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While my flight had been ambushed, according to Black, I was being taken to Star—my sole intention in the first place—and I hadn’t been threatened or hurt.
Maybe the talking lion could clarify my situation because nothing was going as planned.
The door was opened for me and I stepped out without a farewell. The driver carried my bags over to the sheltered portico where a butler in a sharp suit hovered, immediately greeting me with a warm smile.
“Welcome to Uvala Lapad.” His accent was sharper than the King of England’s.
“Thank you, I guess,” I replied, returning the smile though this fucker could be my smartly-attired, cut-glass British jailor for all I knew.
But I’d always aspired to the adage that you should treat others how you wished to be treated yourself. For the most part, anyway. Michael Byrne, the last person who’d crossed my family and had found himself on the end of one of my ‘devices,’ didn’t count.
The butler’s arm swept out to guide me inside. “My name’s Edgar, sir. I’m on hand twenty-four hours a day if you require my assistance.” Though my brows lifted at the offer, he continued, “Mr. Kuznetsov has asked me to pass along his request that you treat Uvala Lapad as if it were a second home.”
My ears pricked at that. “Mr. Kuznetsov? He owns this place?”
“He does.” Edgar beamed at me. “He has instructed me to guide you to your suite and, when you’re adequately refreshed, I will lead you to his office.”
Black hadn’t lied.
According to Lyanov, Kuznetsov was the last person to see Star, and here I was, at his private fortress in Croatia.
“I’d appreciate it if I could speak with him now, Edgar.”
“But you’ve been traveling for over fifteen hours, sir!” was the immediate protest.
“I’m well aware of that,” I drawled. “And I appreciate the offer, but I have urgent business to discuss with him.”
Edgar’s disapproval was clear, but he muttered, “Very well, sir. Please step this way.”
He guided me along a wide corridor that opened up onto what could only be described as a stateroom. A massive chandelier hung overhead, shooting light to all four corners of the massive space. Two fires flickered in hearths on opposite ends of the room, and a desk stood in the center of it all, overlooking a wall of windows that I knew, in the full light of day, would reveal an unencumbered view of the ocean.
There, behind the desk, was Kuznetsov. His head was bowed as he read a printout. A pair of glasses was perched on his nose and a lowball glass, filled with what I assumed was vodka, dangled in his hand.
At our steps, which echoed in the cavernous space, he didn’t look up.
Edgar hovered, accustomed to being made to wait, but I wasn’t, so I cleared my throat. Kuznetsov immediately peered at me over his glasses. He studied me, his head still bowed, then he rumbled something that sounded Russian, but I didn’t understand it.
A dialect, maybe?
Whatever he said, it prompted Edgar to fade into the background with the supernatural skill of a highly-trained servant.
Kuznetsov chose that moment to raise his head, giving me my first glimpse of his face.
Recognition was immediate.
The unknown fourth man who’d met with Prince Ludwig, Prince Edward, and Ke Jintao of the CCP.
The photograph Star had shown me months ago.
Kuznetsov angled his head to the side. “You have seen me before?”
I gritted my teeth. “In a picture.”
“Unusual. I am in very few pictures.”
“I don’t believe you knew you were being captured on camera,” I admitted, stepping nearer to the desk.
For the first time in a long while, my confusion and uncertainty faded.
