“If we’re separated,” he murmurs, “the service door behind the north trellis is unlocked. Xavier’s men are stationed there.” His fingers find mine. “The gazebo is a kill zone. Avoid it at all costs.”
My pulse quickens as we approach a fork in the path. Landon pauses, scanning the area. For the first time, I find his methodical nature comforting rather than terrifying, as he now represents our best chance of getting Jolene out alive.
Three quick taps against my fingers. Prepare to move.
“Remember,” he whispers, “when I give the signal, you find cover immediately. No heroism.”
A figure emerges from the shadows near the central fountain. Not Orlov himself, but a man with a face that tells stories of violence—a jagged scar runs from his left temple to the corner of his mouth, pulling his lips into a permanent half-sneer. Two armed men flank him, their weapons held casually but ready.
“Mr. Blackwood,” the man calls out in a thick Russian accent. “Looks like your woman delivered you to your demise as requested.”
I step forward before I can stop myself. “Where’s Jolene? I won’t go any further until I see she’s alive.”
The Russian’s eyes shift to me. “The woman insists on proof.”
Beside me, Landon remains perfectly still, his face an unreadable mask. Only the slight tension in his shoulders betrays his alertness. “The proof. Now,” he demands, voice like ice.
The scarred man makes a casual gesture with his hand. Two more men emerge from behind a sculpted hedge, dragging a figure between them.
Jolene.
My breath catches. Her wrists are bound with zip ties, a cloth gag secured around her mouth. Her makeup is smeared with tears, and there’s dried blood on her temple. But her eyes are alert, widening when she spots me.
“Satisfied?” The man asks.
I take another step forward, desperate to reach her, but Landon’s fingers brush against my wrist—a subtle, quick pressure. Stay put.
“Release her first,” I demand. “That was the deal. I brought Landon, now let her go.”
The man’s laugh is like gravel. “I’m afraid Mr. Orlov has modified the terms.”
As if summoned by his name, another figure steps into view from behind the fountain. Unlike his rough-looking men, he’s impeccably dressed in a tuxedo that would blend seamlessly with the charity ball guests. His salt-and-pepper hair is styled perfectly, and his smile appears genuinely warm—if you ignore the absolute coldness in his eyes.
“Mr. Blackwood,” Orlov says. “I’ve looked forward to meeting with you.”
My stomach drops as Orlov’s smile widens.
“Where are your brothers, by the way?” he asks Landon with casual curiosity. “The ones hidden around my perimeter?”
On cue, four men emerge from different points in the garden. My heart hammers against my ribs as I spot Knox being forced forward at gunpoint, blood trickling from his temple. From another direction, Vane appears with his hands zip-tied behind his back, his expression murderous.
“You see,” Orlov continues, “I anticipated your little countermeasures. Quite predictable, really.”
Landon’s jaw tightens—the only sign that he’s affected by this devastating turn of events.
“And your eldest brother?” Orlov gestures to another man who holds up a tablet. The screen shows Xavier unconscious on the floor of what must be the security room. “Temporarily indisposed.”
My blood freezes in my veins. The entire Blackwood contingency plan has collapsed in seconds.
“Now,” Orlov says, “let’s discuss business without these distractions.”
At his signal, his men begin dragging Knox, Vane, and Jolene away from the central area of the garden.
“Wait!” I lunge toward Jolene, but Landon holds me back with a grip like iron.
“They won’t be harmed,” Orlov assures us, “as long as our conversation remains productive.”
Landon’s voice emerges eerily calm. “What do you want, Orlov?”
