My comfort zone. My native language.
“I retrieved Jordan Thorne.” My clipped voice sounds dead, all emotion stripped out. “Clean extraction. She lived alone in a studio apartment and has only one friend in real life who might notice her missing.” Unless her subscribers start asking questions. But Jordan’s probably already resumed her podcast and live streams.
Roman never blinks. “And then?”
“Complications. There was a professional attempt on her life the first night. They came straight to her apartment building. They knew where she’d be.” My report doesn’t even come close to describing her or what happened.
Brick by brick, I lay everything out. Keeping my tone flat, I only share the necessary details regarding the attack near her apartment, changing to the second safe house, and rewarding her for her cooperation by allowing her to attend her conference.
I leave out some information that Roman doesn’t need to know, like how beautiful she was and her ability to make every day interesting and exciting. The addictive way she melted under my tongue, and how I finally got her to trust me.
As I talk, images of our time together jumble behind my words. I remember Jordan pressed against me in the dark, her body molten and wild under mine even when she was exhausted, her voice splintering when she broke.
None of that belongs here.
“We figured out 237 was a reference to the model number of her father’s safe where he kept all his research. Alistair Thorne hid a cache of evidence, held by her mother at the Hearst estate, which is owned by her stepfather.” I force myself to stay clinical. “We went during a formal event. Security everywhere.”
Roman shares a glance with Igor. They both know how hard it is to gain access to Hearst’s estate.
“The detective that talked to Sasha tracked Jordan down at the hotel. Then days later, he showed up at the Hearst charity gala and spoke to Jordan’s mother, but she shut him down.” As only the super-rich can do. I remember the glint of steel in Eleanor Hearst’s eyes. “She got us to the safe, but someone had already emptied it and left this box.”
Roman’s face tightens. “Who?”
“I’m not sure. But right after we opened it, a professional crew confronted us. Three Eastern European men. Not Falcone’s usual muscle. These weren’t street-level thugs. They were high-grade, disciplined, expensive. Before one of them fired, he said, ‘Gio sends his regards.’”
Every head whips up, sharp and alert.
Roman’s face remains still, but his gaze ices over.
Mikhail’s blue eyes narrow on me. “You’re sure they weren’t Gio’s usual people?”
“Absolutely.” I hold the intense stare. “Different caliber. These were ringers. Specialists. Imported.”
A brief, ragged pause follows as the men around me absorb all the information I’ve just thrown at their feet.
Alexei watches Roman for a moment. “Gio’s outsourcing his wars now.”
Roman’s lips press together. “He must be mostly incapacitated if he’s desperate enough to hire outsiders. And not as dead as Kolya here promised.”
Kolya flinches but offers no excuse for himself.
Max’s jaw jumps. After all, he warned us that Gio might not be dead.
We all should have insisted on checking. Should have known better.
Not dead ’til you see the body.
It’s bad enough when a detective starts reopening old wounds. Gio Falcone wheeling and dealing with unknown muscle? Even worse.
And now a player with enough reach to swap out evidence for a message before we get there? That’s a whole new level of bad.
Alexei finally breaks the silence. “This isn’t about chasing treasure anymore. It’s self-preservation. It’s war.”
The last pieces of Roman’s old self burn away. The man who lost everything on that island has died, leaving only the Pakhan behind. A man built for this kind of fight.
Roman’s gaze snaps to mine. “Show me what was in the safe.”
I set the box on the table. The perfect white rectangle, accented with crimson silk, gleams under the overheads. The wrapping is still crisp and geometric, untouched by everything it’s endured. The red bow stands out. Mocking.
