"Who signed for the transfer? Who authorized the move?" I ask.
Aris points to the bottom of the page. There, in a cramped, elegant script, are two initials: PB.
The world goes quiet. The sounds of the espresso machine and the muffled chatter of the patrons fade into a high-pitched ring. Petrov, Boris.
My father.
He lied. He looked me in the eyes for ten years and told me he was lost to the system. He told me the records were burned. He told me he was gone.
"PB," I whisper, my eyes stinging. " It was always him."
"There’s more," Aris says, leaning in closer. "The residence... it’s tied to a trust fund that gets refilled every quarter. It’s active, Irina. Whoever is in that house, they’re still there. But the security... it’s high, for sure. Not just guards. Electronic. You try to get close, and the alarms go off in your father’s office before you hit the front porch."
"I don't care about the alarms," I say, my voice turning to iron. "I need an address, Aris. I need a street name."
"I’m working on it. But I need more than cash this time. Your father is starting to notice the holes in his database. If I keep digging, I’m a dead man."
"I’ll get you whatever you want," I say, grabbing his wrist. My grip is tight enough to make him wince. "You find me that address. You find out exactly which house in Jersey has my life locked inside it, or I’ll tell Mikhail exactly who’s been helping me."
Aris pales. "I… I will do my best."
"I’ve had enough," I snap. I slide the wad of cash across the table and stand up. "Find him, Aris. Don't make me come looking for you."
I walk out of the coffee shop, the cool air hitting my face like a slap. I’m vibrating. It’s hope. It’s a frantic, terrifying hope that makes my legs feel like they might give out.
New Jersey. PB.
I start walking back toward the estate, my mind racing. I need to get back inside before Mikhail returns.
The jog back feels shorter. My adrenaline is fuel. I reach the iron fence and squeeze back through the gap, my hoodie catching again, the tear widening into a jagged line.
Shit. I’ll have to burn this.
I walk through the gardens, staying in the shadows. Stefan is still patrolling, but he’s focused on the front entrance now. I reach the west wing window and look up.
It’s still open.
I grab the ivy-covered trellis and start to climb. My sneakers slip on the damp wood, a piece of the lattice snapping with a loudcrack. I freeze, my heart stopping.
"Who's there?" a guard shouts from around the corner.
I don't breathe. I press myself against the brick, my eyes closed, praying the shadows are deep enough to swallow me whole.
"Probably just a raccoon," another voice says. "The woods are full of 'em."
"Check it anyway."
I hear the crunch of gravel. He’s coming. I don’t have time for slow and steady. I lunge for the windowsill, my sneakers scrambling for purchase on the brickwork. My fingers catch the stone ledge, scraping the skin off my knuckles. I haul myself upward, my lungs burning, and tumble through the window just as a flashlight beam sweeps the trellis below.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MIKHAIL
The air in Vladimir’s study is thick.
Artyom stands by the window, his silhouette a sharp, unforgiving line against the light. I’m leaning against the mahogany desk—the same desk where our father used to sit and decide who lived and who died. Now, the roles are reversed.
I’d be grinning if my mood would allow it.
