NICKOLAI KASANOV MOTIONED to the men on either side of him to hold their positions out of sight. The door opened, and to his delight, Rosa Costello’s granddaughter answered it herself. He smiled his most charming smile, showing gleaming teeth polished to perfection. It was a smile that those who knew him best dreaded, with good reason.
“Can I help you?” she asked, her face flushing as his gaze moved down the formfitting wedding dress and then back up to rest on her face. She was the image of Rosa Costello. Exactly as his father had described the witch. Eyes dark as coal, promising as much heat, hair a riot of thick curls to tempt and torment a man, ivory skin as transparent as alabaster, exotic cheekbones of a houri.
“I am Nickolai Kasanov,” he said, injecting a note of pleasant formality into his voice. “I have come to congratulate the bride-to-be.”
Her face filled with confusion as his men stepped into the doorway, filling it with their bulk, Hart trapped between them. No, not confusion, he noted. Indecision. Was she really considering fighting? How precious.
Nickolai nodded to his men and each of them took one of Hart’s arms, propelling her with them inside the house before she could protest. Nickolai followed, closing the door behind him.
“Everyone will please remain calm,” he said. His companions raised their guns. One aimed his at Hart, dodging a kick from her bare foot. But what stopped her from resisting further was when the second aimed at the two men who rushed forward. Nickolai recognized them from his reconnaissance: Andrew Greally, Drake’s former partner, and Edward Castro, a doctor who worked with Hart. They would be the only two who would pose any risk; Jacob Steadman was too old and too smart to rush into a fight with such overwhelming odds and the priest would of course be useless.
“What do you want?” Hart ignored the men with the guns and turned to face Nickolai.
God, she had spirit, gall. Questioning him, challenging him? Nickolai took a step forward, his eyes locked on Hart’s, his face never changing, not telegraphing the blow he was about to strike.
His hand flew out and the sound of the slap rang through the silent room. Hart’s head flew back, her eyes widened in surprise, and she staggered, dropping to her knees. His smile widened as women’s voices hushed a child’s cry in the next room. He grabbed her hair and yanked her head back to meet his gaze. Blood trickled from her nose, splashing in bright red petals on the white silk gown.
“You, Dr. Hart. I want you.”
Her eyes flared with rebellion. She had no idea who she was dealing with or she would have never allowed him to see that. Many of his comrades shied away from dealing with women as hostages—they were too strong, too difficult to breakdown and control. Too unpredictable.
Which made them a delightful challenge in Nickolai’s view. Because once he found their weak spot, their final destruction was all the more spectacular.
The sounds of running feet distracted him and tiny hands pummeled him from behind. “Don’t do that!” a boy’s voice cried out. Nickolai turned and grabbed both of the boy’s hands in one of his. “Don’t you hurt her! She’s my friend.” The boy was sobbing, still struggling to protect Hart.
A tall blonde crossed into the room. Nickolai saw her glance dart from a girl the same age as the boy and back to the boy. Ah, the Dolan twins and their mother—such fascinating possibilities. One of the men, Greally, the barkeep with the florid complexion, shook his head at her and she froze.
“Let him go,” Hart said.
Nickolai squatted, twisting the squirming child onto his knee, his free hand tousling his hair. He ignored the fury in Hart’s eyes and bent his head close to the boy’s.
“She’s your friend?” he said softly. The boy stopped and sniffed hard.
“Please.” Hart was pleading now. Nickolai liked that. “I’ll do anything you want—”
Still he ignored her. “What’s your name?”
The boy sniffed again then answered. “Colton Dolan.”
Nickolai released the boy’s hands and turned him to face him. “You’re a very brave boy, Colton Dolan,” he said in a grave voice. He held out his hand. “I’m Nickolai Kasanov.”
The boy took the hand and shook it in a parody of adult comradeship. “Now, Colton,” Nickolai continued, his gaze never leaving the boy’s, his voice low and hypnotic, “would you rather come with Dr. Hart and me, ride in a big car and go on an adventure? Or do you want to go back to your sister and mother and finish your pie?”
Nickolai heard the mother’s stifled sob behind him. Colton shifted his weight in indecision.
“Go back to your mother and Bridget,” Hart told Colton. “You have to take care of them until your father gets here.”
Colton yanked his gaze from Nickolai and turned to Hart. “But who’s gonna take care of you, Cassie?” he asked, his voice filled with concern.
Nickolai looked on in admiration as Hart smiled at the boy. “I can take care of myself. You know that.”
Colton nodded gravely. He smiled, showing a missing front tooth. “Dad says you’re not afraid of anything.”
“That’s right. So I want you to walk back to your chair and stay close to your mom and sister until your father comes. Can you do that?” He nodded. “Promise?”
“Cross my heart and hope to—” She pulled him close, muffling his words in her embrace, kissing the top of his head. Her eyes locked with Nickolai’s and she released the boy, pushing him away from Nickolai and back toward the dining room.
“Nicely done,” Nickolai said. He stood and turned to the crowd, ignoring Hart, showing her that she held no threat to him. “But I still need a hostage,” he announced.
The adults all looked up at that, the two mothers drawing close to their children, the blind woman reaching a hand out for her great niece. She was a possibility; Nickolai hated old, blind women. Everyone automatically gave them respect for doing nothing more than surviving on the charity and benevolence of others. Worthless waste of resources. If he had his way, every blind woman, every old beggar, everyone who survived by leeching off another’s goodwill, would be shot.
His eyes moved to the stooped man in the cassock. That went doubly for priests and nuns—not only did they make their living from the people’s generosity, they encouraged false hope and a promise of paradise that was a delusion.
But this was not the time or place to indulge in philosophy. No, he needed the person who would allow him to control both Hart and Drake. His eyes lit on a dark-haired woman who stared at him with almost as much revulsion as Hart had. Except her eyes also held more than a trace of fear. Nickolai smiled. He knew this woman.
“Which one of you is Muriel Drake?” he asked.
The tall, dark-haired woman moved forward immediately, taking a step in front of a smaller woman with blue eyes and the same dark hair. “I am,” she said in a level voice, ignoring the hand of the gray-haired man who reached out to restrain her.
“No, that won’t do, Mrs. Steadman,” Nickolai chided. “Please don’t mistake me for a fool—you should know me better than that. But it is nice to finally meet you.” He moved forward to take her cold hand in his and lift it to his lips. “Did you get the present I sent you?” he murmured, enjoying the look of terror that filled her eyes.
He felt her hand tremble in his as she tried to jerk free. He held her in place for a moment then released her. She stumbled backward and he reached beside her to draw out the woman she’d tried to shield. Muriel Drake shared her son’s eyes and dark hair but she was small boned, even shorter than Hart.
“Mrs. Drake, I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. I know your family is anticipating a wedding tomorrow night. If you and Dr. Hart would accompany me, I’ll do everything I can to have you back in time.” He drew her forward, away from the crowd as if inviting her onto the dance floor.
As they neared the door, he turned around, making eye contact with each of the adults in turn. “I’m certain you all understand the consequences to everyone involved if we are followed or detained in anyway. Tell Detective Drake that he may want to stay close to his phone. I’ll be calling soon.”