He sits down at my small table, crossing his legs and placing his hands over one knee.
My first thought is,I’m not in the mood to be hit on by a sugar daddy.
As soon as that calculating gaze meets mine, though, my second thought is,run as quickly as you can.
The hair on my arms stands at attention, and the air feels twenty degrees cooler.
As I rise to disappear among revelers, the mystery man lifts a hand decked in gold rings.
“Good evening, Miss Gallagher.” He utters my name in a strange accent with a rolledrat the end. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Grigori Rostov.”
My blood ices over. Grigori Rostov? Why, why,whydo I know that name?
When my mind shifts to the drive in Brody’s possession back at the Ritz, everything clicks.
Rostov is one of the head guys in the Roguilin Bratva. I’ve read about him in dozens of reports over the years. He’s Andrei Kruschev’s boss. As well as his father, according to the rumors. A secret buried beneath years of resentment, like the one between Brody and Declan.
Adrenaline floods me as I pivot and step toward the street, fighting the instinct to flee immediately.
Grigori’s warm, mellow voice chases after me. “I’m not here to harm you. Please.”
I put three more paces between us—to stay out of arm’s reach—before whirling to face him. “Why should I believe you?”
“I’ve been tracking you for an hour. If I wanted to hurt you…” He shrugs and gestures at the rusty, spindly chair.
My feet remain planted. I have no interest in getting close to another mobster, thank you very much. One was more than enough for the night.
He simply smiles, the chilling gesture stealing my breath. “I believe we can help each other. What I propose will be mutually beneficial.”
I cross my arms and force myself to stay calm. “I’m sure there’s nothing you have that I want, Mr. Rostov.”
That smile widens without touching his eyes. “I know the men who took your friend. Angelica.”
My heart stops, the streetlights dim, and the music muffles.
I’m standing in the heart of New Orleans, yet somehow I’m underwater, floating beneath the surface and struggling to breathe. I no longer have any sense of my own body.
My chin quivers. “What did you say?”
“I know who took her,” he replies in a mild tone, as if discussing the weather or the results of a tennis match from a week ago. “And I will tell you in exchange for your family’s secrets. The hard drive, please.”
I return to the table on shaky legs, plopping into my previously abandoned chair. “How do you even know about the drive?”
“Oh, I have my ways. You’re not as sneaky as you think, Miss Detective.” His laughs scrapes across my ears like a knife on porcelain. “I’m sure I’m not the only one who noticed a curious little mouse poking her nose where it doesn’t belong over the years.”
So all of this—the construction site, the safe house, the train—is because I wasn’tcarefulenough? I hacked and left traces? Asked too many people the wrong questions?
No time to curse my idiocy. Not when the consequence of my stupidity lounges across from me with an expectant expression. I need to get myself out of this mess.
I swallow a mouthful of cotton. “If you’re lying about Angelica, you’ll never get your hands on the drive.”
“I’m not.”
His eyes rake over my body. Not in the sexual way Brody’s would. This man’s inspecting me for a purse, pockets, or a strange shape poking out of my clothing.
“I don’t have it with me. But if you’ve been trailing me for a while, you already know that.”
Grigori flags a server inside the little café. A man with dark blue hair pulled up in a tail comes to check on us, and Rostov orders two chicory coffees.
