“You’re familiar with Arkady?” I asked.
“Who isn’t? Bastard loves to put on a show. I’m surprised Morozov has tolerated him for this long. Listen,”—he angled himself around to directly face me—“Vasiliev and Arkadydidn’t get along because their territories were close. Now that Vas is no longer around, Arkady might try some shady business. If you need anything…information, contacts…” He lifted a shoulder slightly. “You can call me. You have my number.”
I studied him for a moment. It wasn’t an offer I’d expected. At least, not so soon. Was he being sincere? I glanced over to where Aistov and Gusev seemed to be arguing over cards. The latter looked like he was ready to strangle Aistov at any moment.
“I should go break those two up before they turn your fine establishment into a fighting ring.” Popov drained his cup and reached for his wallet, but I waved him off.
“Drinks are on me.”
“I’ll get it next time, then.” He held out his hand for a handshake. “If you want to check out my operation anytime, give me a ring. Something tells me you’ll enjoy the fights.”
“I just might take you up on that.” I shook his hand firmly, then watched him walk away.
Each of our territories had a defining business that kept money flowing. Popov’s was the kind of place people only talked about in low voices. And if our nightclub was seen as exclusive, Popov’s turf was damn near impossible to get into.
I’d never seen it myself, but I’d heard enough.
His underground fight club wasn’t just brutal. It was the kind of place where violence was a luxury commodity. Fights didn’t end with a tap-out or a referee stepping in. They went until one man couldn’t get back up temporarily, sometimes longer if the money on the table demanded it.
Looking at the immaculately dressed picture of a man walking over to his friends as cool as a cucumber, it was hard to imagine him associated with that level of violence.
At two thirty in the morning, I sat in my truck with the engine idling low and steady, staring at the house across the street. The curtains were drawn tight, every window blacked out, the place as lifeless as it had been every night since Leo disappeared.
I came back anyway.
Every fucking night.
On the third night, a thought had hit me hard enough to make my chest tighten. What if the house wasn’t empty at all? What if the reason he wasn’t answering his door, wasn’t showing up to work, wasn’t leaving any kind of trace…was because he was lying somewhere inside, lifeless?
I’d broken in and searched the house from top to bottom, trying to find clues as to his whereabouts. Most people would have left them. Not Leo. The only hint I’d gotten that he’d deliberately disappeared was his phone and laptop, which he’d left behind. And the unmade bed, devoid of the sheets on which we’d slept the last time we’d been together.
For a brief moment, I’d hated how fucking smart he was. He made me feel like an amateur when I was the one with a history of tracking down people who wanted to kill Maxim and eliminating them.
I took a long drag from the cigarette between my lips and let the smoke out through my nostrils. A year ago, I’d quit smoking, but this thing with Leo had me going through almost a pack a day. It was much easier to handle his disappearance when I shifted my addiction of Leo with that of smoking.
Before I drove to the house after the club shut down for the night, I already knew he wasn’t back. The facial recognition alert I’d set up for the surveillance camera hadn’t triggered. No movement, no lights, no sign of life inside those walls.
And still, I went.
Because knowing didn’t stop me from needing to see it for myself. From parking across the street and staring at that dark, silent house like there was still something left there for me.
Where the fuck are you, Leo?
16
LEO
Two weeks away from the hospital turned out to be exactly what my body, mind, and soul needed. Fisher Island had lived up to its promise of isolation. For the first few days, all I did was mourn in the quiet darkness of my room while outside, the sunshine made promises I wasn’t too interested in. I mourned the husband I’d lost. But I also mourned the man I used to be before the Bratva entered my life. A man who wouldn’t have slept with someone a mere month after his husband’s passing. Let alone sleeping with one of the men responsible for said husband’s death. And no matter how much I spun the incident, telling myself that I’d only slept with Sergei to get close to him, nothing could excuse the pleasure I’d felt in his body. More pleasure than I’d gotten out of anything in a long time.
I grieved for that the hardest.
Some mornings I didn’t get out of bed until the sun was already high, and some nights I sat on the beach long afterthe tide came in, staring at nothing but thinking about everything.
How could my life end up like this? I’d tried so hard to be a good man. I spent most of my time taking care of people. Wasn’t good supposed to attract good? Then for what mistake was I suffering such losses?
Then came the meeting that had truly brought me to Florida. I’d been nervous about it, having only spoken to my host once on the phone. But he hadn’t personally shown up for the meeting. He’d had a laptop delivered with the footage he wanted to show me of my husband’s murder. After watching the video, listening, I had irrefutable proof that Brad hadn’t committed suicide. I’d seen the truth of what happened on that day, July 22 at 2:22 p.m.
Morozov, Brad, and Wren on the rooftop. Brad had been wearing a recording device that captured the moment, which had shattered under the impact of his fall, but the events had already been saved remotely. I thought I’d been prepared to view the footage. I’d been so wrong because seeing Brad’s body at the morgue and thinking about it was nothing like seeing it happen in real time.
