"Good," he says with a shrug, shifting the car into gear.
"Keep driving," I say, sliding the sunglasses into place. "And don't stop until we're at JFK."
I close my eyes. I can still feel the ghost of Mikhail’s predatory gaze on the back of my neck the day we first met. He’s going to come for me. I know it. He’s not the type of man to let ahumiliation like this stand. He’ll hunt me to the ends of the earth, not because he loves me, but because I’m a piece of the board he was promised, and I’ve dared to move myself.
But for now, I am free. I am no longer an asset. I am no longer a vision.
I am just Irina, and I have a responsibility.
The car speeds through the streets of Manhattan, the neon lights of the city blurring into long streaks of color. I look at my hands. They’re empty. No rings. No lace. No diamonds.
My fingers brush the small, faded photo I have tucked into the hidden pocket of my leggings. It’s the only thing that matters.
"I’m coming for you," I whisper into the dark of the car, my voice cracking once before turning to iron. "I don't care what the Bratva says. I don't care what anyone thinks. I am coming for you."
The car races toward the airport, and for the first time in ten years, I don't feel like a pawn. I feel like the Queen.
And the Queen is off the board.
CHAPTER ONE
IRINA
Mexico, six months later…
The humidity in Cancun doesn't just stay stagnant, it clings to you like a desperate lover you’ve been trying to dump for months.
I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, the salt stinging a tiny scratch on my knuckle. Outside the tinted glass ofOasis del Sol, the Caribbean is a flat, mocking sheet of turquoise. Tourists are out there drinking watered-down margaritas and getting sunburns they’ll regret by dinner, but inside, the air conditioning is cranked high enough to preserve a corpse.
It’s been six months. Six months of being Elena Sokolov.
Six months of kneading the knots out of the shoulders of middle-aged men from Ohio who have no idea that the woman touching them was once destined to be the Queen of the New York underworld.
I’m not the best at being a masseuse. Honestly, my technique is mostly just aggressive poking fueled by ten years of suppressed rage, but the pay is in cash and the location is a goldmine for the kind of information that doesn't end up on Google. In this world, the powerful talk when they think the help is invisible. And I’ve become very good at being invisible.
I’d like to say I’m enjoying this life, but at least I’m not married to a mad man.
"Elena? Stop staring at the ocean and get the lavender oils ready," Sofia, my boss, calls out as she bustles past the reception desk.
She’s a sharp-eyed woman who knows I’m lying about where I came from, but she likes my "firm hands" and the fact that I don't gossip with the other girls. In this town, a woman who can keep her mouth shut is worth her weight in gold.
"I’m on it, Sofia!" I call back, my voice smooth, the Russian accent I hide softened into something unidentifiable.
"Don't give me that look," she adds, pointing a manicured finger at me. "You look like you're plotting a murder again. Smile. It’s good for business."
"I am smiling," I mutter, though the muscles in my face feel like they’re made of lead. "On the inside."
I head toward the staff breakroom, my heart picking up speed. It’s Thursday. Mateo should be here.
I slip into the dim room, the scent of stale coffee and cheap floor cleaner replacing the hibiscus-scented air of the lobby. Mateo is leaning against the vending machine, looking perpetually confused with that scar through his eyebrow. He’s my only link to the world I left behind, a low-level runner who knows how to navigate the murky waters of international private records. "Mateo," I whisper, my eyes darting to the door. "Please tell me you have something."
He sighs, a heavy, defeated sound, and taps a cigarette against his palm, though he knows he can't light it in here. "Elena, I told you. The leads you gave me, they lead to a dead end. I checked the registries in Mexico City. I checked the private hospitals. There is no record of anyone being transferred under that name ten years ago."
Not again, I’ve been searching for so long…
I feel like someone just tipped a bucket of ice water down my spine. "The record exists, Mateo. My father doesn't lose things. He doesn't make mistakes. If he said there was a transfer, he meant he buried the paper trail so deep the devil couldn't find it. Search the Jersey files. Look for anything that looks too clean."
"Do you know how dangerous it is to even say that name out loud?" Mateo hisses, finally looking at me, his eyes wide with genuine fear. "The Russians in this territory... they don't play,chica. They don't have a sense of humor. If they think I’m digging into Petrov business, I’m dead before the sun sets. And you? You'll be right next to me."
