“I’ll see you in a few days, sweetheart.”
“Mikhail…” she whimpers, getting up to a seated position.
I shake my head, tucking myself in and heading for the door without looking back.
As I finish puttingon my black leather gloves, my brother’s Rolls-Royce rounds up the driveway, stopping in front of me. The window slides down, and his golden eyes pierce me with a frown.
“Get in,” he says.
I grin, fighting the urge to display my annoyance. Since Victoria overheard my discussion with Cecilia this morning, I can only assume he knows I’m headed to the airport already. I won’t bother denying it if he asks.
Besides, it would be better if we aligned on this mission instead of me having to work behind his back. Unlike the rest of the Bratva, I’ll never be anyone’s puppet, a rather difficult fact for him to accept, being the control freak he is.
“I was kind of in the middle of something,” I say, plopping down next to him in the back and shutting the door behind me. “What can I do for you, brother?”
He shakes his head, nostrils flaring, betraying his exasperation. “It doesn’t seem to matter what I say or ask for. You’ll do what you want.”
“Just because I supported you forPakhandoesn’t mean I’ll be your lap dog.”
“It’s not even about that.Christ. You’re not a fucking nobody, Mikhail. You’re at the top of the Bratva, yet you forget it everytime you leave the house. You can’t put yourself at risk like an idiot and expect me to be cool with it.”
I don’t need him to be cool with it. I just need my fucking debt paid. “Your point?” I ask.
“You’re pissing me off.”
“Duly noted.”
Wolf runs a hand through his hair, looking out toward the snow-covered fields. “What’s your plan, then?”
“Land in LA, ask our hackers for intel, and go look for that asshole. Plant some mics where he’s hiding, the usual.”
“And if he catches you? What then?”
“He won’t.”
“Butifhe does?” my brother asks.
I shrug. “Then he’ll have me to torture. He won’t be coming after our wives.”
Wolf’s jaw clenches, looking away as if he’s struggling to meet my gaze for whatever reason. He’s probablyextrapissed about me going behind his back. Again.
“Take this,” he says, handing me a phone and an earpiece. “It has everything you need to find that fucker. If you need anything else, call us. I’ll coordinate with Rodion and Niko.”
I look at him side long before taking the objects and shoving them in the pocket of my coat. “You already talked with them, I take it.”
“Of course I fucking did.”
Finally, he looks at me, and for a second, I’m taken aback by what I see in his eyes. Not anger. Not disappointment. It’s the same look he used to throw me whenever shit hit the fan in Siberia—pain, worry, and maybe a hint of helplessness, because even then, he couldn’t stop me from doing whatever the fuck I wanted, which got me in trouble more times than I can count.
“Don’t die, Mikhail. At this point, that’s all I fucking ask,” he says, getting out of the car.
The door slams shut behind him, and I’m left alone with his driver. He fires up the engine and drives away, as if he’s already been instructed where to take me.
35
Mikhail
Venice Beach is about as tone-deaf as I remember it. The famous eclectic charm? I don’t see it. I’m all for chaos and noise, but when injustice bares its teeth so openly, I don’t feel bohemian, or whatever bullshit picture they try to sell in movies and magazines.
