I’m sitting at the edge of the bed, dressed in a clean black sweater and dark jeans, my boots laced tight. The burner phone on the nightstand buzzes.
St. Jude’s Pier. Thirty minutes. Aris.
My heart leaps into my throat. I grab the phone, my fingers typing out a quick confirmation before I slide it into my pocket. I stand up, ready to slip out of the room, but as I turn toward the door, I freeze.
Mikhail is standing in the doorway of the closet. He’s dressed in his black suit again, his tie pulled neat, his expression completely unreadable. He’s been watching me.
"Where are you going?" he asks. His voice is a quiet, flat rasp.
"To meet Aris," I say, my voice steady. "He just texted."
Mikhail walks toward me, his boots slow and heavy on the hardwood. He stops inches away, his presence instantly swallowing the space.
"I'm going with you," he says.
"No,” I push back, my stubbornness flaring. "Aris is skittish. If he sees the Madman of the Morozov family standing on the pier, he’ll run before I can even get the address. I need to go alone."
"I don't care if he’s skittish," Mikhail growls, his hand coming up to grab my wrist, his grip tight and warm. "I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not with Boris’s men crawling through the city, and certainly not when it comes to your safety."
"I can handle myself," I snap. "I’ve been doing this for seven years."
"You were alone for seven years," he says, his blue eyes flashing with a jagged, wild energy. "You're not alone anymore. We’re going together, wife. Or we’re not going at all."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
MIKHAIL
The rain in Brooklyn hangs in the air like a wet grey sheet.
It smells like salt, dead fish, and the rusted iron of the shipping containers lining St. Jude’s Pier. I keep my arm locked around Irina’s waist as we walk on the slick asphalt. She’s shivering slightly under her black sweater, but her jaw is set so tight I can see the muscle jumping in her cheek.
Stubborn. She’s freezing, but she won't admit it.
"He’s not going to show if he sees you," she whispers, her breath blooming in a small white cloud in the damp air. "I told you, Aris is like a stray dog. You look at him wrong, and he’ll run."
I grunt, my eyes scanning the shadows near the edge of the pier. "If he’s as smart as you say he is, he would value keeping his head on his neck. He’s not going anywhere."
We stop near a stack of abandoned pallets. A figure steps out from behind a rusted crane fifty feet away. It’s a small, wiry man in a dirty canvas jacket, his hood pulled low over his face. He takes three steps toward us, pauses when he catches sight of my shoulders, and instantly takes a step back.
"Irina!" the man shouts, his voice thin and trembling over the sound of the water. "You didn't say you were bringing him! I'm not doing this. This wasn't the deal!"
He turns to run, but I don't even have to move. Lev steps out from the shadow of the crane behind him, his hand resting casually on the butt of his piece. Aris freezes, his shoulders bunching up like a cornered rabbit.
"Sit the fuck down, Aris," I call out, my voice flat and low. I steer Irina toward him, my hand staying firm on her hip. "If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be standing in the rain. Talk to my wife."
Aris swallows hard, his hood slipping back to reveal a pale, sweating face. He looks at me, his eyes wide with a frantic, chattering terror, then looks at Irina. "If Boris finds out I talked to a Morozov about the kid..."
"My father is currently trying to blow up my husband’s family," Irina says, her voice turning into that sharp, icy register she useswhen she’s done playing games. "He doesn't have time to worry about you. What do you have? Give me the address."
"I don't have the full details yet," Aris stammers, reaching into his wet jacket with shaking fingers. He pulls out a plastic bag containing a single, damp piece of paper. "But there’s a house under a shell company in Boris Petrov’s name. He’s been paying the trust fund quarterly from his private account in Midtown. I’ve had people in New Jersey go to the location but they weren’t allowed in the gated estate the house is in. It's almost like no one can come out of the place nor enter."
A cold, heavy rage settles in my chest.
I look at the wet paper, then at the gray skyline of New Jersey across the river.
Boris didn't just hide the boy to protect his precious family name. He didn't do it to clean up a sixteenth-year-old girl's mistake. He did it to keep her on a leash. He kept her son within driving distance so he could check on his investment, keeping his finger on her deepest, most painful wound for a decade, waiting for the exact moment he needed to pull the string.
He’s a monster.A greedy, systematic monster who doesn't care about anything but money.
