Before Read online

  BEFORE

  BETHANY-KRIS

  For all my loves.

  CONTENTS

  BEFORE

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Copyright

  One

  “MR. ARSOV, would you be a dear and let me steal you for just five minutes?”

  Lev hadn’t even turned the key in the deadbolt to latch the lock on his apartment door when the building’s manager came up behind him. He swore the old woman, Martha Mae, who looked like a strong gust of wind would make her bones rattle, kept a day planner right beside her door to track his schedule.

  Because he couldn’t tell her no—the old girl knew it, too. She reminded him of a grandmother he never had, for fuck’s sake. What kind of an asshole would he be to refuse help to a senior citizen managing a sixty-unit building mostly by herself? The actual landlord—a company, not a real person—did very little for the tenants in their part of Harlem despite the fact that the city had been on the company’s ass for a few years now about the heating, lighting, and code issues.

  To no avail, clearly.

  One only needed to give the hallway he currently stood in a good glance to see the truth staring them right in the face. Water stains on the ceiling. Lights that flickered. Worn carpeting and holes in the walls where exposed wires and pipes ran between units.

  The place wasn’t great. Sometimes, he took more cold showers in a month than he wanted to. Often, his one-bedroom apartment wasn’t worth the rent he paid to keep it every month. It kept him off the streets, though.

  That’s all Lev needed considering the streets had been a real fucking reality for him just a few short years earlier when he finally hit eighteen, and the foster care system that he grew up inside decided ... fuck him. Out on his ass he went with the same garbage bag of clothes and personal items that he’d hauled between homes for the better part of his entire teenage life. He only entered the system because his father passed away in a drive-by shooting in the Bronx when he was two months shy of his thirteenth birthday, and his mother was ... well, who knew?

  Life had not been kind to Lev Arsov—he still struggled to get by because education had been a secondary thought in his mind when surviving needed to come first. It kicked him in the ass now when all he could manage to get for job opportunities were ones that included back-breaking manual labor or severely underpaid positions in the back of kitchens washing dishes and hauling garbage.

  He did those for a while. Until he landed something a bit better—and dangerous—through the connections he made while proving he was the kind of employee that would do what he was told, keep his head down, and his mouth shut about the things he saw while he did it. In a place like New York City, where corruption was everywhere, he was appreciated by certain individuals. Even if those individuals were criminals. He figured ... whatever kept the flickering lights on and the shitty roof over his head, right?

  “Well, could I be a bother and steal you to help me?” Martha Mae asked again.

  Plastering a smile on his face, Lev turned the key in the lock and kept a tight hold on the backpack hanging over his shoulder. Spinning to face the woman who peeked out around the doorjamb of her apartment unit at the very end of the basement floor, she was only a head taller than the goddamn doorknob. In her usual get-up for the evenings, from the rollers in her white hair to the pink, fleece nightdress, her smile welcomed him. Her large, glassy blue eyes always held a bit of hesitation, though.

  Like she knew he wouldn’t say no. But she still wondered if he might.

  “She holed up there again?” he asked.

  Martha Mae sighed. “I tried—I really did.”

  He was sure she did. It wouldn’t be the first time. It wasn’t exactly like the old woman was equipped to handle the newest situation that landed in her hands in the form of a truant granddaughter dealing with some serious issues. The kind of things her grandmother certainly couldn’t manage on her own.

  But that was the system. It fucked everybody six ways to Sunday. The only thing the system afforded Lev was the skill of survival, and the knowledge that he could and would do whatever he needed to do at the end of the day.

  Was he supposed to be thankful?

  He wasn’t.

  Lev resisted the urge to check his watch if only because he didn’t want Martha Mae to feel as though she was burdening him when he knew her sad reality. Nobody else would help her today—certainly not another tenant. She did her very best to not call the cops on her granddaughter because that almost always never ended well for anybody involved, and it was just yet another strike against a troubled teenager that needed help more than she needed the law. Nonetheless, he’d known the time before he left his apartment, and he was quite aware of the minutes passing him by now.

  And the fact he was going to be late for work. On a very important night when he really couldn’t afford to be late if the warning his boss gave him the evening before was any indication. It was a thirty-minute bus trip from his place in Harlem to the bar in the Kitchen where he worked, but shit ...

  Martha Mae’s worry showed on her forehead where the wrinkles were more apparent than ever when she said, “She stopped answering my calls through the door twenty minutes ago.”

  Well, Jesus ...

  Lev spun on his booted heels and headed for the old lady. “Why didn’t you start with that, woman?”

  She tittered and waved her small, frail hands to usher him inside her apartment as she replied, “I will next time.”

  Right.

  Next time.

  There was always next time.

  • • •

  Lev shouldered through the group of young men lingering in the back hallway of the bar to where the crowd began to spread out nearer his boss’s office at the far rear. His task was made quicker by the fact he towered higher than most of the men waiting in the space as he topped out at six and a half feet tall with shoulders that could fill a doorway easily, and a demeanor that screamed he wasn’t to be fucked with. It was hard to miss him coming into a place, all things considered.

