The gallery, though, is in ruins, much of the artwork destroyed. Blood pools on the polished hardwood floor.
My gaze slides to the marble bar where I left Aurora.
I find her in the same spot, curled into a tight ball with her arms wrapped around her knees. She flinches when I touch her shoulder, then launches herself at me, flinging her arms around my neck.
“It’s over,lyubimaya.” I stroke her back, a dull ache filling my chest. “You’re safe.”
She clings to me, trembling until her teeth chatter. I hold her tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed against her spine.
“The gallery. The pieces.” Her eyes brim with tears. “They’re all ruined.”
“Fuck the art.” I pull back just enough to see her face. “Are you hurt?”
She blinks, confused, as if she can’t comprehend the question. Then she glances down at her left arm, at the blood running down from a long gash just below her shoulder. “Oh.”
Glass, not a bullet.
Bleeding, but not life-threatening. I tear a strip from the bottom of her dress and cinch it around the wound. A field dressing will have to do for now.
“Come on.” I help her to her feet, locking my arm around her waist as we emerge from behind the bar.
Organized chaos greets us.
In the center of the gallery, Roman rattles off rapid-fire Russian into his phone. My father and Irina are nowhere to be seen. Evacuated by security, most likely. The rest of the Kozlovs move with purpose, securing weapons, checking bodies, assessing damage.
Kolya crouches beside one of the fallen attackers to examine his weapon. He glances up as we approach. “Vityaz-SNs. Reznik’s favorite toys.”
The name pierces me with arctic cold. Ilya Reznik. The man Roman said I’d pissed off. Was this my fault?
Vanya appears at my elbow, wiping blood from his hands with a handkerchief that was probably white once. “I know this piece of shit.” He nudges one of the bodies with the toe of his black leather shoe. “Ivan Petrov. Ilya Reznik made a big show of firing him last week. Wonder why.”
Kirill joins us. He squats, frisks Petrov’s lifeless body, and extracts an item from the dead man’s pocket. A dark green gambling chip.
He holds up the small piece, turning it so the light catches the carved surface. “From Ilya’s private games table.”
The evidence is overwhelming. A known Reznik enforcer, recently “fired” in an obvious cover-up. Reznik’s signature weapons. A token from their private gambling den.
It’s too perfect. Too neat.
Someone staged this scene.
A body across the room draws my eye. The one who came closest to Aurora. The one who almost?—
I cross over to him, kneeling beside his corpse. He’s face down, blood pooling beneath him. I roll him over with one hand, then search his pockets. Wallet. Keys. Phone. My fingers close around a metallic object, familiar in shape and weight. I pull it out and stare.
A silver Zippo lighter engraved with a single elegant tulip.
An invisible hand clasps my throat and squeezes.
Chyort vozmi.
The image matches the tattoo he and I got to honor our late mother.
MJ’s lighter. The one he always carried. The one that was missing when I received his personal effects after his alleged “suicide.”
“How the fuck?—”
A small sound behind me catches my attention. I spin to find Aurora trembling, her arms wrapped around herself.
