagne buzz is already wearing off, melting into drowsiness as I watch the streetlights stream by and consider my husband. I haven’t always hated him. At first, he seemed like the perfect man. On top of the fact that he was the Conor Fitzpatrick, he treated me like a princess. It wasn’t until we were engaged and almost married that the red flags started waving. His kind gestures slowed while his temper surged, but by the time I started to really have doubts, it was too late. Or so I thought. If I’ve learned anything in my thirty years, it’s that it’s never too close to a wedding to call it off.

Once I signed that document, everything changed completely, and his temper manifested as both physical and emotional abuse. There have been countless times in our marriage when I thought I was going to die at his hand. During the darkest, longest nights, I’ve even prayed for it. It’s not like I’ve had anyone to turn to. He made sure to cut off my relationship with my family when we got married, and nobody else would ever believe me. The honorable Conor Fitzpatrick can do no wrong in this city.

At least that’s how it’s been for the past ten years. His recent negative polls can only mean one thing. Someone is on to him. I’d love to watch his downfall, but if he loses this election…I’m not sure I’ll live to see it.

The slam of a door startles me awake, and barely a second passes before I’m summoned.

“Niamh? Niamh get down here right now!”