Page 75 of Barinov

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Way to fucking blow it.

I slam my back into the wall and slide down until my ass hits the hardwood. I curl my legs in and start fake-crying into my knees.

Luca rushes to me and wraps me up in his arms.

“Shh,” he whispers into my hair. “It’s okay, Izzy. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry. I just don’t remember,” I sob.

His sleeve pulls back and I see the scar he’d never talk about. A rush of memories flood my mind—Uncle Jack hoisting me up at Razorback games so I could see over the roaring crowd. Him building my favorite pink dollhouse while I snuck stickers on his scar. How he would always fly in to watch me dance.

Something shatters inside me, causing real tears to fill my eyes.

He catches one with a gross, callused finger. “I know.” He wraps me up in a firm hug. “Your Izzy memories are getting mixed in with your Bella ones and that’s not your fault, my love.”

He rises, helps me up, and gently steers me back to the table. “Let’s start back over okay? I’ve been trying so hard to get you to remember our past that I’m ruining our present.”

I nod.

“Let’s just finish our dinner and I’ll tell you about Ivan okay?”

“Okay,” I sniffle as I slowly sit back down.

“Like I said, Ivan Nowak was an alias. Just like Jack Donnelly.” He pours himself another glass. “And yes, you technically are the reason his brother is dead. But I don’t blame you for that.”

“Who is his brother?” I ask as I raise my glass to my lips. I have a feeling I will need to be hammered to get through this dinner charade.

“Jakub Krolek.”

I cough, choking and gagging on the bitter sip of wine. “Krolek.” I clear my throat. “Krolek is Ivan’s brother? How is that even possible? Ivan’s Russian and Krolek is—”

“Ivan’s not Russian, my love. Just a very good actor.”

I set my glass down. “So everything we had on Ivan?”

“Written by yours truly,” he says casually.

“Of course,” I laugh despite myself, brushing a loose strand behind my ear.

Luca stills. His smile softens as his eyes lock on my face.

“There you are,” he whispers.

A chill races down my spine.

I drop my hand immediately, the sudden movement making him blink like he’d only just remembered where he was.

He clears his throat. “Anyway…” He reaches for his wine. “We gave my cousin, Jan, a sad sap of a backstory to make him look like a good recruit for your little Project Dylan database and voilà! Ivan was born. Black Book number five, I believe. Or was Ivan the sixth?”

“Sixth,” I confirm, grabbing a piece of bread. “But, why?”

“Well,” he continues, leaning back. “At the time, I was still using Jack’s alias, trying to build some sort of case against Russo. You and your brother were safely tucked away in Miami.”

Safe? The fuck we were.

“Once you left for New York, I no longer had eyes on you.”