“And you didn’t drive her?” I take a step toward him. It seems everyone around here needs to have a lesson in loyalty.
“She said you told her to take the car.” He puts his hands up, backing up a step.
“Why would I tell her to take a car?”
“I don’t know, but that’s what she said.”
“And you didn’t call me to check?”
“Why would he do such a thing? Your wife, the woman of this house, told him she was told to use a car. Her word is as good as yours, no?” Mrs. Popova interjects.
When I flash her a devil’s glare she merely raises her brows at me.
“Which car did she take?” I focus on Sergei as I head for the front door.
“The Bentley,” he tells me. “There’s a tracker on the GPS in that one, we can pull up the location. You need me to come with?”
I snatch my coat from the hook and yank the front door open.
“No, Sergei. What I needed was for you to keep an eye on my wife. What I needed, was for you not to let her steal one of my cars after I gave an order that she was to be driven anywhere she wanted to go.”
He pulls up straight. Worry crosses his features. And he should be concerned, because if something’s happened to her, if one little scratch is on her anywhere, I will hold him responsible.
“Keep your phone on you.” As I open the front door, Mikhail, is walking up the stairs. “We need to go.”
He drops his shoulders, but says nothing, turning around and jogging past me to the driveway where he parked the car.
I pull up the location tracker on the car and give Mikhail the address. It’s a large building in the middle of a residential subdivision on the Northside of the city. With the early evening traffic it takes us thirty minutes to get there.
The car hasn’t moved, so I assume my disobedient, strong headed, wife is still there.
When Mikhail pulls up to the address it’s a house. Just a house. No long driveway, no iron gate around it. Nothing that suggests there’s any sort of security personal around it.
It can’t be one of the DeAngelo strongholds. They wouldn’t leave it unprotected like this. And it’s definitely not one of their pleasure houses. Not in the middle of a residential area. Too many possible witnesses.
“You want backup?” Mikhail asks when I reach for the doorhandles.
“No. It doesn’t look like it’s one of the DeAngelo houses. I doubt there’s any trouble inside.”
“I was talking about for your wife,” he says, and when I look back at him over my shoulder the bastard is grinning.
I slam the door on him and stalk up to the house.
The doorbell chimes, and there’s a flicker of a light through the side door glass panel.
When the door opens a minute later, a woman standing as tall as myself with her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail stares at me.
“Can I help you?” She puts her hands on her hips, leaning a bit to the side to look at the black SUV idling in front of the house.
“I’m looking for Sienna Volkov.” I announce.
Her eyes narrow. “Sienna?”
“Yes.” I reach for the door handle of the glass storm door, but she grabs it from her side, flicking the lock before I can turn the knob. “She’s my wife.”
She gives me a onceover, slow and deliberate. This woman is full of suspicion and caution.
“One second.” She shuts the door, and I’m left standing on the porch like a fucking beggar.
