“Meet me at the Marina,” she croaks. “Be there near the last dock. Row E. Don’t try to be a hero, either. Just wait for me. I expect you to bring a very fast horse, soldier. We won’t be able to leave the city after. If we don’t die, that is.”
It’s a grittier outlook than any she’s revealed so far. She’s worried.
Which means I have to reconcile that she might have been telling the truth from the start.
“So, there will be an explosion?” I demand. Sixth street. That’s the location where those men were working, carrying God knows what into those warehouses. “What is he planning? Why?”
“Oh, there will be more than an explosion,” the woman rasps. “But it’s different than I thought. I’m not sure if I can—”
Without warning, the line goes dead.
I’m already climbing from the car, my gaze on the water.
Then I remember her words. Don’t try to be a hero. Wait for me.
Fine. She can gamble her life if she wants to, but no one else’s.
Without taking my gaze from the yacht, I make a call, bringing the phone to my ear.
“Evgeni?” Louie’s voice is a shadow of his boisterous tone from last night. “What the hell, boy? First, you run off on me to be Mischa Stepanov’s whipping boy, and now you’re up my ass—”
“I need another favor,” I say. “Same price. Whatever you want.”
“Seriously?” He grumbles, cursing under his breath. I imagine him climbing out of bed, trying to sober up. “You must be desperate. Hit me.”
“I need you to clear the West end docks of everyone. Now. Call in some favors to the police if you have to—”
“Whoa! Slow down. I told you that some serious motherfucker was in charge of that shit. I stick my nose in there and—”
“And you’ll have my balls in a vice,” I counter. “You want me on the hook for whatever you want? Then tell me you can do it.”
He sighs. “I can try. That’s it. What the hell has gotten into you, anyway?”
“There’s another thing. I want you to find out whatever you can about a woman. Two, actually. The first is a Safiya Mangenello. That ring a bell?”
“Never heard of her,” he replies. Grudgingly, I sense he isn’t lying.
“What about the other? Her name is Briar Winthorp—”
“Ice-cold cunt,” Louie snarls with a venom that catches me off guard. “A bitch you better avoid if you like your cock intact.”
An accurate description. “I’m assuming you’ve met her, then.”
He barks out a vicious laugh. “You bet your ass I have. The little bitch. She—” Abruptly, he breaks off, clearing his throat. “Just stay away from her, sonny boy. The bitch is bad news.”
“Bad news,” I echo. A sudden thought comes to mind. I should have seen it before. “She mentioned Amina. That’s a name she couldn’t learn from just anyone.”
“Ev…”
“I’m assuming that you supplied her with the ‘research’ she might need to know about my past.”
“Ah, fuck. Listen, Ev. I didn’t have a choice. The little bitch leveraged a debt from years ago and offered to pay it off. It’s a cold world out there, alright? After you left me in the dust for old Mischa, can you blame me for wanting to make a little coin off all our good times? You were a hell of a bounty hunter. The iciest motherfucker I’ve ever seen—”
“When we meet again, I’ll remind you of the importance of privacy,” I say, hanging up.
At least now, one mystery is solved. Someone had to pay good money to steer her to Louie. All to get to me.
Do I truly believe she’d go through all of that trouble merely to meet with Mischa?
Hell, no, I don’t.
Not one damn bit.
In fact, it’s time to get answers from the mafiya leader himself. I keep my cell phone in my hand and dial his direct number.
The line barely rings before it goes dead—too quickly for Mischa to have ended it manually. Did he block me?
It’s an act too petty for someone like him.
Something’s wrong.
You’ve been blacklisted, Mario claimed.
What the fuck does that mean?
I turn toward my rental, aiming to head straight to the manor my damn self. This mystery has gone on long enough.
But leaving now would mean leaving her. If she is truly in danger…
Fuck. I glare at the yacht, imagining her cackling on the upper deck, amused at making me jump like her little puppet. Her betrayal would be an easy fantasy to believe…
If it weren’t for one little slip-up, that’s been haunting me from the start. Hell, maybe it’s why I’ve humored her this damn long.
Ali. She referred to her so-called son as Ali more than once—a nickname, conveying a softness that a completely heartless bitch wouldn’t bother to utilize. I know that from firsthand experience.
My father never called me by any name other than the one he gave me—Evgeni Victorovitch Volkov. Day or night, he referred to me as that. Only that. Pride wasn’t his reasoning. Just discipline, the way a trainer would ensure its guard dog never learned anything but the strictest commands. To gain complete control over a living being, you must first strip them of emotion. Humanity. An identity.
A woman who didn’t give a damn about her son wouldn’t slip and call him Ali while proclaiming her lack of concern.
Though hell, why does it even matter? She’s a shitty mother overall, and that should be enough to counter any guilt I might feel for leaving her behind.
The choice isn’t that hard to make.
In the grand scheme, I should let the bitch drown.
18
Willow
Ellen once described love as madness. I remember the moment so clearly. We were in my room, and she stood gazing from the window as she spoke, her blue eyes distant.
It’s hard to put into words, she admitted. It’s more or less something that you have to experience for yourself to truly know it. All I can say is that one minute you think you
