Danger. A quiet sort of danger, the sort that doesn’t announce itself.
We’re here under a polite pretext—numbers to review, a Morozov accountant to “consult.” But it’s a thin lie. I didn’t come here for paperwork. I came here for Peter.
“Where is the fucker?” Bogdan asks. “You know for certain he’s here?”
“Of course he’s here. This is where he likes to show off how powerful he thinks he is.”
Right after I say the words, I spot him.
Peter Morozov lounges at a private baccarat table beneath a chandelier so bright, it seems to wreath him like a false god.His hair has long turned to silver, but his eyes—those pale, shark-gray eyes—are as cold as I remember. He’s dressed in black slacks, a cream turtleneck, and alligator-skin loafers. Two guards stand behind him on either side, bracketing him like parentheses.
He lifts his eyes to me as I approach. Peter’s old, the years weighing on him, but his mind is still sharp. And that means he’s dangerous.
“Orlov,” he drawls as I approach, his accent thick. “So glad to see you.” He gestures to the chair opposite him. I slide into it. Bogdan stays close. “You know,” he says, “you look more and more like your father with each day that passes. And just like you, he never smiled either.”
“He smiled when he had a reason to.”
A strange feeling comes over me as I sit near Peter. First, I want to kill him. I want to reach over and wrap both hands around his neck and snap it. I could, too. But such a move would be hasty, to say the least.
The would-be assassin did name him, but the information could be bad. The late gun-for-hire might’ve panicked and thrown out the biggest name he could think of in an attempt to save his life.
I have to be sure.
Peter gestures lazily to the dealer, who melts away. A server brings him another cocktail, then turns to me after he gives Peter his drink. I wave my hand, and he leaves.
“You know, I was just thinking about you. You and AngelCorp. We’ve both come a long way, haven’t we? We’ve beencoexisting for so long. It’s kind of nice, isn’t it? Civilized behavior among the Bratvas at long last.”
“Civilized,” I repeat. “Hard to think of anything we do as civilized, knowing what it was built upon.”
Peter chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “Another similarity to your father. He was always talking about history, legacy, all of that. You know, our families almost merged. Imagine such a thing.”
“Almost, until you decided to go to war.”
Peter’s eyes narrow slightly. “Speaking of history, funny how it has a way of being rewritten. If I remember correctly, it was because your father stole what was mine that started this little conflagration of ours, the one still burning to this day.”
For a moment, I drift. I think about that night so many years ago. I was twenty, watching my father and Peter meet in Peter’s penthouse. The two men were seated at a massive table, both sides lined with their men.
I was seated at my father’s right-hand side. It was supposed to be a meeting like any other—a discussion of logistics, borders, all that. Little did I know it was the final meeting my father and Peter would have before declaring war.
I remember the elevator ride down after the meeting, the nervous look in my father’s eyes—so unlike him. I remember the words he spoke to me that seemed so cryptic at the time.
“Remember, Sashenka—there are few things more dangerous than mercy.”
I didn’t understand. Not until I learned that Louisa was gone, and why.
Louisa. The woman who vanished from Peter’s life with my father’s help, the woman who unknowingly left behind a war in her wake.
“You can’t steal someone,” I reply. “But you can prevent them from leaving.”
“And that’s what I was doing?” he asks, pretending to be hurt.
“Don’t bullshit me, Peter,” I say. “You would’ve killed her, if she’d asked to leave.”
He narrows his eyes. “No, I wouldn’t have. Because I know why she left.”
I leave it there.Doeshe know why she left? Does he know she carried his child? My father never filled me in on that, and he died before he could.
If he doesn’t know, God only knows what Peter would do if he learned the truth.
