Page 214 of Lethal Obsession

We both know that whatever is happening in Miami tonight, it will likely involve bullets, blood, and the men we both love risking their lives.

Es lo que hay, I think.

If Lars wakes up—or if he does not. If tonight goes well—or if it does not.

I think of the Sicilian wedding Alexei suggested. Apart from how utterly inappropriate it would be to raise the topic under the current circumstances, I also feel as if it’s a golden good luck charm, a nugget of future happiness that is somehow a shield against the darkness we are all facing. I want to hold it deep inside, protect it, in the hope that it keeps us all safe.

“Masha,” I say, “you weren’t here when we were talking about Alexei’s nickname. Do you know what it is?”

“No.” Her face lights up at his name. “¿Qué es?”

“Pirate Boy,” we chorus, and she laughs, clapping her hands delightedly.

“And for Lars?” She looks around the table. “How is he called?”

There’s a moment of silence, then Benny and I look at each other. “The Viking.” I hear Benny’s voice catch the same as mine does.

“Vikings are strong.” Masha nods gravely. “And they fight very hard.” She covers Benny’s hand with her own, an unusual gesture from someone rarely given to outward displays of affection. “This is a good name, I think.”

He nods, clearly not trusting himself to speak.

I see Darya picking at her pastry, clearly taut with worry over the coming night. See the way Masha watches us all, her eyes dark and inscrutable, hiding the emotions I know she keeps deep inside.

I feel my own tension mounting, the unknown future both tantalizing and terrifying.

It is what it is.

But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t fucking terrify me.

43

Alexei

Despite the careful planning, and UN levels of diplomacy, I’m still fucking tense as I stand with Renata and Pavel in the salon of my Miami compound, watching people in evening wear file into the fundraising dinner on the bank of temporary screens. There’s a hell of a lot that can go wrong—and no room for error.

“Him.” Renata nods at one of the few men on the screen wearing a suit rather than a tux, standing unobtrusively by the rear wall. “Frank Ball. He heads up the Miami FBI office, the rotten fuck. The woman next to him is his sidekick.”

“Is she rotten too?” I ask.

“Guess we’re about to find out.” She presses the button on her radio. “You got eyes on Ballsack, Jenkins?” she asks her partner.

“Oh, I see him,” his voice crackles back. “There are two unmarked cars out front—we’ve got them, too.”

“Stay on them.”

“Copy that.”

“Ballsack?” I give her a side glance. “Should I ask?”

“The official title for the FBI office head is Special Agent in Charge,” Renata says. “Abbreviated to SAC. First day on the job, he was literally introduced as Ball, SAC, Miami. You have no idea how much Miami PD love calling him that.”

Pavel and I are still laughing as Roman arrives with Kristi Hunter on his arm, while Dimitry escorts her vacant-eyed mother. They take a seat at the mayor’s table, right at the front, receiving her effusive greeting with the same insouciance they do the fawning admiration of the donors, which only makes most of the table double their efforts.

Except for one man.

“So that’s Silas Thorne.” I lean forward, studying the mediocre figure onscreen.

As far as villains go, it would be easy to dismiss Thorne as unimpressive.