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GAVAN
Fuck twenty-four hours.The second I come to, still slumped in the back seat of the Range Rover, I call Korol and have him grab the pieces of the egg and—curiously—the old wood and brass banded base it once sat on, and immediately fly over to meet me in Pisa, Italy.
The location Drazen texted me is a palazzo on the island of Elba, off the coast of Tuscany. He also included a reminder not to bring anyone else, not even my number two.
Normally, I’d tell anyone giving me orders like that to go fuck themselves. But he has Eilish. That’s actually the very first thing I did when I woke up, even before calling Korol: bolt up the stairs to the plane to look for her, where I found both pilots and both stewards just waking up as well.
But no Eilish.
Roughly twelve hours after waking up, I’m glaring down at the lavish cliffside palazzo as the helicopter I just took from a private airfield on the mainland descends onto a stretch of manicured grass.
The Mediterranean air whips around me as the chopper rises back into the sky after depositing me on the lawn, leaving me grim-faced and brimming with fury as I stand there holding a metal carrying case containing what Drazen wants.
Okay, now what, you fucking psycho.
As if reading my black thoughts, the ornate front door of the palazzo overlooking the circular driveway and grassy yard where I was dropped off opens. Four heavily tattooed men in suits, carrying semi-automatic weapons, quickly surround me with barrels pointed right at me.
One of them takes the case from my hands. Another frisks me and then uses a wand to check me over for metal. When they confirm that I’m not carrying any weapons, the one holding the case steps forward.
“Follow me.”
I trail behind him, flanked by the others as we file into the gorgeous, sprawling old Italian manor. They lead me through various sitting rooms and libraries, past enormous windows with staggering views of the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Finally, we step into a stunning inner courtyard filled with leafy plants, lounge chairs and couches, and a burbling marble fountain.
I look right past all of that at the man sitting sprawled in a huge wood and upholstery chair, like a smug king.
Drazen.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Tsa—”
“You fucking—”
Four semi-automatics instantly level at me, stopping me cold. Drazen’s brows knit and he stiffens, but then he sighs, waving his men off. They instantly lower their guns as he stands and ambles toward us.
“She isfine, Mr. Tsarenko. I assume you are wondering.”
“Where the fuck is she,” I spit viciously.
Drazen smiles, dipping his chin. “As I said, she is fine. And you will see her in a moment.” He gestures for me to sit on one of the couches. When I don’t move to do so, one of his men prods me in the back with a gun barrel.
“Sit, please.”
“Is that a request or a directive?”
“Thatis just good manners, Mr. Tsarenko. Please, sit.”
Drazen sprawls back in his chair. He’s wearing cream dress pants and a crisp white dress shirt, open at the neck with the sleeves rolled up: his numerous tattoos are on display on his muscled forearms and his chest. He smiles a toothy grin, dazzlingly white against his bronze, sun-kissed face.
“Too hot for tweed?” I growl as I sit stiffly on the couch.
Drazen chuckles. “I do apologize for misrepresenting myself like that.” He clears his throat. “Have you been to Elba before?”
“No.”
He nods. “You know, this is where Napoleon was first exiled.”
“I’m not here for a fucking history lesson.”
