Except she's not a body. Her scent is still on my sheets. Her taste still on my tongue.
"The girl is dead," I say. Flat. Factual. The lie I've been maintaining for a decade.
"I know, I know. " The Pakhan waves a dismissive hand before pouring more vodka. I don’t miss that he doesn't offer me any. "But Igor's death... it's too specific. Too brutal. Someone knew what he did. Someone wanted him to pay for it."
"Igor wasn't known for restraint. He made enemies." It’s a simple, but sound argument.
"No." The Pakhan shakes his head. "This was different. The killer made him suffer. That was exactly the kind of kill we would use to send a message.”
Fuck. She couldn't help herself. She had to make him feel what she felt. I don't blame her. But it makes my job—keeping her alive, keeping her hidden—exponentially harder.
"What are your orders?" I ask, deciding I’m done debating this. Once the Pakhan has decided, its futile.
"Find who did this." The Pakhan drains his drink and pours another. With any other man I would think he’d be drunk soon, but you can’t be in the Bratva and not know how to hold your vodka. "Tighten security. Interview everyone who was in that warehouse. See if any of the other buildings have cameras. Someone has to have seen something.”
"And when we find them?"
"Bring them to me. I want to handle it myself. I want to know why and how they are connected to Yelena."
Of course he does. Can't let anyone think the Pakhan is weak. Can't let anyone believe you can kill one of his men and walk away breathing. Even if the man deserved it. Even if the killer was a ghost he created himself.
"I'll call some men in to help," I say.
"Use Anatoly and Ivan. They should be involved because if this was about Yelena…they’re next. " The Pakhan waves his hand, dismissive and already moving to his next thought. "But find them fast. Before this becomes a pattern. Before others get ideas about revenge."
Anatoly. Ivan. The other two men who carved into Sofiya's back. Who laughed while she screamed. The two exact men that are next.
I should warn them. Tell them to watch their backs. That's what a loyal second would do.
I don't.
"Understood." I turn to leave.
"Volk."
I stop, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"
The Pakhan studies me. Those cold, beady eyes trying to read what's written beneath my careful mask. "You were there that night , in the desert. You drove her out. You were supposed to finish it."
My jaw tightens. Only tell. Only crack in the facade. "I did.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, Pakhan.”
"Mmm." He leans forward, his palms flat on the desk. "But I'm starting to wonder. What if she somehow survived. What if she has an ally, someone we’re not aware of, someone that knows how to hit us?”
The room temperature drops ten degrees. Everything in me goes on high alert—predator recognizing predator.
"That's impossible," I say, voice steady, no tells, no cracks. "No one survives what we did to her. You didn’t see her. She was barely alive when I got there." That part, at least, isn’t a lie.
"You'd be surprised what people survive when they have enough hate to fuel them."
He's too close. Getting too close to the truth. I need to redirect. Need to make him doubt his instincts.
"If she's alive," I say slowly, "if she somehow survived, how would a girl who spent all her time being pampered suddenly know how to take out a man like Igor? He was a tough son of a bitch.”
"That's true." The Pakhan sits back down and picks up a file from his desk, and I know he’s accepted my logic. "This is everyone who was at that warehouse last night.” He hands me the folder. “Everyone who had access to Igor. Start there. Work backward. Find the connection."
