Jesus, had Blaze gotten a letter from Mary Varvara Bell, too?
But that was from Logan’s grandfather’s estate, not a Russian bratva. “No, I haven’t gotten anything from the bratvas, other than an offer they thought I couldn’t refuse in Mayamiko Botha’s office yesterday. I can’t talk right now. Micah knows everything about it anyway. Didyoureceive something from someone?”
A suspicious pause filled the dead air on the phone, and then Blaze said, “No. No, not really. You sure? Are you sure that you didn’t getsomethingfrom one of them?”
Odd answer.
An impulse trickled into Tristan’s brain that he should come clean to Blaze, that he should spill everything to his friend of nearly twenty years and beg for his help in this most untenable of situations.
But he couldn’t.
It wasn’t just that Tristan was mortified that he would be asked to do such a thing. It was that if he broke down and did it, they would never look at him the same way again.
Even if Tristan had refused and lost everything, the other guys would be tasked to do the job, and their scorn would follow Tristan for the rest of his life because he would agree with their condemnation.
He didn’t want them to think he was the kind of guy who would ditch something so that his friends would then be on the hook for something like that.
Even his friendships with Blaze, Logan, and Micah had limits.
Asking for a rescue because the Russian mafia had kidnapped him?
Sure.
Needing a discreet ride home from the Cannes Film Festival because he was buck naked after three starlets had stolen his Aston Martin and his clothes?
Of course.
Screwing up thousands of innocent people’s lives at the command of Russian crime lords?
He wasn’t even going to tell his friends that someone was trying to make him do it. He didn’t want them to look at him like that. “Nope, Blaze. I haven’t received anything.”
They hung up.
Tristan saw that Colleen was also finished with her call, so he strolled back to the front of the plane.
Jian still hadn’t said a word to either one of them. Those texts he was rapid-thumbing into his phone must be exceedingly important. Hopefully, the epic Jian was writing wasn’t a blow-by-blow account of their kidnapping and rescue to be posted in his secret group for PAs.
Tristan didn’t think Jian would do that.
When Tristan reached the front of the plane, Colleen was lazily spinning her phone flat on the table with one finger. “Important phone call?”
Tristan sat down on the opposite side of the table. “A friend.”
“When we were in there,” she gestured toward the back of the plane where the bathroom was, “you said something about a letter you’d gotten by courier and not by the post office.”
Tristan glanced over at his assistant, but Jian had wandered into the back of the plane near the galley, his head still bent over his phone as his fingers flew over the screen.
Jian was still too close for them to talk. He’d overhear them.
Tristan glanced aside, looking behind himself to where Jian was sitting in the back of the plane. “Not now.”
“He won’t hear us if we whisper,” she said. “Besides, aren’t you rich people supposed to not notice that servants exist?”
Tristan frowned at her. “I wasn’t born rich. I notice when people are around me.” He turned his hand so that his palm was up on the table between them. “We’ll talk later.”
“I’ve heard that before,” she grumbled.
“As soon as we get someplace private, like the hotel. You’ve already gotten most of it out of me.”