  And life had taught him to make sure everybody knew he wasn’t easy prey before anything else. Made things a hell of a lot simpler for him, honestly.

  His main job at the bar was keeping a drink in every hand that could buy one. It was his side hustle when the fights came up that kept him motivated enough to run six miles every morning and to use the gym across from the bar where a lot of the underground fighters in Hell’s Kitchen liked to train. Usually, after his work was done in the early mornings because it was the only point he had the time to do so.

  Everyone in the hallway separated like the sea had parted to let Lev through when he moved down the hallway toward his boss’s office. Except for the guy at the end who didn’t look old enough to even stand inside the back of the damn bar. Right in the middle of the hallway, he crossed his arms at Lev’s approach. He never understood his boss’s need to have open fight nights where anyone could put their name in for a bid to fight when all it did was invite the stupidest fucks off the streets who only needed cash and nothing more.

  Then again ... wasn’t that what all of them needed?

  He sure did.

  “Move your ass,” Lev told the guy as he approached. “Before I move you.”

  Stupid didn’t move.

  In fact, he folded his arms and held his ground.

  Because he was stupid.

  “Hey, asshole, I was here—”

  “Shut that hole in your fucking face before I fill it with my fist, yeah? You’re going to m
ove, and if you’re really smart—but I doubt you are—you’ll head out of here entirely. You’re about forty pounds underweight, and they’ll use you as filler tonight between the main fights. You know what happens to the filler in the ring, kid?”

  At least this time, the guy had the decency to give Lev a second look. Which meant he had to tip his head all the way back to stare up at the man towering over him wearing dark-wash, ripped jeans and a black leather jacket that had seen better days but a hell of a lot of nights just like these. Stupid also had the nerve to swallow—a good sign of the fear he really didn’t want to be showing in a place like Nickie’s.

  Fed by the underground, corrupted by a variance of organized crime figures that regularly made their way through the door for meetings, entertainment, or whatever else Lev’s boss could offer, and controlled by a code this young man couldn’t possibly understand ... shit, he was doing this boy a favor.

  Bending down, Lev came eye to eye with the kid and uttered, “They’ll put you in there with a guy like me just to teach your stupid ass a lesson. Need money? Here’s not the place you want to find it. Move.”

  Who knew what did it?

  Maybe Lev’s words.

  Maybe the gleam in his eye.

  Either way, the kid’s gaze darted between Lev and the line of waiting men that had backed up all the way out to the floor where the ring was being set up for the fights that should have already started. Stupid didn’t need to be told again before he grabbed the backpack from the ground and scooted around Lev without a look over his shoulder.

  Letting out an annoyed breath, he straightened up, fixing his jacket as he did so and headed for the opened office door where he knew Nickie was probably playing the little king behind his desk. As he did on every fight night. He enjoyed this chaos.

  This shitshow.

  Not even bothering to enter the office, Lev remained in the doorway where his large presence was more than enough to catch the attention of the man chatting on the phone behind the desk. Nickie didn’t bother to pull his legs down where he had them hooked at the ankles on the corner of the desk, nor did he hang up the phone when he looked Lev’s way.

  “You’re late,” the guy barked.

  Lev lifted one shoulder. “Shit came up.”

  Like a teenager with a cutting problem.

  He didn’t mention that.

  “Told you tonight was a big one, didn’t I?”

  “Looks to me like the place isn’t even open yet. Technically still on time.”

  Nickie sighed, muttering something to whoever was on the other end of the phone before he slammed down the receiver hard enough to make the lamp next to it jump. He pointed a finger at Lev as he pulled his feet down from the desk to straighten up in his chair. “I shouldn’t let you fight tonight—lately, you’ve been fucking off.”

  No, just ... distracted.

  Nickie didn’t care, though.

  “I could use the extra cash,” Lev said.

  Not that he wanted to admit it.

  Nickie arched a brow at the doorway Lev filled up and waved a hand as if gesturing to the line of people in the hallway that he couldn’t even see. “So could they.”

  “They don’t guarantee you wins, though.”

  That had his boss pausing.

  “I need you serving directly from the bar to the front tables—”

  “Who’s gonna be sitting in them?”

  Nickie grinned. “Now you’re asking the right questions.”

  Yeah, that was the thing about this place. One who was lucky enough to work here on a nightly basis—like Lev—and not just pick up extra work on fight nights learned quickly that everything was done with a purpose. And if he was serving the front tables, it was for a good damn reason.

  “Marcello will be in tonight.”

  Shit.

  There was only one Marcello that regularly used Nickie’s as a place of business. Andino Marcello. Infamous mafia Capo. Raging asshole on his good days. Particular and demanding and difficult in every possible fucking way.

  He also liked Lev. Or the way he made his drinks.

  Why?

  Lev didn’t have the first damn clue.

