Page 72 of Lord of Passion

Caroline…

Shifting in my seat, I stare blankly at my computer monitor. There's a distinct throbbing in my center from Nikandr railing me last night like the fate of the free world depended on it. He left right after making me call out for a higher power. Several times.

I miss him already.

Crossing my legs, I try to take some weight off my girl parts. Nope. This does nothing. I should be able to revel in the fact that my husband and I are in… well, accord at least. I can definitely commit to saying I like him. A lot.

Johann, though, does not give a shit about my personal happiness. He'd be in touch, he said.

Pushing my keyboard away, I rub my eyes. Nikandr is in Russia right now, being allSovietnik. I have a hotel to run. First up checking with our ad agency about a new ad we're running for spring weddings. Going over the upcoming holiday menu with Chef Michalea. Just after lunch, while in the middle of a meeting with Thomas, our director of security, I get a text.

I don't recognize the number and I have a Morozov special phone that should filter out unidentified callers. I pull it up on my computer.

"The remains of twenty-two people were found today in a mass grave just outside of Arlington, Virginia. The horrifying discovery came when excavators for a new data center unearthed the…"

"Thomas," I say, "can we finish up later?"

"Sure," he says, picking up his iPad with a quick glance at my monitor. "That's some brutal shit."

"Yeah." I don't hear the door close. The news anchor looks a little happy to have something other than politics to report. "Preliminary information and the condition of the bodies indicates they've been interred there for close to twenty years. Excavators were moved to that site due to an anonymous phone call received last night by the contractors."

My phone rings. The same number. I stare at it for a moment. When I pick it up, everything changes.

"Why did you want me to see this?" I can't stop watching the clip. Masked workers are bringing out the first bodies, carefully wrapped up. That's good. Whoever these poor souls are, they deserve that respect.

"You are seeing the remains of most of the Bukharov Bratva."

"What?"

"Vladmir Bukharov," Johann repeats, his tone genial and amused. "Dritan Krasniqi ambushed and killed him and seven of his family members in 2006. They were here to purchase a few thoroughbred horse farms. Vlad always fancied himself as an expert on all things equestrian." He chuckles. "He'd shorted Krasniqi on a crucial arms deal, and since Dritan was in Washington DC at the time, well, waste not, want not, eh?"

Johann waits a bit, as if he's expecting me to jump in with a hearty laugh. "The real shame was that Ivan, the currentPakhanof the Bukharov Bratva, had left earlier that day for a meeting, so he missed the massacre. Sadly, his wife Ludmilla did not. She was pregnant at the time. A terrible tragedy."

Cold sweat beads on my forehead and my insides twist.

"Why are you telling me this, Johann?"

"After I called in the location last night, I realized there is quite likely evidence leading to the KrasniqiFare'sinvolvement in the massacre. He's gone now, of course. But… well. Here is Dritan Krasniqi's daughter with brand new babies! Ivan is a bit of a hothead, and he'll soon hear that the remains of his poor, pregnant wife have been unearthed," he confides. "So-"

"Did you plant something at the site?" I don't recognize my own voice.

"It would be so easy," he says.

"Don't. You- just- don't do that. What the fuck do you want?" I put my trash can on my lap because I'm pretty sure I'm about to throw up.

"Just to talk," he says. "An afternoon to talk and have a chance to convince you that I was always meant to be your husband. Not that filthymudak." He spits the word like its poison. "We'll talk.Then I'll give you the rest of the information I have about your cousin. I'm a man of my word."

A crazy bark of laughter is about to escape my throat and I slap my hand over my mouth just in time.

"I'm sorry, did you say something, Caroline?"

"No. Just a little cough." A sense of inevitability sinks into me. This will be stupid and desperate, but I'm now educated enough about the Moscow Six to know how powerful Bukharov is. "When do you want to meet?"

"Today," he says, crystalline bits of ice dotting his words, making them sharp. "I've waited long enough. Come to Boston, my jet is waiting for you at-"

"I'm not getting on your fucking jet," I say, wiping my forehead. "I can catch a flight and be there in maybe three hours. We'll meet. And- and talk. In a public place."

"Lovely!" Johann says happily. "I'll meet you at Faneuil Hall, then. A bit of a tourist trap but still charming. Five o'clock. Oh, and wear a red dress, would you? You're so beautiful in that color. You wore that red silk sheath to a cocktail party a couple of weeks ago."