“How can that be?” I scoff out, truly shocked. “You don’t need a deadly weapon to kill somebody.”Sometimes you just need your fists.
I feel like I’m sucker-punched when Parker replies, “Reports state Callie’s injuries were inflicted by her mother. She tried to kill her daughter before she killed herself.” Anger sees me working my jaw side to side when he adds, “Sonya tried to drown Callie in the bathtub.” I don’t know whether to be grateful or angry when he murmurs, “Callie knew all too well from the environment she grew up in that playing dead was sometimes the only way to survive.” He motions his head to Callie, who briskly shuts her eyes when she spots my gawk. “Her injuries are from a john unappreciative of her taking out his favorite whore.”
Parker slants his head to the side and arches a brow when I ask, “Col Petretti?”
After a prolonged bout of silence, he lifts his chin. “How did you know that?”
“The main bruise on Callie’s cheek has a ‘P’ embedded in it.”
Oblivious to the fact I’m aware of what the Petrettis’ emblem entails, Parker brings it up on the screen of his cell phone. “Was it this?” A low groan vibrates in his chest when I bob my chin. “This could make things very complicated.”
“How?” I ask, confused. Col has done far worse than backhanding a child, and most of the atrocious acts were done to his blood, so this should barely create a ripple in the ocean.
The situation goes from bad to worse when Parker discloses, “There have been rumors circulating the past couple of months about the death of Vladimir’s favorite whore.”
“The woman who birthed his eldest son?” Unlike most of Vladimir’s sons, the face of the Popov heir isn’t flashed across the papers every week. He doesn’t host parties for celebrities, nor does he exploit his underworld association across the globe for the world to see. Bar the occasional mention of his name by associates hoping to claw their nails into my empire they wrongly believe was founded by similar theatrics, I could forget he exists.
Parker nods. “For years, it was believed she died of a drug overdose, but the longer tension brewed between cartel entities, the more farfetched the claims became. They extend from Felicia being an undercover operative who ‘died’ so they could get her out to her being murdered by a rival associate.”
Although I can see how this could complicate things, I’m not sure what it has to do with Callie. When I say that to Parker, he states, “The rival associate is rumored to be Col Petretti.” He locks his almost black eyes with mine. “So, if you’re putting Col into the same room as another death of Vladimir’s favorite whore, those rumors will jump from a flicker to a flame.”
“And Callie could get caught in the blaze.”
“Yes,” Parker answers, unaware I wasn’t asking a question. “Because just like one lie undoes a thousand truths, one wrong DNA test could undo centuries of traditions. This isn’t the first time a Popovs’ lineage has been questioned, but it is the first time a possible discretion is being auctioned.”
What is he saying? He can’t possibly be hinting that the Popov ancestry isn’t as affluent as perceived. Entities like theirs are built from ancestry-based traditions. One fault in their pedigree line could unravel their entire operation.
It dawns on me that my theories are on the money when Parker says, “If Callie’s lineage is discredited, it will place the entire Popov legacy on the line.”
“Then it’s lucky we don’t have to worry about that, isn’t it?” I question, unfearful of the outcome of a DNA test. Callie was identified by Hugo so quickly because of the depth and darkness of her eyes. All Vladimir’s children’s eyes have the same markings. They’re scorched from the hell they were born in, but since they were plucked from the danger before they were fully charred, they are dark brown instead of black.
There’s only one Popov child with dissimilar eyes to his siblings. He’s making his way down the corridor now, hence, the reason my cell phone is going crazy in my pocket. Now Hunter will be on my back even more about wearing a listening device for every waking minute of the day.
I pluck Callie’s medical chart from the holder outside her door before shifting on my feet to face Parker. “Order additional scans. We need to make sure the rattle in her chest has nothing to do with excess water on her lungs.”
When he reads my underhanded warning that we’re being approached, his hand slips toward his gun. I inconspicuously shake my head. For one, I’m unsure yet if Nikolai is the enemy or an ally, and two, it’s rare to see him without a fanfare. There is no crew flanking his walk. No hired goons beefing up his presence. He doesn’t even have one of the many women he’s been photographed with the past year on his arm. He’s here, alone, which has me wondering how sinister his arrival is.
Nikolai’s icy blue eyes drift to mine when we bypass each other two doors down from Callie’s room. His narrowed gaze is slanted with suspicion, but I don’t miss their quick drag down my body. I’m wearing a suit not even the world’s number one plastic surgeon could afford. Fortunately for me, a man in ripped jeans and a plain black tee wouldn’t know the difference between a rack-purchased suit and one sewn by the tailor who dresses the royal family.
That doesn’t mean I’m let off scot-free, though. I curse under my breath when Nikolai winks at me before he hides his smug grin by angling his head. He knows I know who he is, and he’s milking it for all it’s worth. Showboating is very much one of his exasperating talents.
The cockiness beaming out of him is suffocated when he pops open the door of Callie’s hospital room. He stands in the doorway for several long seconds, unmoving and unspeaking. Just when I think the vein in his neck is about to pop in protest to the frantic throbs of his heart, he enters Callie’s room, closing the door behind him.
When he commences rolling down the privacy blinds, I sling my eyes to Parker. “What are the chances he’s here to finish the job?” He looks confused until I disclose. “Nikolai has blue eyes. The same blue eyes almosteverymember of the Petrettifamily has.”
I see his pupils dilate when the truth smacks into him. The rumors he’s heard aren’t rumors. Mafia lines have been blurred and decades ago by the looks of it.
Before I can command otherwise, Parker removes his gun and military walks the eight steps between where we’re standing and Callie’s door. He gets as far as bracing his gun in perfect position to fire before I order for him to wait with a swift movement of my hand.
While he stands outside Callie’s door with his gun drawn and his heart racing, I dial a frequently dialed number on my untraceable cell before squashing it to my ear.
“Logging in now,” Hunter advises, aware I am unable to talk due to my close proximity to Callie’s room.
As his fingers race over his keyboard, I pull my iPhone out of my pocket and fire up the screen. I’ve barely secured an entire breath when Hunter finds a way to display what is happening inside Callie’s room without Parker entering with guns blazing. The angle is odd. I’m watching the event unfold more from Callie’s angle than Nikolai’s, but it leaves no uncertainty things aren’t as sinister as anticipated. He doesn’t end her life with the pillow her head is resting on, nor does he rip away the bunny she’s snuggling. He adjusts her pillow so her neck isn’t kinked before he pulls back the same strand of hair I did earlier.
It only takes Nikolai half a second to find the P-marked bruise on her cheek. It doubles the murderous glint in his eyes and sees him spinning on his heels to race for the door. Parker and I are given the chance to conceal ourselves when he freezes partway across her room. He remains still like he did earlier, but instead of his eyes being locked on Callie, they’re staring at nothing, deep in thought.
It feels like minutes pass before he spins back around to face Callie. He drifts his eyes over her bruised face for a couple of seconds before he returns to her side of the bed. I watch him like a hawk when he plucks the bunny I brought Callie out of her clutch. He trails his eyes over the velvet material, seeking a tag. He won’t find one. They’re the stuffed animals Katarina designed and I ordered for the children who reside at Nobel Wellness.
