“Alexander,” she croaks, prompting me to loosen my grip further. I blink, regaining control over my senses, as she gulps at the air, brushing her fingers across her neck. “He’s why I’m here.”
Her voice contained a suspicious note. Fear? “Your employer.”
Her eyes narrow, and it’s clearer than ever to track her thought process. To lie or not?
I flex my fingers, and she gulps. “The truth. Now. Who is Alexander?”
“He is my son,” she says. “And the man who has him is a big enough threat that I would crawl to Mischa Stepanov for help on my hands and knees. Does that answer your question?”
I school my expression to disguise my reaction. A son. It could be a lie. She’s presumably in her early thirties, certainly old enough, though she doesn’t strike me as the maternal type. She’s too guarded, revealing none of the softness Ellen Stepanova possesses.
However, being a selfish cunt doesn’t mean she could never birth a child.
“Who are you running from?”
“That doesn’t matter,” she spits. “You wouldn’t be able to track him down even if I gave you his identification card and birth certificate. He is a shadow. On paper, he doesn’t exist.”
The tremor in her voice catches my notice.
“You’re afraid of him.” Or so I assume that emotion is what lurks behind her eyes, quickening her breathing. Fear.
“Afraid?” She scoffs at the suggestion, jutting her chin proudly into the air. “You would have the sense to be if you knew what he was capable of. Given your ignorance, I’ll ignore your vain attempt to intimidate me.”
“A man so powerful, and yet you can’t even give me a name?”
“How about Jonathan?” she snipes. “Though that name won’t lead you anywhere.”
It could be a lie. One name, however, wasn’t.
“Alexander,” I say, circling back. “Your son. How old is he?”
She looks away, disguising her reaction. “Three,” she says.
“This Jonathan… Why did he take him?”
“That’s for Mischa to learn,” she says coldly. “Not you. Don’t forget your role in this, Evgeni Volkov—a mere cog in the wheel.”
“Correction. I’m your only chance of getting to Mischa.”
She raises an eyebrow. “You’re so sure of that? I think I could easily find another lackey and grease his palms.”
Her voice radiates more confidence than I’d like. A bluff? If so, I decide to call it out.
“Do that, then,” I suggest, turning back to the car. “Don’t let me stop you—”
“Wait! Wait…”
Her mask cracks. I can smell the desperation coming off her. See the loathing in her eyes as I turn to face her. She keeps her chin high with defiance, but I can see right through the feigned bravado to the pure terror lurking beneath.
She really is afraid. But why. Or of who?
Parsing her previous answer, it doesn’t take much to pinpoint the main suspect.
“Tell me more about this Jonathan.”
Her breathing hitches almost imperceptibly, disguised behind a cocky laugh. “He’s dangerous, more powerful than you can imagine, and even your Mischa can’t counter him so easily.”
“So why come here? Is your son’s life in danger? You don’t seem particularly worried—”
“He won’t hurt Ali,” she says absently. “As long as he’s useful to him.”
“Which means that you aren’t.”
She doesn’t deny it. If anything, the rage flashing in her eyes reveals that she’s well aware of that fact as well.
“How did you meet him? Why take your son if not to use him against you?”
“Ali is special,” she says cryptically. “I’m sure if you think really, really hard about it, you might discover why.”
I let the barb pass, seeing beyond the insults to what she isn’t saying.
“So, this man has your son. Has no need for you, and you’re desperate enough to come to Mischa. He wants you dead?”
She smirks. “A lot of people want me ‘dead.’ Few have the balls or the resources to follow through—”
“But I’m assuming this Jonathan does. You’re on the run from him.”
“Run is such a very strong word,” she retorts. “And if he wanted me dead, I would be.”
“Unless you have something he wants. Something you aim to use to curry favor with Mischa.”
Her smile widens. “You do catch on quick.”
“That I do. You’re desperate with a sworn enemy being the first person you run to. Whatever you have, it must be good—but not definitive enough for Mischa to trust it outright, meaning you needed a patsy to vouch for you to get close.”
“Don’t be a showoff,” she scolds, waggling a pale finger. “Cockiness doesn’t suit you.”
“You know what does suit me? A drink—”
“What?” I sense her on my heels as I return to the road. “You need to go back!”
“I will—” I wrench open the door to the driver’s seat and turn to see her lurking by the tree line. “Once you give me a damn good reason to. Something more than a name and a cryptic warning. I want something concrete; otherwise, you can find another fool to manipulate.”
I climb in without looking back and start the van. My next destination should be Stepanov manor to make amends with Mischa and see if he knows anything to corroborate the woman’s story. If she really has a son, for instance.
The sound of the passenger’s side door opening catches me off guard. I turn, genuinely surprised to find her standing there, eyeing the vehicle in disgust.
“Don’t look so smug,” she warns as she climbs in beside me. “Whether I tell you a damn thing, he won’t know the difference. He’ll kill you too. Congratulations, Evgeni Volkov. You’ve just signed your death warrant.”
2
Willow
I was ten when I witnessed the ruthless cunning of Donatello Vanici up close. Looking back, I should have known then what I do now—he never loved me. Tragedy didn’t change him, either—the man was always a monster.
From the very start, he only saw me as a tool.
“Business” was the reason he gave for summoning my father to his headquarters an hour’s drive from the city. Typically, Gino went
