Before I can rush out, Mia grabs my sleeve. Our argument still lingers in the air—all the sharp accusations we’ve thrown at each other.
But something else lingers, too. Something softer. It’s in Mia’s eyes, big and blue and scared, but not for herself. Never for herself.
“Be careful,” she whispers.
It takes me a long moment to reply. Now more than ever, the idea of leaving her side cleaves me in half. “Lock the door behind him,” I bark. “Don’t open for anyone. Nikita has a key.”
“Okay,” Mia promises. She doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight me for once. Just does exactly as she’s told. “Stay safe.”
It’s not a vow I can make. But I’ve got no other choice. If anything happens to me, Mia will be left to fend for herself. She won’t last a day against Prizrak on her own, let alone against Desya. The kids and her—they’d all be doomed.
And I’m not going to let that happen.
Not to this family, too.
Slavik’s apartment is a short walk from my penthouse. He lives in the building across from StarTech—a skyscraper I bought as an employee benefit for our department heads and executives. It has thirty-two floors, with over a hundred apartments, all fitted with state-of-the-art security.
When I get there, Zhenya’s waiting for me, her face dark like death itself.
“Give me a status report,” I demand.
“He’s inside,” she says. Zhenya is never a ray of sunshine, but if looks could kill, her black eyes would turn into weapons of mass murder today. “I was with him when it happened. That fucking sniper nearly got me, too.”
“Did anyone touch anything?”
“No,” she assures me. “No one in or out. Anton’s sending his men out on every rooftop as we speak.”
“Good. Now, walk me through it.”
We step inside. Slavik’s apartment is as lavish as hisvorlifestyle allows: crystal chandeliers, marble countertops, a Ming vase he bought at an underground auction.
That vase is now shattered in a thousand pieces. So is his glass wall.
Slavik’s body is lying prone on the ground. A dark stain has spread under his body. I touch the blood—still warm.
I don’t get the luxury of mourning. Every tear I had, I already shed.
Slavik Pushkin.My most steadfastvor.Out of everyone, he had the coolest head, the greatest experience, and the safest revenue. He obeyed without question and only spoke if he had something worthwhile to contribute. More than once, his diplomatic attitude got the rest of thevoryto stop snapping at each other’s throats and go get shit done.
He was a good soldier. He was an even better diplomat.
And now, he’s dead.
I crouch by the body. “Single shot?”
“Yeah, as far as I can tell.” Zhenya clicks her tongue in frustration. “They shot a couple more times to get me and Anton, but we ducked as soon as we saw the old man drop.”
Two holes glare at me from the opposite wall. When I step closer, I realize the bullets are still there.
“Maks,” I say, “call Tikhon. I want them analyzed.”
“Yes, boss.”
I dig the bullets out of the holes with my pocket knife. When they drop into my palm, I realize there’s something written on them. Letters.
No—numbers.
Five. Six.
