Page 25 of Lord of Justice

"It's currently in the ungentle hands of the Long Island P.D. as an abandoned vehicle," Melina says dryly.

"Oh." That flattens me. "I loved that car. It sounds like I'm not getting it back." I try to remember what was in the car when they took it. "Damnit!My MP3 player was in there! It's vintage!" Somehow,even worse than losing my car is knowing those assholes are listening to my carefully curated playlist right now. It's stupid, I know. Just one more piece of my old life that's gone.

"Mrs. Morozova, these gentlemen are on your team. Your driver, Thomas." He raises one hand in greeting. "And this-" she points to the Redwood, is Avvakir."

"Ah-var-kier?" I attempt.

"No ma'am," he rumbles in, hilariously, a southern accent even though it's clear he's a product of the Motherland, "Avvah-kur."

"Avvuk-"

"Call me Av, please," he interrupts me politely. "It's easier."

"Thank you," I say gratefully.

"Are we going to your old apartment?" Melina asks.

I flinch at the word 'old,' as in a place where I don't belong anymore, but I nod.

Chapter Twelve

In which Andrey works the room.

Andrey…

"I'm surprised it's all business for you this morning," Trofim says as he meets me at my car. "Here I thought you would be telling me to fuel up your jet, that you would be taking your lovely new bride to the Bahamas, maybe Paris. Where do chicks like to go these days for their honeymoon?"

"First," I say, rapidly texting my brother, "you do not call them chicks. This is why you never have a steady girlfriend."

"Me? I do fine with women!" Trofim protests. "At least I'm interested in dating, unlike you."

"I can't date." My attention is still on my phone. "I am a married man."

"Well, at least you have an excuse now," he says, checking our surroundings again before climbing in after me.

"You are aware that I would never allow anyoneelse to speak to me like this, yes?" I stop texting long enough to eye his smirking face. I'd like to wipe that expression off his face with a cast-iron frypan.

"I saved your life.Threetimes," Trofim's expression turns serious, but I know he's a manipulative prick. "I lost a kidney after that last shooting, but I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"Do you know what kidneys go for on the black market?" I ask. "Ten to twelve million. Fifteen if they're in pristine shape. I gave you a one hundred-million-dollar bonus."

"Lucky I didn't lose my liver," he says cheerfully. "It's in such shit shape that I'd have to paythem.I know what's on the Bratva side of the agenda today, but since your schedule has been… unsettled for the last two days, I don't have an update on the legitimate side."

Trofim hates my legitimate side. When he was first assigned to me as myVtoroy,my Second in Command by Uncle Maksim, he was politely horrified. He is one of the highest ranked and most cunning security officers in our organization.

When he realized that he would be required to accompany me for legal business, too, he broke out in hives. To this day, if he is forced to escort me to court or any other activity that doesn't involve guns and murder, he still breaks out inhives. He keeps a tube of hydrocortisone and calamine lotion in the glove compartment of every car we use.

"I have two more social calls to make to solidify my nomination," I say, flipping through some notes on my iPad. "You should have the security specs for the Four Seasons ballroom; I'm speaking at a luncheon there for the New York State Environmental Coalition. Then, we'll pay a visit to Senator Carlisle Sinclair at his Manhattan office."

"Senator Sinclair?" he laughs. "Oh, good. Thatskol'zkiy ublyudokis firmly on the illegal side of the agenda today!"

"You would be correct," I agree. Carlisle Sinclair is a loathsome piece of shit. His family has been getting countless millions in kickbacks from military contracts that he has awarded, thanks to his seat on the Senate Intelligence Committee.

"It's extremely offensive when the government starts horning in onourbusiness," Trofim says disapprovingly. "Though I hear he's graduated to murder. Didn'tThe Manhattan Chroniclehave an investigative reporter who suddenly disappeared last month? She was about to publish a story about Sinclair's political funding sources from international entities."

"I'm certain that that was the senator's doing,"I agree. "One of our MacTavish business contacts in London was complaining that the owner of theNew London Timeswas found with sixteen broken bones and two missing fingers. After that, the year-long investigative piece the crime desk had been conducting on Sinclair's European real estate holdings was suddenly pulled."

Tapping my phone absently, I look out the window. "Surely we have a reporter high enough in the food chain to see an investigation through, especially if I threw them some helpful information."