Recalling Zariah’s uncle saying the same thing, I suggest for Lenin to reach out to Bear. He might have a better idea of his brother’s hidey holes than my men.
“As soon as he is found, come and get me.”
I wait for Lenin to nod before entering my room. There’s no use delaying the inevitable. Sometimes the best battles are the ones you enter midway through.
I move to Zariah’s bedside with the same agile steps I used the prior month. Even with the flooring in her room being old, she’ll never hear a creak. She’s in the same position she was in the surveillance image but on her left hip instead of her right. She’s been crying. Her face is wet with tears, and her nostrils are red. With her dress sitting in shreds on the floor, she’s reverted back to wearing a dowdy t-shirt as a nightie.
My attempt to scoot closer to her unannounced is foiled by foil. The strip of condoms I dumped on the ground earlier tonight crunch under my boot and cause a whimper from Zariah.
When I free the condoms from under my boot, my eyes lock in on a photo to their right. Although there’s a large blob of blood dripped down one side, I can confidently declare it is a picture of Zariah at my sixteenth birthday. I’d never forget the pale blue dress with white flowers she wore that day. It was freezing, but she wasn’t going to let anything stop her from dressing up. My birthday was the first celebration she had after her mother’s funeral, so it was the perfect excuse for her to let go of her grief for a night.
It was also the last time I saw her in over a decade.
As my pulse flutters in my neck, I scoop down to gather the photo in my hand. A cascade of emotions stirs in my gut when a droplet of blood in the top left-hand corner rolls down the photo. Its trek covers most of Zariah’s long black hair with a fiery red coloring and spurs more than just a bit of recklessness from me. With hair as molten as a blood moon, Zariah no longer looks like Zariah. She’s a spitting image of a young Dominique. I’m so convinced, I flip the photo over, seeking the handwritten inscription my mom writes on the back of every photo.
I exhale a ragged breath when I read the pencil inscription on the back.
Zariah Volkov.
Asher’s Sixteenth Birthday.
April 27.
The year is too smudged to read. I don’t need it. I know what year I was born, so it’s an easy calculation. Just as easy as it is for me to brush off Dominique’s similarities to Zariah. I didn’t grow immediately smitten with her for no reason. I thought all my Christmases had come at once when I found someone as unique and as stunning as Zariah. With a change in hair-coloring and length, Dominique could have passed as Zariah’s twin. . .
My inner monologue trails off when reality dawns. I’ve been seeking answers in the wrong places. The truth has been in front of me the entire time.
With vengeance-thick testosterone overpowering the adrenaline in my blood, I stand and race out of Zariah’s room. My frantic stomps will most likely wake her, but I can’t be silenced. I have urgent matters to attend to.
As I break into a sprint, I dig my phone out of my pocket to dial a number known by heart. It’s midmorning in Vegas, so Nikolai answers my call promptly.
He breaks into his usual greeting about me being a limp-dicked bastard, but I cut him off. “Who ordered Dominique?”
I can’t see him, but I can imagine his brows pulling together when silence stifles his chuckle. “Before you, she was Vladimir’s.”
“I didn’t ask who she belonged to; I asked who ordered her? Vladimir took her because he wanted her,” –much like me— “but we were paid to collect her. She wasn’t a random collection. That means someone ordered her specifically.”
Unaware of the urgency of my question, Nikolai makes anehnoise. He can’t understand the importance of my query because he’s still putting the pieces together, like I was up until two minutes ago.
“I need a name, Nikolai. Now.” You can’t miss the insistence in my tone. Not only will this reveal the person who killed Dominique, it will answer why protecting Zariah entered my mind long before desire for vengeance.
“Alright. Hold on.”
I hear the coo of a baby before Nikolai advises Justine he’ll be back. His feet padding on the floor and his panting breath reveal he’s running. I’d rib him on how unfit he has become, but the hate blackening my blood leaves no room for playfulness. I’m seconds from going on a rampage, and Nikolai is about to disclose who I’m trampling.
A keyboard being tapped sounds down the line before, “What date was she picked up?”
Even though I should be shocked the Popovs keep a paper trail of every transaction they make, I’m not. They have one of the best security programs in the world. It was created by the world’s greatest hacker, so it’s not just unhackable; as far as the FBI is concerned, it doesn’t exist.
“March fourteenth three years ago. She was on a flight from France.”
Up until six weeks ago, I would have been able to recite the exact time we snatched Dominique and her flight number, but now my mind is blank on anything but Zariah. Nothing I can do will bring Dominique back, but I can stop Zariah falling victim to the same fate.
“She was for a Russian counterpart. Hence my assistance.”
I can’t believe I hadn’t considered this earlier. I flew to Vegas specifically for Dominique, yet I didn’t consider her original procurer may have still wanted her when Nikolai gifted her to me. Add that to the fact Dominique could be passed off as Zariah’s twin, and there’s more than suspicion running through my veins. You’ve got a whole fucking conspiracy.
I step back, stunned when Nikolai murmurs, “Volkov.”
