Lev snarls something in Russian.
My pulse skips a beat, and I translate, "He said you're too late."
Brax drags the edge of the knife slowly across Igor's ribs, not cutting, just enough pressure to draw a howl. "Who else is involved?"
Igor jerks wildly as the blade presses deeper into his skin. "Stop! Stop—please—just stop?—"
Brax doesn't move. "Names! I want names! Who hired you?"
The warehouse amplifies Igor's ragged breath. His voice breaks into a scream. "Gavin O'Malley!"
Every drop of blood drains from my body.
Brax freezes. The knife lowers. His jaw clenches hard enough that a visible tremor cuts through the muscle. He spits on Lev's face, the gesture dripping with a hatred I've never witnessed from him.
I pull out my phone and dial the yacht.
The call connects on the third ring.
"Sergio," I say sharply.
"Valentina? What's going on?"
"No time. 911!"
"I'll get the king now," he says.
Brax's head snaps toward me. He strides over in three steps and snatches the phone. "Let me talk to him." He paces.
Please don't let them be right.
Don't let it be too late.
Brax growls into the receiver. "There's a plot to assassinate Fiona."
14
Brax
It's all happening too fast. Valentina's still shaken from the confessions, indicting Ulrich and his wife Jytte as the culprits behind Fiona's assassination attempts.
I offer, "I never liked either of them, nor did I trust them."
"They're members of the Royal Council," she reminds me.
"So what? They're snakes, and you trust too easily," I declare, then add, "They need to die."
"We better get there in time," she frets.
My stomach flips. As soon as we discovered that Ulrich and Jytte were behind everything, we got text messages telling us to head to the arena. We were only on the plane for an hour when Sergio texted Valentina that they had taken Kirill. And then Sean called to say they kidnapped Fiona, too.
Time drags until the wheels of the jet finally descend. The wheels hit the ground and we both jump out of our seats.
"Move," I bark at the flight attendant who stands in the aisle. I grab Valentina's wrist and pull her toward the door.
We hit the corridor at a full sprint. The light flickers in the wall sconces, and muffled chants vibrate through the walls.
We turn the final corner. The massive arena doors loom a few hundred yards away. Valentina stays a half step ahead, her red dress ripped at the slit, curls flying behind her like a furious banner snapping through a storm.
