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I jump out of my chair and pace back and forth inside my office while I listen to the rest of the recording. I listen to Clara fit the puzzle pieces together and I listen to Greg confirm that he, in fact, was the one who kidnapped her that night. All part of some fucked-up bait-and-switch plot to kill who seems to be the one decent man in this shitty story.
I listen to him explain how Tolya doing a good and honorable thing is what made him “uncontrollable.”
I listen to Detective Greg Everett, the arresting officer, croon with pride over his brilliant scheme to weaken the Zakrevsky dynasty because there’s no way a young upstart like me could ever manage the reins of such an operation.
And I listen to him admit, with his whole chest, with such immense satisfaction, that he loves conducting lucrative, repulsive business with Raizo Watanabe.
Business like bringing down the one Bratva who stood in the Yakuza’s way. Like procuring broken women off the streets whom no one will miss and selling them into that sick fucking prostitution ring.
When the recording finally finishes, I download it onto my phone and grab my headphones. I shoot a quick text to Pavel to make sure no one enters the gym for the next two hours.
I’m going to be punching things.
Throwing things.
Andplanningthings.
10
DEMYEN
Down in the gym, I punch bags and mannequins and walls until I can’t feel my fists anymore. I bench press weights I’ve never dared to try and the rage coursing through my veins makes it feel like I’m lifting feathers.
I squat, sprint, crank out endless sets of pull-ups and sit-ups until I nearly puke.
The soundtrack of my workout is The Recording on replay. Greg’s cocky voice and Clara’s determined one dancing a verbal tango around, and then into, the dirty details of what actually happened to Michael Little.
The whisper in my mind reminding me that this has been sitting in my spam folderthe entire fucking timeis what eventually drives me out of the gym and all the way across the compound to my favorite little hole in the wall.
Tonight feels like a bourbon sort of night. Half of me is tempted to chug straight from the bottle. Let the drunken stupor hit faster.
The other half is scolding me for running from my problems instead of facing them head-on.
That second part can shut the hell up and let me get some fucking sleep. I’ll face my problems with a solid game plan in the morning.
I’m halfway through my second refill when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it and go back to my drink.
A moment later, it buzzes again.
“What?” I snap when I answer.
“Cut the attitude. I need your help,” Oleg’s voice rumbles across the void.
I snort. “Okay. Let me go ahead and wake up because I know I didn’t just hear you ask me for help.”
“She ran away. Everett. She drugged me and slipped my guards. I need her back.”
Now, I just flat-out chuckle. I know for a fact that Clara didn’t drug him—he’s too proud to admit a woman clocked him in the head and left him for dead.
“That sounds like a ‘you’ problem. Have a great night.”
“She is your problem, too!” Oleg shouts into his phone. “She is your fucking problem and you are going to help me find her and drag that lying whore back to my estate!”
“No, I don’t think so. Again, have a?—”
“If you hang up on me, boy, I will blow your little compound to bits. Don’t fucking test me.”
I sigh. “Fine. I’ll bite.” I sigh again and roll my eyes. “How is Clara Everett my problem?”
