My phone rings for the third time, and I slide it from my pocket. It’s time to face the music.
“Where have you been?” Sutton demands as soon as I answer.
“I was in a meeting.” I continue down Market Street, pinning my phone against my ear with my shoulder so I can dig out my keys.
“Tell me you didn’t just sign away millions of dollars.”
“I didn’t.” It’s the truth. I haven’t signed away anything. Yet. “Who told you I did?”
“Luca told me where you were going,” she says.
“Why are you talking to Luca?”
“Because he doesn’t avoid my calls!”
I frown. I’m going to have a chat with my best friend about my kid sister. I know Luca enjoys having her around, but it’s dangerous for her to get too close to a DeAngelo.
“You know what that family did,” she continues. “Not just to you. They’re terrible. They don’t deserve a second chance.”
I stop a few feet from my Aston Martin. “I’m not giving them a second chance.”
I can’t expect her to understand this. She’s too young to have experience with this world. Before I can tell her that, a shadow casts itself in my path. I look up and meet an unwanted, but familiar, set of eyes set into a muscular six foot three inch frame.
Nikolai Koltsov. If you’re going to happen upon a member of the Semsynovey Bratva on the street, he’s the one you want. You’re unlikely to walk away from an encounter with any of the other Koltsov brothers. Ink swirls on every exposed inch of his skin from the neck down, like the rest of his family. At least, the ones I’ve met. A lick of blond hair is slicked back from his face, the sides of his skull buzzed closely to reveal more tattoos. He crosses his arms, the seams of his blue suit jacket straining against muscles he built during his teen years when he was in and out of prison.
“Hey, I have to run,” I say to Sutton, not daring to look away from him. I hang up, ignoring her protests. “It’s been a long time.”
“And many miles.” There’s only the slightest tinge of an accent in his words. He spent nearly all his life in America, but his family business is conducted so frequently in Russian that the accent lingers.
“To think we both wound up here,” I say. “Unless this isn’t a coincidence.” It’s best to play dumb to give myself time to think. The worst thing I can do is draw the small 9mm I carry under my arm. There’s no way Nikolai isn’t armed, and he’s likely as fast as I am.
“Not a coincidence,” he says, “as I think you already know.”
Trust a Koltsov to see through my bullshit. My index finger twitches. “What is it then?”
“A courtesy call,” he says.
This, I’m not expecting. I blink. Noah seemed pretty sure the Koltsovs planned to kill me. Knowing what I do about the Bratva, I was inclined to agree.
“You’ve been named by an informant.” He picks a piece of lint off his cuff, displaying four different crosses etched into his knuckles. “Normally, we would kill you.”
I raise my eyebrows. This is definitely not going like I expected. “But it’s my lucky day?”
“We’re in your debt,” he says.
“You are?” I search my brain for any reason why the Koltsovs would owe me shit and come up empty-handed.
“Some of us,” he says. “Not all my brothers agree on this point, but they’re willing to turn their heads, if you disappear. At least, until this matter is resolved.”
“And how long will that be?” I ask tightly.
“Weeks. Years. Who knows?”
“I can’t disappear,” I say. “But I have no interest in hurting your family. You have my word.”
Nikolai brushes his lip with his thumb, shaking his head. “Unfortunately, your word doesn’t mean much. No offense.”
“None taken.” I can appreciate the business side of this arrangement. “If I don’t go?”
“I’m afraid my brothers are very impatient. They’ve been learning a lot about you the past few weeks,” he says. “They think they can provide strong motivation for you to change your mind.”
“What kind of motivation?”
“Your family is here in Tennessee, right?”
“I wouldn’t advise you to go after my sister,” I say coolly. I make a mental note to get Sutton on a plane headed somewhere tropical within twenty-four hours.
“No, we respect a brother’s love for his sister, but there are others you care for. Your blood, if you will,” he says. “Your father, this woman, Adair MacLaine, and your—”
“I’d stop if I were you.”
“And if I were you,” he says, leaning closer, “I’d leave town. I hear London is lovely this time of year.”
“London is hot this time of year,” I say flatly.
He chuckles as he takes out a pair of sunglasses and slides them on. “Not as hot as hell, Mr. Ford.”
Afternoon Nashville traffic is heavy on the best days, a parking lot on the worst. Today, it’s somewhere in between: an agonizingly slow conveyor belt of cars. I slam my fist against the horn in frustration and the guy in front of me flips me off. For a brief second, I imagine getting out of the Vanquish, dragging the man from his shitty Kia, and pummeling him until the raging frustration churning inside me subsides. I force my attention away from him, gripping the steering wheel in a death lock, and spot an empty parking spot ahead. Laying on my horn, I rev the engine, nudging forward until I’m on the guy ahead’s bumper. I can see him cursing at me, but I just honk again until he moves forward. It takes a few minutes, but gradually I get close enough to swerve into the spot, nearly scraping my front end against the Kia.
I jump out, ignoring the number of people who’ve rolled down their windows to yell at me. I peel off my suit jacket and toss it in the back. I start running, remembering only then