  Nickie laughed huskily, reaching for the two fingers of whiskey and ice sitting on the edge of the desk with condensation dribbling down the glass. “Now you get it—the big boy will be in the house tonight, Lev. He’s bringing in an associate to do some ... business. You know, while they enjoy the fights and all. You’re the only bartender I have on hand that he’ll even consider allowing to mix his drinks, so you’re gonna be handling him and his guys until told otherwise. Got it?”

  “Can I fight later?” he asked.

  He could really use that extra cash. A grand for stepping into the ring whether he won or lost—up to five-k if he pulled a win with enough bets on him. With only a handful of fights throughout the night, he really wanted to be on the docket. What little savings he had was already basically gone, and this place certainly didn’t pay enough to make his ends meet. The fights helped to make it through the drier spells, so to speak.

  “Depends,” his boss eventually replied.

  “On what?”

  Nickie shook his glass with a smirk. “On if your name gets pulled, Lev, like everybody else.”

  Fuck.

  Usually, he had a little pull given he worked behind the bar. Not tonight, apparently. He couldn’t say he was surprised considering the situation Nickie had with a guy like Andino Marcello promising to show his face at the fights.

  With an associate.

  It was good for Nickie’s in the world of the underground. Bad for Lev when his chances of getting his name pulled to fight were about as good as the rest of the fucks lined up waiting outside Nickie’s office.

  “But hey,” his boss called when Lev turned to leave.

  He didn’t bother to turn around. “What?”

  “Pay is triple tonight. You earned it, kid.”

  Kid.

  Maybe he was just a kid compared to Nickie’s middle-age crisis that he was trying to hide with the gold rings on his fingers and the new Porsche parked in the back. Lev held back from scoffing—he felt so far from a kid at twenty-four. That was a lifetime ago, and though life hadn’t been easy then ... it was different. Sometimes, that was the part he missed the most.

  Nickie didn’t give him the chance to think on it for long before he added, “Says something when Marcello calls ahead and the first thing he asks about is you, doesn’t it?”

  Did it?

  Lev couldn’t really say.

  Or he didn’t want to.

  “I just mix his drinks when he’s here, boss.”

  He could feel Nickie’s eyes burning into his broad back. To be honest, his boss wasn’t all that different than Andino Marcello in the grand scheme, really. A different breed of bad; with less money and influence, sure, but still dangerous.

  Or rather, he could be.

  When it counted.

  “Keep it to serving drinks, huh?”

  Nickie’s murmur felt loaded.

  Lev only nodded. Only one of those two men were currently signing his paychecks, after all. That’s really what mattered to him at the end of the day.

  What else needed said?

  Apparently, Nickie thought more.

  “Careful making friends with the likes of him,” his boss warned at his back before Lev could stroll back into the hallway, “because men like Andino Marcello only keep people around for as long as they benefit him. You won’t like what happens when you no longer do.”

  He would remember it if only because he thought that was a pretty straightforward way of doing business regardless if he was just serving a man’s drinks or not. So long as he did his job well, he still had one to do.

  Wasn’t that the whole point?

  Two

  “ANGE MODELING wants to sign me to work with the French designer, Pierre Missioux.”

  “What?”

  The screech came from
two different, very distinct voices. One echoed from the phone she had sat on the small table next to her twin-size bed where she hadn’t even bothered to fix the sheets that morning before leaving. Her mother. Who was also now crying. The other came from her friend who suddenly slid into her bedroom doorway with eyes as wide as her own, she was sure.

  “Oh, my God,” her mother cried.

  “Are you serious?” her friend asked.

  Gigi wasn’t sure who to answer first. Instead, she checked the screen of the laptop one more time—she’d only intended to order her and Cassie, her roommate, Chinese. Even though the salt would probably make her bloated enough that it would show on her measurements tomorrow. She figured, might as well check her emails since she hadn’t even had the chance to do that during her very busy day.

  Not that it was anything unusual.

  “Gi?” Cassie urged, daring to step forward in the doorway but not coming all the way into the room.

  She didn’t answer her friend back. Or her mother, still crying, on the phone. It almost seemed like she had floated out of her own body for a second. The shock was overwhelming when the last thing she expected to see marked as a Top Priority email when she brought up the tab was the one from her agency about the Paris offer. Just a few seconds ago, the only thing on her mind had been greasy noodles and the ache in her legs and soles of her feet.

  In the world of modeling, a day of go-sees in a city like New York could be absolute hell. It wasn’t so bad when it was only one or two appointments but that wasn’t usually how it worked. Typically, Gigi’s entire day ended up filled by her mother agency, MGNT Modeling, with go-sees from one side of the city to the other with barely any time in between for a break. Well, come the end of it, every single part of her five-foot-eleven, one hundred-twenty-eight-pound body felt it.

  And all she wanted was her bed.

  Maybe a glass of wine.

  Not that she was legal to drink at twenty years old, but that certainly didn’t stop her roommate—who was a year younger than her—from somehow managing to keep their fridge and freezer stocked with all the liquor they might want or need. A lot like the benzo bars in the bathroom, or the coke her roommate liked to indulge in on the weekends.