“Who is that?” I ask.
“Garin,” says Max. “Now, come on. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”
Garin? Why is he here? Everything inside me turns ice-cold yet incandescent with rage at the same time.
“Garin. You’re working for him. You’re on the take. That’s why you’re so obsessed with Roman. It’s not about justice. Or evenabout jealousy. It’s about a job. A paycheck, paid with blood money.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Tell me I’m wrong. I know you, Max. You were always desperate to matter, always too eager to take shortcuts.”
Rage flashes across his face for the briefest of moments, but he says nothing other than, “Walk.”
I turn, taking one more look at Sasha. The sight of him in the car—sleeping, trusting, fully expecting to wake up someplace safe—makes something inside me fracture.
“Leave him,” I say to Max. “Please. Just leave him out of this.”
Max’s lips thin. “It’s not my decision.”
CHAPTER 49
AMALIE
“Walk.”
I glance over my shoulder one last time before Max shoves me into the open side door.
Please stay asleep, I pray silently.Please.
We pass over the threshold. The air inside is somehow colder than outside, smelling like old oil and copper. My boots crunch over broken glass, dirt, and whatever else has accumulated on the floor over the years.
There’s no warmth here, no humanity, just the echo of footsteps and the hum of whatever’s powering this place with electricity. We move through a maze of empty, metal shelves, soon reaching the main floor of the warehouse.
After looking around, I notice men. Too many men.
They’re armed with rifles slung over their shoulders and pistols on their hips, all of them posted along the walls and near the center where a makeshift meeting area has been put together. A folding table and a couple of metal chairs sit nearby.
Most of the men are in dark coats, black shirts and jeans with knit caps pulled low. A few are puffing away at cigarettes.
Are they my firing squad?
Standing in the middle of them, clad in an immaculate suit and a heavy overcoat that sits like armor, is Nikolai Garin. He stands with his hands behind his back in a calm, professional posture like he’s stepping into a board meeting. His expression is relaxed, like everything is working out just as he’d hoped.
I want to rip him apart.
His eyes land on me in a slow sweep. He looks at me like I’m a problem he’s finally ready to solve, a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Well,” he says, almost pleasantly. “Welcome, Amalie.”
My skin crawls at the sound of my name on his lips. “What the hell do you want from me?”
Garin laughs. Max shoves me forward. Hard.
“You’re a dead man,” I hiss to Max. He stares forward, doesn’t react.
Garin grins and shakes his head like I’m some precocious kid who just said something cute. “So sassy,” he says, that annoying grin on his lips making my blood boil. “I understand why Roman likes you, little one. You’re spirited.”
“Spirited? Is that what you call women who don’t start kissing your ass the second you threaten them?”
