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“This man,” Baz said, “your ex-husband, is a police officer.”
It wasn’t a question, and even if it was, Ruby had the feeling that Baz already knew the answer to the question, to every question he’d asked so far and all the ones he might ask in the future.
She nodded.
The man reached into his jacket and withdrew an envelope. He handed it to Roman. “You have my authority to get the girl out within the next seventy-two hours, providing the cop stays alive.” A flash of anger crossed Roman’s face like a thunderbolt. Baz must have seen it too, because he held up a hand as if to stop Roman from protesting. “Returning a child to her mother is something I can justify. Killing a cop? That’s more… complicated. And not just because of the police.”
Roman inhaled, clearly trying to get a hold on his frustration, then nodded. “Thank you.”
Clearly there were things Ruby didn’t know: about the dynamic between the two men (was Baz a competitor, another bratva boss, or something else entirely?) and the rules required to play the game that was their business.
Ruby didn’t care about any of it. She just wanted Olivia back.
Wanted Olivia safe.
Baz stood. “I’ve ensured that you’ll be safe here for the duration. I trust the favor will be returned, should I need it.”
“Of course,” Roman said, holding out his hand. “Say the word.”
“I’m rather hoping it doesn’t become necessary,” Baz said. “Although if you and Antonov are any indication, I suppose I should be prepared for the worst.”
It wasn’t the first time Ruby had heard the other man’s name. She’d gathered from previous mentions that he was another bratva boss? Chicago maybe?
“Not a bad idea,” Roman said. “These are strange times.”
Baz nodded, then gestured at the guard.
He moved to the door and Roman and Ruby followed him out of the room, down the hall and past the men playing pool and watching a movie, through the pitch-black space, toward the music playing on the other side.
Then they were stepping through the curtain and back into the club.
Ruby felt like she’d been returned from a dream. The club might have been a movie set, seemingly untouched since they’d left, the crowd still staring at the stage, bobbing their heads along to the music. The only difference was that the sweaty trumpeter had taken a back seat to the pianist, whose hands flew across the keys, his upper body moving with the effort like it was a strong tide carrying him out to sea.
The guard left them at the bar and they headed back for the stairs leading to the rest of the world. The stairwell didn’t seem nearly as dark. Her eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting.
She knew what the shadows held now.
In another life, it would have made her more afraid — who was the man named Baz? what kind of trouble had he been talking about? and what did he mean by preparing for the worst? — but she found herself emboldened by the knowledge and she suddenly hated who she’d been before Roman.
Scared, afraid to step out of the light for even a second.
She should have made peace with the dark instead. There was a freedom in it.
They emerged onto the pavement outside the unmarked door at street level and Roman reached into his jacket for the envelope given to him by Baz.
“What does it say?” Ruby asked.
Roman handed her the piece of paper he’d withdrawn from the envelope. It was thick and textured, like paper from another era, but the words were cleanly printed on its surface, as if from a computer.
DELTA MOTEL. ROOM 121.
72 HOURS.
17
ROMAN
Roman paced the paneled library, the table lamps casting weak light across the bookshelves and antique furniture.
