I stop her brisk exit by grabbing her arm. My non-firm hold isn’t what keeps her feet grounded. It’s the words I speak, “India was behind Demi’s miscarriage. She is the reason we lost our baby.”
When she locks her eyes with mine, I give her everything Rocco gave me four years ago. How he let slip who the tests were for in India’s presence. Her offer to buy the tests since she was going to the pharmacy for supplies anyway, and how she asked him to meet her there, so he’d be seen in the pharmacy’s parking lot on their surveillance cameras.
I tell her everything.
“And the girls in the pictures, they’re not whores for sale. They are incubators.”
“What?” Agent Machini chokes on her one word, certain she heard me wrong.
She didn’t.
“Agent Moses…” I pause when her face whitens from the mentioning of his name. “Arrow said before his…deaththat India killed our unborn child because she didn’t want any cartel heirs competing with her future children.”
Agent Machini’s brows pull together. “That doesn’t make any sense. Subpoenaed records expose that India can’t have children…” Her words trail off as her throat works hard to swallow. “That’s why she needs surrogates.”
I hit her with a look as if to say,Bingo!“Arrow hinted that she didn’t want to section herself to one nationality. She’s going for them all.”
She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip before asking, “Is that why she took Fien? To commence world domination?”
“Not exactly.” Since Dimitri’s story isn’t mine to share, I steer our conversation in the direction I need it to go. “But I believe the talk about a Russian sanction reforming footholds in Ravenshoe is because of India.” She doesn’t deny my claims, assuring me Dimitri’s sources are on the money. A mafia war is about to start because India never moves onto a new target without first imploding the one she sucked dry of resources. “If India has gotten what she needs from her current john, what nationality will she move onto next?”
When Agent Machini halfheartedly shrugs, I glare at her. She isn’t the daft wallflower she’s portraying. She pinned a sexual assault on a dead man, then flew home to Montana the following afternoon. She has balls—big ones.
During a deep exhale, she soundlessly squeals her annoyance that she’s succumbing to peer pressure before she murmurs, “If what you’re saying is true, and India is picking suitors by demographics, she still has half the world to explore.” I almost call her a killjoy but the removal of a confidential file from her briefcase stops me. “But… it’s obvious she has a type.”
She lays out a set of photographs across the countertop. It’s a timeline of the men India has dated, starting with her husband, Achim Novak, and ending with a man whose nationality isn’t easily depicted. He could be American for all I know.
I tap my index finger on the last image. “Who is this?”
“Maxsim. Son of Alexis Vasiliev.”
I’m sure I’ve heard that name before, but it’s slipping my mind. Confusion is understandable. My mafia days ended over four years ago. “Nationality?”
I push out a curse word when Agent Machini answers, “Russian.”
“And let me guess… currently living it up in Florida?”
She gives me the same look I gave her earlier before adding words into the mix, “Don’t fret. If India’s timeline remains on course, he’ll be buried under a pile of dirt by the end of the month.”
After reading between the lines, I ask, “All these men are dead?”
Agent Machini barely nods before she switches it to a shake. “All except these two.” She points out two men at the very start of her timeline. “Achim Novak and Trey Corbyn.” She plucks the two men’s photographs out of her lineup, then hands them to me. “India is legally married to Achim. We haven’t worked out Trey’s association yet.” While she checks handwritten notes on a yellow-lined notepad, I work my throat through a brutal swallow. I’ve heard of Trey before, from both Nikolai and Rocco, but the knowledge is too basic to be shared. “Achim resides in Czechia, but he hasn’t been sighted by Interpol in over a year.”
“Interpol was after him?” I ask, shocked. Smith didn’t disclose that yesterday. I guess he didn’t have the chance. Achim’s crimes were pages long. We would have been there for weeks if we scoured through every dot point.
Agent Machini’s chin barely lifts an inch before she continues as if I didn’t interrupt her, “Trey is a British citizen, but he resides in Las Vegas full time now. Has for around four years.”
While nodding my head, I wet my lips. “Right around the time India’s family’s compound was ambushed for the first time.”
I realize I said my last comment out loud when Agent Machini clarifies it, “Ambushed? The Bureau thought it was a takeover bid orchestrated by India.”
“We initially thought the same thing.” I inwardly curse my second slip-up. I was meant to say ‘I.’ It’s better for all involved if both sides of the law think I’m working independently. “But nothing of value was taken, and the ruins remained untouched for years.”Until recently.
While smirking about how justice is served in many ways, I remove Achim’s headshot from Agent Machini’s hands and place it back onto the timeline, leaving only Trey’s remaining. “Assuming Achim’s disappearance is sinister, we’re left with only one man from India’s past still breathing oxygen. He lives in Vegas, which is run by the Russian Cartel. That should mean something, shouldn’t it?”
“Perhaps…” She peers up at the ceiling for what feels like minutes but is barely seconds before asking slowly, “You’re going to Vegas, aren’t you?” She groans like I asked her to marry me during a first date when I nod. “Maddox, as your friend, I would advise you against this.”
“Oh, so now we’re friends? How convenient.” I bump her with my shoulder to ensure she knows there’s no hatred in my tone. When a ghost of a grin pops onto her face, I add, “If you don’t recommend this, what do you recommend?” I don’t allow her to answer. “I sit on my hands for another five years while waiting for the Bureau to pull their finger out of their ass.”
