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“No, I imagine not.” Her smile faded, and the air cooled as the sun dipped beneath the western hills. A string of light-sensing fairy lights came on, tangled in a nearby tree.
“You want to know why I’m here?” she asked.
“I was wondering, yes.”
Nothing remained of her smile now. She placed her glass on the table. “We got him.”
His heart thumped. “Him?” He needed to hear his name.
“Sasha Zhokov.”
Francis sucked in air through his teeth and held the breath. Sasha’s whereabouts had caused no end of sleepless nights. The Russian’s absence was the whole reason for the shotgun in the barn. Everyone else connected with Stanmore—and the more recent business based off it—had been arrested, charged, and held in custody. With the weight of evidence from the USB drive and the Vatican’s investigations, the Battaglia had collapsed in the chaos after Giancarlo and Antonio’s deaths, and once one capo had been apprehended, they all began to fall, eager to make deals for protection or reduction in prison sentences. But Sasha Zhokov had slipped through the net. Vitari’s voice message, recorded that fateful night at the casino and sent to Catalina, had given Interpol evidence enough to issue an arrest, and using the evidence on the drive and Antonio’s live-streamed confessions, Sasha’s web of shell companies had begun to unravel.
But the man himself had been missing since Monte Carlo.
“Have you arrested him?” Francis asked, trying and failing to hide the strain in his voice.
“He’s dead, Padre. His body was found in his home in Moscow.”
“Dead… You’re sure?”
“The body has been identified.”
“How did he die?” Francis asked quietly.
“Self-inflicted gunshot to the head.”
“Suicide?”
She nodded and said with a faint snarl, “Coward’s way out.”
Francis had met the foreboding Russian once, when he’d shot Vitari as a warning, but that meeting had left a lasting impression. “He didn’t seem the sort.”
“His DeSica empire is in ruins, and the world had become small. It was a matter of time before he would be serving life behind bars, Padre. Zhokov knew it was over. Many men like him buckle under justice. They prefer death to a lifetime behind bars, which is exactly what fate awaited him.”
Francis sipped his wine, thoughts tumbling. It was good, wasn’t it? Sasha was dead. It was over. It didn’t feel like justice, though. Sasha had taken true justice from them, from the boys who had died as a result of Stanmore. All those years, the Russian had gotten rich on the suffering of innocents. Francis could only pray God would deliver His vengeance to Sasha in Hell.
“Of course, it was not without sacrifice,” she added. “Many did not survive.”
“Peace be with them.”
“Vitari—”
Francis spoke over her, afraid his emotions might clamor up and choke him. “You didn’t have to come all this way. You could have told me about Sasha over the phone.”
“I could have.” She smiled, and the delight was back in her eyes. “But I wouldn’t have seen what you have made here.” She looked behind Francis, at the renovated barn and the renovated farmhouse. “This must have been expensive to purchase, no?”
“Oh, the farm?” He laughed and hoped it didn’t sound strained. “Not really, it was very run-down, mostly just three walls and a roof.”
“Renovations, staff? Not cheap.”
“The staff are free, so?—”
“Still, the mature vines, equipment, bottle machines, labels?”
This was beginning to feel like an interrogation. “Uhm… I had some savings.”
“Because priests are well-paid?” she asked, eyebrows raised.
