He nods. “Correct,” he replies pleasantly. “But I can at least set things right, exact justice.”
He reaches into the drawer of the end table next to where he sits, taking out a small, silver pistol.
“No.”
“Be grateful,” he says softly as he stands. The lines in his face deepen into chiseled cruelty. “I will be quick. One shot to the head, and that’s that. Quicker than my son’s death, bleeding out on the floor like a stuck pig.”
I stumble back and hit a human wall. The room closes in. The fire flares.
“Please,” I say, hating the word, hating him, hating that I’m using the last of my pride on a man who would eat it for breakfast. “Please, don’t.”
He smiles cruelly.
I think of the precious bundle I carry, everything inside me rearranging around that point of life, that insistence. I’m not a ledger entry. I’m not a grudge. I am a mother now, and I will do what I must to protect my child.
He steps closer, looking past my face into a future only he can see.
“It’s time,” Aleksander Volkov says, “time to finally end this.”
CHAPTER 37
VLAD
An hour earlier…
“Ten minutes,” Dmitri says.
Snow needles the windshield in thin white diagonals, the wipers keeping time like a tired metronome. Dmitri drives with one hand, the other loosely covering the weapon on his thigh, eyes in constant motion. Midtown is a grid of wet neon and slush, cabs hissing by, their taillights smeared into red commas.
My phone sits face-down on my knee. No reply from Teresa. No ping from the shadow team upstairs at the penthouse.
Anger moves through me like a cold current—steady, controlled, lethal. I cap it and press down hard. As much as I want to cut a bloody swath across the city to find her, rage won’t do me any good. I need information.
Our destination is the Reynolds Hotel, one of those discreet places with doormen who pretend not to see things, where the flower arrangements are always perfect and no one asks for a last name if you tip well enough.
Our contact is exactly where he said he would be, at the back corner of the mezzanine lounge, a drink in hand, luggage at his feet. Volkov’s money man. I’ve seen him behind Aleksander’s shoulder during quarterly meetings and at charity balls drinking champagne bought with blood money.
Tonight he looks tightly wound, like sleep hasn’t found him in weeks. Good. Fear encourages honesty.
He's one of my few contacts in Volkov’s empire, always willing to trade a little intel for a little kickback. And I just so happened to catch him on what appears to be his last day in the city.
Dmitri peels off to sweep the room while I cross to the corner. The money man’s eyes track my approach. He doesn’t stand.
“Angeloff,” he says dryly. “Part of me wondered if I’d merely be the first casualty in what appears to be an imminent war.”
“Nothing that dramatic. Just here for information.” I sit.
“In person,” he says. “This is unusual.”
Up close, the tells of his anxiety are apparent. A micro-tremor in his hand. A deep breath that fails to land. His watch is an old Patek—family piece, not flashy. Everything about him is quiet but expensive.
He’s nervous.
Dmitri takes the neighboring table as I begin our discussion. “You’re leaving New York. Why?”
He lifts his glass then sets it down without drinking. “War means Volkov is going to close ranks, applying scrutiny that he hasn’t before—scrutiny I won’t pass.”
“Well then. You’ll miss your flight if you dodge my questions,” I say. “You’ll miss more than that if you lie.”
