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The Katerina Sokolov that I thought I knew is nothing like the real one. She’s so, so much better.
The real one argues with me.
The real one broke into my office because she’d rather burn her thirty days on a rescue attempt than sit quietly and wait to be handed information.
The real one hit me over a video of a two year old, let me pin her against a wall, then made herself stand there and not move because she is stubborn enough to lose exactly nothing in a fight she cannot win.
The real one has morals I did not fully account for. She saves lives, not because it’s her job but because that’s who she is.
She rescues people from the brink of death, and there is no room in that for a man like me.
She knows it.
And yet, she seemed to ignore all that tonight and kissed me anyway.
I groan and rest my head on the cool tile of the bathroom wall. I am so fucked.
I have never been more fucked in my entire life.
By seven a.m. I have finally showered and made myself presentable.
I am in my study staring at a screen full of intercepts my intelligence team has flagged overnight, and every single line of it makes me angrier.
Russo is closing in.
Motherfucker.
My eyes skim over the reports.
It’s a list of Corsican operatives Russo’s people have pulled in and questioned in the last seventy-two hours.
Money traced from accounts I know into properties I don’t.
He’s working through a list and checking who has the means.
He’s checking who had the motive, and he’s being methodical about it, which is what makes him a fucking nightmare and what has my hand tightening around the arm of the chair the further I read.
I recognize this playbook because it’s mine and now here it is, aimed at me, even if Russo doesn’t know it yet. I close my eyes for a second and make myself breathe, trying to utilize some of the breathing techniques I’ve been taught. It doesn’t help.
Marco Russo. Lieutenant. Corsican.
He’s in his mid-forties and he’s a smart son of a bitch. I’ve never trusted the bastard.
He has been chipping quietly at the Brennan–Santoro–Sokolov alliance for a while now.
At least five or six years, and I know his network because knowing everyone’s network is my job.
The second I look at the names Russo has pulled in for questioning, I know exactly what I’m looking at and I want to put my hands around his throat.
“Goddammit,” I mutter to myself, feeling my blood pressure skyrocket. “Goddammit motherfucking fuck.”
This isn’t a new problem.
It’s phase two of an old one.
Which means the son of a bitch has been planning this since before I even knew Katerina Sokolov’s name.
Phase one was Alexander Morozov—the Bratva traitor who double crossed Nikolai Sokolov.
