“How?” The word comes out hoarse. “I have six men in silver ties between me and the elevator. The roof has a helicopter on standby to take me upstate. I can’t even get fresh air without permission.”
“Then don’t ask for permission,” she says, her tone sharp, determined. “Ask me for help.”
I press my forehead to my wrist, the phone warm against my ear. “If I leave and I’m wrong, if Jack is wrong…” The rest doesn’t need words. If I leave, I shatter what might be the only good thing I’ve found since Maxim died. If I stay, I could be sleeping next to the man responsible for everything bad that’s happened in my life.
“I’m not telling you to burn your life down,” she says. “I’m telling you to get all the information you can before making a final decision. It’s the smart call, right?”
Silence stretches. The snow outside has thickened into a steady sheet, blurring the skyline into a painter’s gray. It feels like I haven’t seen the sun in months. Vlad’s tie is draped over a chair where he left it last night, silver silk catching the firelight. I pick it up without thinking and wrap it around my fingers until the fabric bites.
“What’s your plan?” I whisper. “Because I can’t—” My voice cracks. “I can’t stay here without knowing the truth.”
On the other end of the line, I hear Trina’s exhale—a slow, satisfied sound. “Leave it to me.”
CHAPTER 31
VLAD
Iride shotgun in a plain gray SUV while Dmitri drives. No convoy, no silver ties, nothing that says Angeloff. The wipers click back and forth as we idle half a block from a Midtown pawnshop, watching Jack Winslow ring the bell over and over, clearly in a hurry.
Four minutes later he comes out with a blister pack and a brown paper bag. Hoodie under a peacoat, no hat, no gloves. He’s carrying light—no overnight bag, no backpack.
“Two Angels trailing,” Dmitri confirms, eyes on the rearview. “Dima’s covering the turnstiles. Lev’s a block behind.”
I sigh. Jack cuts toward the subway, hunching against the weather. We give him space for a bit before pulling out and following him, staying high on the mezzanine to remain out of sight.
We watch as he boards a downtown train. He rides for two stops, switches lines, then doubles back. On the Q, he pulls a folded newspaper from his coat. His thumb circles the same spot overand over. When he stands to get off, he leaves the paper on the seat.
I swoop in and pick it up. An address is circled: Neptune Bar, Brighton Beach. Amateur work. I snap a photo of the page and drop it where I found it.
When we surface in Brighton Beach we’re met with snow and neon. Dmitri angles into a shadowed doorway across from the bar. Down the street, one of our techs sits in a plumber’s van with a fake logo.
The Neptune Bar is narrow and wood-paneled, three blocks from the water. Slot machines hum in the corner. A muted hockey game plays on the TV. The menu on the counter lists three bottom-barrel vodkas. A sign taped to the back door saysPrivate Party.
Through the front window I spot four men that I recognize—old Bratva heavies.
Marek “Bear” Kovalenko sits large at the head of the table. Late forties. Shoulders heavy with old wounds under a cheap suit. He speaks in fragmented sentences—Bratva-trained men waste no breath.
To his right is Denis, wiry with a smoker’s cough and faint letters tattooed across his knuckles. Prison ink, no doubt. Oleg sits across from him, skull shaved close, a scar running under his ear from an old knife wound. The youngest is Timur, eyes twitching, seeking exit routes. He’s the driver, not a hitter.
Jack is frisked as soon as he enters through the alley door. He flinches when they pat his ribs. Marek waves him to the empty chair at their table. A beer appears in front of him. Jack doesn’t touch it.
Across the street, I lean into the shadow of a doorway, the cold crawling into my bones. The tech speaks in my earpiece. “We’re getting partials.”
Jack: “Schedule moved up. He’s spread thin. Park hit proved pressure works.”
Marek: “You want him dead with certainty. Certainty costs more.” He taps the table with two fingers.
Jack: “I’ve already given you so much goddamn money!” His voice sounds desperate. “Fine. Just do the job.”
Denis: “Volkov’s name isn’t on this.”
Jack, too quick: “Didn’t say it should be. Yet.”
So Jack is behind the attempts. Not Volkov. But did he act alone?
Marek slides a phone across the table, and Jack scans it with his burner. Marek stands and shakes Jack’s hand, but it’s not friendly. Jack leaves through the alley entrance, hood up, head down.
“You take the brother,” I tell Dmitri. “Long tail. No contact.”
