He straightens. “I believe so, but Signor Chiaroscuro told me you should stay here until?—”
I don’t wait for the rest of his explanation.
Taking off down the hallway barefoot, I ignore the chill of the marble floor right along with the guard’s protest as he calls after me.
The test is clutched in my hand, my fingers tight around it like it might vanish if I let go.
I don’t know exactly where Miko is, but my feet know the way, and a thrill races through me as I set my mind on finding him.
31
MIKO
The air inside the Novikov compound feels heavy with silence following the explosion.
I’ve put Gio and the twins in charge of ensuring the perimeter is secure once again—and finding out how the Russians got in to begin with.
Meanwhile, I follow the winding hallway to the far wing of the house, where I know I’ll find Svetlana’s room. The old matriarch is the only Novikov alive who might know the truth about some secret Russian heir—if her mind is still sharp enough to recall.
If not, I’ll have to uncover whatever the lead the Bratva think they found for myself.
“Come in,” says a gravelly voice after I knock.
The door groans as it swings open, and I stop in the threshold to study the old woman.
She’s sitting in a worn armchair beside the window, sunlight catching on the strands of silver hair pulled into a low knot.The curtains are half-drawn, casting long shadows across the floorboards.
She doesn’t look surprised to see me, though I haven’t sought her out in the weeks since Anika’s meltdown—even if I will be forever grateful that she put everything on the line to come to my wife’s defense.
The old woman folds her hands over her lap with quiet patience. Her eyes, the color of pale stone, fix on me with a tired sort of interest.
“So, you’ve finally come to see me,” she says, her voice cracking with amusement.
Releasing the handle, I leave the door ajar as I approach her. “I have something I wanted to ask you.”
“Then sit.”
She gestures to the chair across from her, but I remain standing. A nagging sense of foreboding makes it feel like bugs are skittering across my skin, and I fight the urge to pace as I study her wrinkled face.
She studies me right back, her gaze filled with curiosity, then she looks past me toward an old bookshelf lining the wall.
Her apartment is full of memories—faded portraits, dust-laced tapestries. It’s the kind of place people go when they expect to be forgotten.
“The Novikov men have a history of coming into power at a very early age,” she begins, almost as if to answer my unspoken question. “That’s because their predecessors never last long.”
Not many do in our line of work, but I find it curious that Svetlana would feel inclined to give me her family history with such little prompting.Does she know the answers I’m looking for?
“My husband was gone by the time my son turned twenty. My Mikhail took up the crown with too much grief and too little guidance. I tried to steer him in the right direction, but sons can be hard, you know.”
I nod, because even if I don’t have children of my own, I saw how challenging Leo could be for Don Augusta sometimes. Many times, it was probably merited. Often, it was not.
“Did you and your husband have any other children?” I ask, prodding gently around the subject I want to broach.
“Oh no. Another one of the Novikov curses, if you ask me. Each generation is blessed with a son. Just one son. A fact that has plagued many generations of Novikov men—and the wives who must endure them.”
A curious turn of phrase, and I study the old woman, wondering just how much she’s witnessed in her long years.
“So, Mikhail had one son…” I press.
