Page 28 of Every Last Breath

He parked the bike near the four-car garage, catching a glimpse of the pool in the back. Stiffness riddled his leg muscles from the long ride. He stretched and walked toward the front, past two armed guards. Gravel crunched under his boots.

Vitali opened the front door and greeted Cole in a bear hug. “It’s been too long.”

The burly man looked him up and down and patted the left side of Cole’s face with affection. Vitali’s wrinkles and scars were stories engraved by seventy-five hard years. His hair was thinned and gray, his skin leathery. Time had shown him little kindness. His mobility was dulled, but the old guy probably still packed a mean right hook.

“I bet that scar hasn’t hurt you with the ladies.”

A hollow smile tugged at Cole’s mouth. He didn’t have a problem getting laid whenever he needed to take the edge off, but it’d been a while. Not since he had moved back to DC.

“Come in.” Vitali beckoned him to enter the house.

Taking a tour of his brother’s lavish blood-money mansion wasn’t on the agenda. “I need to speak to Ilya. Now.”

Vitali huffed, propping his fists on his hips. “He’s sleeping. Won’t be up for a couple of hours. Come in. Have coffee. Tell me about your life.”

The warmth in the old guy’s eyes and the love in his voice slayed Cole, but he wasn’t here to socialize. He didn’t have the stomach to reminisce.

“Wake him. I’ll wait around back near the pool.” Turning, Cole strode away before Vitali protested.

Curses in Russian spewed behind him. Then a door slammed.

He needed to confront Ilya, get the passcode for Maddox, and get gone. He’d help her, even if he was helping the CIA. Keeping a biological weapon out of the hands of a terrorist wasn’t too different from the work he did at Rubicon. Or so he told himself.

The back of the house overlooked the bay. Mist blanketed the water and silvery dew coated the grass. Small flowering trees and a garden of azaleas and delphiniums and peonies—his mother’s favorites—were planted beside the lap pool. The rising sun warmed the sky to a powdery blue. Serenity. The quiet seclusion and charming beauty of the property stilled the restless energy winding through him and, at the same time, amplified his turbulent thoughts.

He didn’t begrudge Ilya a nice view or a large house. He had a taste for the finer things himself. The difference was everything Cole had, he’d earned through honest hard work and smart investments. Ilya had built this palace trafficking in violence and death.

Their father had been an ubiytsa, an assassin, who’d risen through the ranks of the Vory v Zakone, Russian mafia. The underworld brotherhood had gotten him and their mother out of Russia, but there was a price. The debt had built the illicit Reznikov empire, but it was his love for his wife and children that had driven him to strive for a legitimate legacy in America.

How could Ilya dishonor his memory like this?

A tingle sparked at the base of Cole’s skull. He glanced over his shoulder, staring at the bank of trees on the south side of the property. He had an eerie sense of being watched.

He scanned the thicket for anything that didn’t belong.

Leaves swayed in the whistling wind. Blades of grass danced. The scent of evergreen was heavy. Gossamer shreds of mist coiled and drifted like phantom fingers tickling the earth.

The tingle deepened to a throbbing tightness that was impossible to ignore.

No birds. At this hour, there should be the rustle of wings, the busy activity of feeding. It was nothing major, but his instincts geared him to full alert.

A patio door opened. “Nikolai?” Ilya stepped outside under the wisteria-covered pergola and stared at him a second. “Kolya!” He waved him over, then disappeared inside.

Cole sighed, dreading the conversation, and traipsed toward the house. He snuck another glance over his shoulder. Nothing stirred; all appeared peaceful. He passed the pool and grabbed the handle of the open solarium door. Hesitating, he promised himself he wouldn’t stay long. A sudden strange urgency prodded him to get inside, across the threshold. He entered the sunroom and shut the door.

“Back from the dead,” Ilya said with a sleepy smile. “I can’t believe it. I called Vitali a liar when he said you were here.” Ilya stood in the solarium, wearing silk pajama pants and a matching robe. On his bare chest, the eight-pointed stars of the Vory had been inked.

Ilya gave him a one-armed hug.

Patting his brother’s back in return, Cole steered him deeper into the room. The solarium wasn’t much better than being outside, its high glass walls fit for a menagerie. At least the six-feet tall ficus plants scattered along the periphery provided some screening.

The prickling throb in the base of his skull tightened. He peered between the plants outside at the woods. Wind brushed away the mist, but he still didn’t see any cause for alarm.

“What have you been doing with yourself all this time?” At thirty-six, three years older than Cole, gray hair salted Ilya’s temples and he’d already packed on a paunch.

“I’m pretty sure not as much as you.” Atrocities always followed in the wake of an arms trafficking deal. A Reznikov deal.

“This is nice, huh?” With the foliage-lined walls, pots of blooming flowers, and soft morning light for a backdrop, Ilya grinned, arms extended, waltzing around the room, oblivious to Cole’s contempt. “Momma loved this place,” Ilya said. “At the end, when the cancer got bad, she talked about you a lot. She wanted to spend one more day with you before she died, making your favorites. Blinis. Borscht.”