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And now I am too.
I need to get my head in the game and find a way to take Sergio out before I completely lose myself in this world I’ve been immersed in for over a month. I’ve been delaying, because once I accomplish my mission, Alina will never speak to me again. But I suppose none of it will matter if I go insane hunting down the men who, just like me, want Sergio dead.
The water runs pink as it circles the drain. When I’m finished scrubbing my hands and arms, I get to work on my face. When I’m done, I dry myself with paper towels from the dispenser, and still, they come away with blood. I don’t know where it’s all coming from.
Tossing the soiled paper into the trash, I head back out, meeting Rasputin in the hall. As we fall into stride together, I try not to think of the men sitting in pools of blood in the office.
Sun lances into my eyes as soon as we open the front doors, forcing me to squint. A person could easily forget that it’s the middle of the afternoon on a Thursday after being in the dark cave of sin for hours.
I’d lost track of the time as I pummeled Roxanne’s owner to a bloody pulp. I half expected it to be midnight.
The Escalade’s waiting for us at the curb, the motor idling, Malik in the front seat.
Rasputin and I pile in without a word.
As we head toward the Sakharov estate, I study my bruised and split knuckles. They’re going to be a pain to let heal if I’m supposed to continue pounding information from our bloody trail of suspects that feels like it’s run cold.
No one knows anything.
The answers we’re getting seem to lead from one dead end to the next. But people keep giving us answers—likely because they would rather say whatever comes to their heads than repeat that they don’t know and lose another finger. Or ear. Or arm.
“You’re alright, Orlov.” Rasputin’s approving tone indicates he’s come to some long-drawn conclusion and decided to let me live.
I look up, meeting his eyes, and he gives a single nod of confirmation. “At first, I wasn’t so sure about you, but you don’t say much. You get the job done, and you mind your business. I like that. I can see why Sergio took you in. We don’t take many strays.”
“Thanks.”
The car pulls up to the curb in front of the grand Brownstone, relieving me of the responsibility of coming up with something more to say. The two of us pile out, and once again, I fall into step a stride behind Rasputin as we climb the front steps.
Rasputin’s phone goes off a second before we reach the door. “Blyat,” he hisses and reaches into his suit coat. He pulls it out to look at the screen, then he jerks his chin to indicate I should go in before him. “I have to take this. Inform the Pakhan that we’re here, and I’ll be right in.” Then he answers the phone, his tone gruff. “Da, Lenka, chto takoye?”
Something must have gone wrong with the cleanup if it’s Lenka.
I don’t wait to find out what.
Instead, I slip through the front door and come face-to-face with Artem, their head of security. He lets me pass without a second thought—another sign that the Sakharov clan has allowed me into their brotherhood. They think of me as one of them now.
It still feels surreal.
I stride across the Brownstone’s grand entry, my rubber-soled boots making little noise on the marble, and turn down the hall toward Sergio’s office.
The door is ajar. I can tell by the voices issuing from it, and one of them is most definitely Alina’s. My heart skips a beat at the thought of seeing her. We haven’t crossed paths in a few days—not since she fell asleep in my apartment and I woke to the sounds of her getting sick.
Clearly, she’s well enough to be arguing with her father, though, because her voice has that familiar obstinate pitch that tells me she’s about to get exactly what she wants.
Reaching the office door, I pause, observing the family discussion that consists of Sergio, Viktor, and Alina. Sergio sits at his desk, his fingers interlaced as he studies his daughter with a look of infinite patience.
Viktor leans against the bookshelf wall, his arms crossed, his eyes practically mid-roll.
Alina stands in the center of the room, her hands on her curvy hips, her jeans hugging every inch of her perfect legs. “Papachka, please. You’re being completely unreasonable,” she insists.
“The answer’s no, Alina. If you want to go clubbing with your friends, you will take your bodyguard. That’s final.” Sergio starts to look down, ending the discussion.
“But Vlad creeps them out,” she groans. “Besides, we’re going to Plastique. It can’t get much safer than that, since you own the place. And it’s not like anyone’s going to recognize or target me in a big crowd like that. Come on, Papachka. I’ll keep a low profile. I’ll be careful. Just don’t make me take Vlad.”
Leaning back in his chair, Sergio seems to reconsider Alina’s plea for a moment. From the door, I try not to call attention to myself as I tense. He'd better not let her go out on her own. After what happened last time at Plastique, I have no doubt that trouble finds Alina. And since we haven’t figured out who’s responsible for the ambush, I think it’s perfectly within reason to consider she might be abducted and used as bait or ransom to draw Sergio out.
“Alright, then,” Sergio says. “If you insist on being so stubborn, why doesn’t Viktor accompany you?”
