Not gently. He moves the way he moves when something has fired in him that he can’t fully explain yet—fast, instinctive, certain—and the glass tips from my fingers and drops, shattering on the wooden deck in a bright cold splash of citrus and spirits.
I stare at the pieces for a moment.
Then I look at him.
He is already scanning the beach, the bar, the terrace above us—the mafia boss fully present, running his calculations. His jaw is set.
I leave the broken glass where it is and stand up.
He takes my hand and we jog to the beach bar together, bare feet on warm wood, the afternoon still golden around us as if nothing has shifted at all. The bar smells of pineapple and rum and something sweetly tropical, and the ceiling fans turn slowly overhead, pushing the warm air around. Leo is behind the bar, his back to us, and he turns when he hears us approach.
Alistair rests both hands on the bar. “The drinks you just brought us,” he says. Quiet, pleasant, completely immovable. “Who sent them over?”
Something in his tone recalibrates Leo’s face. “A woman,” he says. “This morning, before your lunch. She came to the bar and asked me to bring them at a specific time.” He pauses. “We don’t have it on the menu. Russian Spring Punch, she called it.”
My stomach clenches.
“What did she look like?”
“Older. Elegant. Very composed.” Another pause. “Eastern European accent?”
Alistair and I look at each other, fear bright in our eyes.
A Russian Spring Punch.
She hadn’t even needed to leave her name.
“How long do we have to pack?”
CHAPTER 9
Mine
ALISTAIR
I have Henderson on the phone before we even reach the room to pack.
“Emergency extraction,” I say, walking fast along the deck, Ivy's hand in mine. “I need the jet ready within the hour. Ascot Grange on full alert. Nobody in or out until I'm back.”
“Done,” says Henderson. No questions. No hesitation.
“Make sure Alex is inside,” I say. “All external access points secured.”
“Understood.”
I end the call and look at Ivy. She has heard every word. She knows.
“Twenty minutes,” I say.
“Fifteen,” she says, and goes to pack.
We are wheels up within the hour.
The jet is cool and quiet after the heat of the resort, all cream leather and soft lighting and the particular expensive hush that the cabins of private jets have. The stewardess settles us with drinks and disappears behind her curtain with the practiced invisibility.
I call Brodie the moment we reach cruising altitude.
“Elena Kuznetsova,” I say. “Mikhail's widow. Everything—whereabouts, associates, assets, movements since Cramond. She found us in Spain, which means she has resources and she has been watching closely.”
