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Too clean.
Until Maverick's worm tore the code to shreds.
Until it had ripped my world apart as well and had sent me spiraling, changing endgame plans, pushing me onto a plane to Russia.
Which was when I realized Bearhadknown who his source was—that was why he’d been researching the United Brotherhood.
And that was why I was here tonight.
It was why I drifted into a ballroom on Maxim Lyanov's arm.
Every step had led me to this moment in time, to thislocation.
The United Brotherhood’s HQ.
After a glance around the grandeur, Maxim didn’t ask if I wanted to dance, just led me onto the floor. He was a surprisingly adept partner, generous and polite, respectful, good at dancing, clean manners at the table.
He knew when to step in and when to butt out.
As was the case now.
When the host of this party, Anton Kuznetsov, drifted over to me in the middle of a waltz and asked, "May I cut in?" Maxim didn't argue. He just nodded at Anton and smiled.
Anton was nearly eighty, but he had the face of a sixty-year-old thanks to plastic surgery.
His smile was tight whenever he graced me with it, but I didn’t think that had anything to do with Botox.
This was not my first party where the man had attended.
Intentionally so.
This man was the head of the United Brotherhood.
This man, somehow, amid this palace, had been the one to send Bear the information that had been crucial in tearing down the Sparrows’ walls.
"You dance just like your mother."
At first, I thought I hadn't heard him.
At first, I thought someone else had uttered those words and, in the whirl of dancing, I'd inadvertently eavesdropped into another conversation.
But when I stared at him, shock in my eyes, he graced me with that tight smile again.
"Would you care to step into my office, Ms. Sullivan?"
He'd earned the full throttle of my attention. No man ever wanted that. But Kuznetsov was a fool.
I'd only met one man who wasn't a fool, who never underestimated me.
Guilt hit me, sorrow too, but I shoved them aside.
I wanted answers. I needed them. I couldn’t think about who I’d left behind, not when I'd been seeking understanding for decades now.
"How do you know my mother?" I rasped, not answering his earlier question.
"Do you want to step into my office?" he repeated, clearly not willing to be drawn.
My jaw clenched, but in my flawless Russian, I told him, "Will you answer my questions if I do?"
