“Tristan isn’t bratva.” It’s a dumb counterargument, but I say it anyway.
“He’s your brother.”
I already lost one brother when Aleksei showed up at the Knight estate. And Tristan almost died. Fuck, hediddie. I’m not risking that happening again. “I can handle Viktor.”
Pyotr’s green gaze bores into me, his hand grasping my forearm. “What happened to Aleksei wasn’t your fault.”
Index. Middle. Ring. Pinkie.
Logically, I know Aleksei made a choice to come, even when I did everything I could to make sure he didn’t. He chose to go after Constantine. He chose to hold a gun on Syn. And he would have killed them both. But logic holds no sway to my broken heart that still bleeds for the loss of my twin brother.
“And neither was what happened to Tristan,” Pyotr quietly states.
I move my arm, not able to tolerate being touched right now. “That’s just pacifying bullshit because I amexactlythe reason Tristan was hurt.”
“Fuck, Aleks. Trying to get you to see the truth is like slamming my head against a steel wall for funsies.”
Thankfully, he doesn’t push any further, and we spend the rest of the short flight going over the details that Drako’s informants were able to gather. There’ll be a thirty-second window of opportunity when Viktor exits his vehicle and heads inside the building where the meeting is taking place. If I can get into position across the street with a sniper rifle before he arrives…one and done.
I check my watch when the helicopter begins its descent at Hanscom Field. Viktor flew in via Logan, so hopefully he won’t get wind of our arrival. At least, that’s what I’m counting on. The man has eyes and ears everywhere.
“Looks like our ride is here,” Pyotr says, pointing at the blacked-out luxury sedan parked near the helipad.
There’s a crackle over the headset when Misha switches to the intercom. “Drako sent a gift. It’s in the trunk.”
Meaning, weapons. Good.
“Who’s the driver?” Pyotr asks.
“Xavie.”
Pyotr nods his approval. “He’s solid,” he tells me.
There’s a hard jolt when we touch down, the steadywhumpof the rotors reverberating throughout the cabin. Misha flicks a few switches. “Let me know when you’re heading this way. We’ll need to haul ass out of here before Androv’s men get word.”
“Will do.”
As soon as the door opens, Pyotr and I jump out and duck. The helicopter’s rotor blades slice the air with a shrill whine as they rev down, whipping the freezing air into a frenzy. As we hurriedly walk across the painted concrete slab to the awaiting car, a wash of hot exhaust sweeps past and burns a path into my lungs when I accidentally breathe it in.
“I’ll check what he brought,” Pyotr says, making a beeline for the trunk.
Coughing, I yank open the back passenger side door and slide into the seat. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
Dierdre quirks a manicured eyebrow. “You took the words right out of my mouth. Don’t even think about it,” she warns when I grab the door handle. “I will tase your ass if I have to. Trust me from personal experience. It hurts.”
Pyotr’s eyes haven’t left the rear view mirror the entire fucking drive to—I can only assume—Cillian’s compound outside of Boston. I meet his stare with one that says,fuck you, when I see his annoyingly amused grin. He’s enjoying every second ofthe verbal lashing I’m getting from Dierdre. The woman hasn’t taken a breath in almost forty minutes.
“Aleksander, I’d appreciate it if you would at least pay attention when I’m yelling at you.”
I tear my gaze from the rear view. “Sorry.”
Her red lacquered nails click against the side door panel. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I beg to differ.”
I shrug, and she sighs…loudly.
