1
LEV
The leather seat beneath me holds the cold of a St. Petersburg March, and the chill seeps through my trousers and settles into the muscles of my thighs as Yuri drums his fingers against the armrest in the back of his limo. The partition between us and the driver stays raised, the glass thick enough to swallow any conversation we might have.
"Stubborn prick," Yuri mutters, obviously frustrated by the meeting we've just walked out of. "Five months his sister's been gone and he has no authority. Still, he sits there telling me the routes belong to his family by birthright."
I keep my eyes on the window, watching the storefronts blur past, awnings sagging with wet snow that drips onto the pavement below. Melting slush covers the streets in gray heaps, and the whole city looks bruised under the overcast sky.
"Yaros is scared," I say. "He's holding onto those routes because they're the only thing keeping Kolar at the table. The moment he admits Ana's not coming back, the Balkans walk."
"Then he's a fool." Yuri's jaw tightens, the muscles beneath his stubble flexing as he grinds his teeth. "Kolar's already asking questions. How long before he decides Yaros has been lying to him this whole time?"
"Probably already has." I turn from the window to face my uncle, noting the silver threading through the dark hair at his temples, the calluses on his hands from decades of work that left scars both visible and buried. "But Kolar needs those routes as much as we do. He'll wait a little longer before he makes a move."
"And in the meantime, Yaros sits on his throne pretending his sister's going to walk through the door any day now." Yuri shakes his head while disgust pulls at his features. "The man's a shit liar."
"He doesn't have to be good at it. He's got the routes, and that's all anyone cares about."
"For now." Yuri's fingers resume their drumming against the armrest. "But the Balkan syndicate won't fuck around and find out. Kolar made a deal with Ana, not her little brother. And Ana hasn't shown her face in five months."
"Which means Yaros is running out of time."
"Which means we're all running out of time." Yuri turns to narrow his steel-gray eyes on me. "The southern trade routes aren’t pocket change, Lev. Without them, we grow stagnant."
The limo turns onto Nevsky Prospekt, and the traffic thickens around us as we pass the grand façades of buildings that draw tourists. I think about Ana Veche, about the rumors that have circulated since her disappearance. Some say she's dead. Some say she ran. Nobody knows for certain, and Yaros isn't talking.
"We need leverage," Yuri says. "Something that forces his hand. Without it, we're back to square one, begging for scraps while he?—"
"Stop the car."
Yuri's hand freezes mid-gesture, his gray eyes narrowing as he studies my face. "What?"
"Stop the fucking car." I lean forward, craning my head as my eyes blink a few times to be sure of what I’m seeing.
He presses the intercom button and relays the order to the driver, and the limo eases toward the curb beside a row of shops with their metal shutters pulled halfway down. My forward lean to get a better look out the window makes me sway as the car stops and the driver puts it in park.
"What is it?" Yuri asks, reaching toward his inner coat pocket where his pistol rests.
"Across the street." I point toward the mouth of an alley where two figures stand arguing beside a food cart. "The woman in the gray coat."
She's got her back to us now, but I know what I saw. Her dark brown hair spills past her shoulders in loose waves that shift as she gestures at a man in a heavy coat and apron. Her coat hangs open despite the cold, and whatever dispute exists between them has brought color to both their faces.
"What about her?" Yuri leans forward, squinting through the glass.
The woman turns, throwing her hands up in frustration, and there's no mistaking her features now. High cheekbones beneath light green eyes. Full lips pressed into a hard line. Theresemblance to our missing Veche Donna is incredible. It makes my pulse kick hard against my throat.
"Fuck," Yuri breathes, and his eyes go as wide as I feel mine are. This is incredible.
Ana Veche stares back at us from twenty meters away.
Except Ana Veche's been missing for five months and this woman wears cheap shoes with salt stains around the toes. Ana Veche is the leader of a criminal syndicate who has never known a day of poverty in her life, but this woman's entire appearance reeks of lower class. Still, her face is identical, the bone structure a perfect match, but everything else about her screams ordinary.
"That's not possible," Yuri mutters, but he doesn’t stop staring at her. Even he can see the striking resemblance. Perhaps her lips aren't full enough, and maybe her hair is a shade too light—both things that can be rectified with a little help.
It makes my wheels start turning.
"It's not her." I keep my tone flat even as my mind races. "Look at her shoes. Her coat. The way she carries herself. Ana Veche never stood on a street corner arguing with anyone who worked for a living…" No, Ana would have a soldier to do that, and if she deigned to cross paths with someone like this, it would be with disgust.
