"Victor told you to stop me," I say. Not a question.
"He told me to keep you safe," the man says. "And to bring you to the penthouse if you decided you needed to move. Those were his instructions."
"I don't believe you," I say.
He looks at me for a moment. Then he says, "His exact words were to treat you like his wife, and to take you to the penthouse directly if you wished to leave."
The hallway goes very quiet. I look back at Evie. Then at Vera. They're both looking at me, waiting for me to make a decision. Neither saying a word.
I set the go-bag down inside the door and reach for Evie’s hand. “Let’s go.”
He leads the way to the car, opening the door for us before moving around to the driver's seat. Vera gets in the front besidehim. And within seconds, we are pulling away from the curb into traffic.
“The penthouse is only twelve blocks away,” Vera says over her shoulder. “We’ll be there shortly, and you’ll be safe.”
I squeeze Evie’s hand, reassuring her. We cover eleven blocks without incident, then just as we make it to number twelve, it happens.
The impact comes on the left side of the car — a vehicle at full speed, right through the intersection. It hits the driver’s side with a force that lifts the car right off the ground, sending it airborne. I hear Evie scream, along with the sound of glass shattering, and I feel the world rotate, that disorientation of falling head over heels until we finally stop moving.
“Evie,” her name comes out wrong, too quiet, and it hurts my head to draw air.
“Alex.” I hear her. Close. Frightened. “Don’t, Alex. Stay awake, stay with me.”
I blink, trying to clear my vision, as the pain racks my lungs. I hear footsteps on the pavement outside. Blinking again, I try to focus. Dark dress shoes. Pressed slacks.
Victor.It has to be him. He must have been waiting for us. I look up, and the world goes dark before I can see his face.
Chapter Nineteen
Victor
David sent the summons just after midnight:Emergency meeting 9 a.m. at the Onyx.
Which gave everyone just enough time to clear their schedule, but not enough time to coordinate anything insidious. Which was exactly the point. I want them in their seats before they have finished deciding whose side they are on, if they have been given the incentive to change sides. And I want Pavel to walk through that door without answers to my mysterious absence from last night's dinner.
David and I arrive early, 8:15 to be exact, setting the feel of the room as the others begin to arrive. Pavel walks in at 8:57.
I watch him from the head of the table, the way he moves through the space, the way he reads the faces of those already seated. I note the nervous way his eyes find mine, hold them for exactly three seconds, then move on. He is good, very good. The picture of composure.
He’s always been good. That’s why I’ve relied on him all these years. I feel the weight of the folder that I’ve concealed under my jacket, the original. A copy of which sits safely in his safe at home. And I think about the fourth page, the one that namesYarina Koshkinas chattel. But I don’t let the turmoil of my anger reflect on my face.
“Victor,” he says, acknowledging me with respect as he takes his seat.
“Pavel.”
As the last board member arrives, David closes the door behind him. The room holds fourteen people. Everyone who holds a vote is present. In addition, I’ve called on my top captains and Mikhail’s eldest son to be in attendance. All present to witness what I’m about to put on the table.
I let the room settle, wait for the coffee to be poured, the chairs to be adjusted to each occupant's comfort, and let the small chit-chat of preliminary conversations run their course. All the while, I watch as Pavel squirms in his seat. Patience is one thing he has never had, and today I use that to my utmost advantage.
Then I reach into my jacket and pull out the folder, placing it on the table in front of me. Closed, with my hand resting over it.
The room notices immediately. The conversation stops in stages, eyes turning to look at me warily.
“Eight months ago,” I start, “a private agreement was made between a member of this organization and the Koshkin family.” I open the folder and slide the first page toward the center of the table. “Territorial access to three of our eastern shipping routes and a seat on this board were offered to the Koshkin’s,” I slide the second page, “in trade for political and financial support in assisting with a transition of leadership.” I slide the third page.
The room is silent as I continue.
“They had one additional stipulation,” I slide the fourth page onto the table. “The location and safe delivery of Yarina and Evangeline Koshkin, and their return to Nikita Koshkin’s custody.”
