The cherry wood paneling on the walls greets me with the soft scent of fresh staining. The chandelier, lit even at this late hour, brightens the entryway.
Home. Or at least, the closest thing I have to one.
I need to report to Roman.
The gift box pressed against my palm is a constant reminder of unfinished business and proof that whoever sent us that clue about “Insurance” is playing with us.
But I find myself hesitating, too aware of how empty my hands feel without Jordan’s wrist locked in my grip.
How quiet the world seems without her constant stream of babble about vibes and manifesting abundance. How much I might be missing without her pointing out what I’ve overlooked, like the energies that exist in metal and stone and people.
She saw my shark aura.
The thought, unwelcome and razor-sharp, slices through me. I bury the reaction deep inside because I have no room for that on the surface. No space for Jordan and her ghosts in this place of hard edges and even harder men.
She belongs with her mystical auras and yoga mats, where she’ll be safer.
I’m halfway down the main corridor when Roman steps out of his office, his sharp black eyes cutting straight to me.
He stands at about my height, though he always appears taller, with brown hair just starting to gray at the temples. Mixed with his straight shoulders and rigid, focused expression, the older man gives off the impression of a living weapon at rest instead of a human. Always ready.
He doesn’t greet me or ask questions about the mission. Just jerks his chin in a gesture that brooks no argument. “We’re waiting for you.” He pivots away immediately, disappearing back through the doorway without bothering to see if I follow.
We?
Instinct prickles at the base of my skull.
Did I walk into an emergency meeting? More bad news?
Or is this just me reading energies?
Whatever’s happening, it’s not routine at this time of night, not with Roman’s jaw set and his shoulders rigid.
I glide down the hall, alert for any sign of what I’m about to walk into. The corridor is all old money and new safety measures. Antique tables support priceless artifacts, and discreet security cameras blend into the crown molding.
The trappings of power, Russian style.
Roman’s office door stands open, light spilling out across the polished floor. I pause for a split second, arranging my face into its usual mask of indifference before entering.
The massive, imposing space—designed to reflect the man who owns it—features a dark mahogany desk, cherry wood paneling, chair rail molding, and leather chairs positioned for maximum disadvantage to visitors. Books line the walls, untouched and perfect, selected for appearance rather than content.
But it’s the lone painting of the literal woman behind the man that always draws my eye.
The picture has a prominent spot on the wall behind Roman’s desk.
Lilia. Roman’s late wife. She sat for the portrait, akin to the ones you’d see of royalty, with a professional artist. Like a queen posed on a red velvet cushion stool, she’s angled to the side to show off her pink pant suit.
Her dark hair’s smoothed back into a tight, sleek style, and her hazel, gold-flecked eyes sparkle with life. The painter perfectly captured the elegant hands folded at her waist, her long fingers ready to flex.
Along the top corner, a key dangles from a chain. I find the necklace a strange, sentimental touch in this unsentimental space.
A life framed in gold, lost but not forgotten.
No one’s seen Roman’s wife or daughter since they died on Isla de Huesos fifteen years ago. Whatever happened there has been eating at the Kozlov family ever since like a slow poison working through the bloodstream and tainting our cooperation and alliances with the other crime families.
If not for that island, Jordan and I never would have crossed paths.
Still. Fuck that place.
