I hold my breath because I can tell whatever name he is going to give me is going to be personal. "Jury Ovanko."
Fuck!
That hurts.
Jury was my father's second-in-command. He was like an uncle to us.
"Why?"
I can hear the shrug through the line, followed by a short huff, "Why do men do things?"
"A woman?" I guess, even more astounded now.
"Not just any woman."
Outside, one of the suits shifts, tipping his head towardthe nurses’ station. They’re not careless; they’re bored. Bored guards get creative. I lower my voice.
"Donna Margarita?" I whisper.
"Donna Margarita," he confirms.
Goosebumps run up and down my spine, and not in a good way. "Then… this must have been going on for years."
"Da." He confirms.
"Who else?"
"We don't know yet. They are all individual Cells, working through a church, through hymns of all things."
"Hymns?"
He grunts, telling me his frustration level is at its max. "Da. Church of St. Vladimir. There is one here in New York, too. I'm following that trail."
"Why would Donna Margarita have been messing with us?" I think out loud.
"I don't know. Yet." He admits. "But your trip to Venezuela, that would have been a tip he would have sent out."
I can see that. Although I'm still having a hard time believing that myUncleJury sold me out. To Donna Margarita. It hurts in ways… I haven't thought possible since Papa shattered my heart at ten. It was Jury I’d gone to. Jury who encouraged me to go into training.
"Let me keep working this from here. Stephano thinks I’m breakable."
"You are. You’re in a hospital bed." He reminds me gleefully.
I glance at the IV, from which blood creeps into me like it’s ashamed to be late. Do I really need it, or is Stephano's insurance just that good, and they're milking it for all it's worth? My bet is on the latter. "Temporary condition."
"Hmm." Paper rustles; he’s checking a note someone handed him. Then he's all business. He's gotten all the important information.She was shot. In surgery. Survived. She'll live. Time to move on. "Updates?"
"Venezuela first." Like I said, my brother's emotions are… different. He would have shown more consideration for one of his soldiers being shot, but he wouldn't have cared as much as he does for me—or his wife. I give him a brief rundown on what I know, which isn't much since we last talked.
"Why would Donna Margarita be interested in us?"
"I haven't found anything yet," Grigori assures me. "I'm still checking."
Code for people died. My brother does nothing halfheartedly. "We're missing something."
"Not for long," his voice is ice.
"Dobro," I say. Good.
