On my way home last night, I’d also called a friend of mine who had a direct line to Tiffany & Co. Nell had once told me that all her jewelry had to come from there, because it was something her and her mom had shared. All of her favorite pieces belonged to her mom, and she’d bought some for Nell’s birthdays, too, before she died in a car accident.
It was a sentimental thing, and it meant a lot to her. I wanted to give her something sentimental and memorable so she'd know I’d taken notes. I’d ordered her a simple silver bangle that was roughly a quarter of an inch wide, with the date and times of the boys' births engraved on it.
In another bag were some clothes for the boys and an assortment of toiletries for them, including premature baby diapers.
“It’s mighty nice of the local Russians to send their congratulations by way of the heir to the throne. But as you can see, she has flowers,” Rider growled and gestured to the displays and balloons behind him. “From her family.”
I heard her sharp intake of breath and smiled. “Well, seems to me we are family, Mark, seeing as how the alliance between your Club and my family makes it that way. Unless, of course, you don’t need my help with a current problem?”
His eyes narrowed, and his nostrils flared at the use of his real name, but what he didn’t do was say anything back. He might be dumb, but he wasn’t stupid enough not to admit I was telling the truth.
“What problem?” Nell asked, her voice small as she looked between us. When neither of us said anything, she repeated more loudly, “I said, what problem?”
“One that arose after someone placed a bomb at the Club yesterday, Nell,” I told her gently, leaving the more significant part of it out, as I placed the bags on top of the bed.
“I’ll put these here,” I told her, pointedly putting the vase the flowers were in beside her bed and not next to the others. “And I got you and the babies some presents.”
I hadn’t forgotten about the asshole still standing in the room with us, so I was careful to word it vaguely. She knew what I meant, though. I’d bought her and my sons some things, and I had every right to do it because the three of them were mine.
Which was probably why she asked Rider to leave as soon as I was done.
“You sure you wanna be alone with him?” he asked, pissing me off.
“It’ll be okay. I just want to open it all, so I know who I need to say thank you to. Then I’m going to call the nurse to take me to the boys,” she said with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
“Can you get Hunter to go to my place to pick me up some more stuff, please? I hadn’t counted on the boys being in for long when I packed my hospital bag, and they’ll need more of the things I got them, just in case. The smallest sized ones are in the top drawer, so if you could let him know that, it’d be great.
“It’s also excruciating having something press against the wound,” she grimaced, drawing my attention to the tight yoga pants she was wearing. “There are some sweats and lounge pants in the second drawer. Any of them will do.”
I could tell it cost him, but eventually he jerked his chin at her. “Yeah, I’ll let him know. You need anything else he”—his eyes cut to me—“didn’t get you in those bags, just text.”
And with that, he was gone, but the tension in the room didn’t disappear with him.
“If you’re in pain wearing those pants, baby, I can get—”
“Don’t,” she whispered, the warning clear in the tone of her voice. “Don’t pretend like you care, or like you even have a right to do this.” She gestured at the bags with her hand. “I don’t want anything from you, except to be left alone.”
Crossing my arms in front of me, I made sure she saw how serious I was. “I can’t do that, Nell. When we talk, you’ll find out how I was—” My phone ringing with my father’s ringtone cut me off. “Shit, I need to take this.”
Pulling it out of the inside pocket of my suit jacket, I hit the screen. “Otets,” I greeted but got no further.
“There’s been another.”
Dad didn’t have to explain what he meant. “Damn it, where?”
“Perhaps it would be best to discuss who it was.” I could hear the anger and frustration in his voice, and knew he’d be pacing around his room, wanting to go out and hunt.
“Who?”
“Our bishop.”
“What the fuck?”
“Throat slit, partially skinned, had the three-barred cross cut into his thigh, with betrayal cut on what’s left of his gut.”