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The war ended after Trent hunted down Alexei Del Markov, their leader, and returned his headless body to the Russians with a warning: leave London or Katrina Del Markov—Alexei’s youngest sister, who’d been kidnapped by Trent’s men—would be sent back in pieces until only her head was left.
Once the Bratva fled London, Katrina was released. Her body intact, but she was no longer the same. The fracture in her spirit drove her to take her own life ten months later.
The Del Markovs have been trying to claw their way back ever since. Trent has shut them down every time.
Looks like that’s changed.
If Rico was working with the Russians—a Del Markov—that’s likely what got him killed. And I don’t like what that means for Isabel or Alma.
The Russians are vindictive bastards who don’t forget. Nor do they forgive.
As I close the folder and reach for another one, my mobile rings. Isabel’s name, glowing softly on the locked screen, beckons me to answer.
I swipe my finger across it, activating the speakerphone. “I was just about to ring you.”
“You were?” The frantic edge in her voice makes it clear she’s stressed. “What about?”
“Just wanted to let you know the flight’s confirmed, and Teddy’s been briefed.”
I shuffle through a few papers in the next folder, not finding much that catches my interest. Mainly just invoices for paid bills.
“I also have some questions I hope you can help me with.”
“I’ll do the best I can.”
The soft sniffing on the other end doesn’t sit right. I don’t like hearing her upset—and not being there to fix it.
“I have something to ask you as well.”
“You first,” I say, leaning back in Rico’s squeaky desk chair, the old wood groaning under my weight.
Silence stretches, and I’m about to tell her to spit it out when she finally speaks.
“The first one is going to sound odd. But bear with me, please. When you get inside the gallery, can you send me a photo of the Botticelli? If it’s still there.”
Picking up a pen, I tap it on the edge of the desk. “I can do that. Although I’m not sure I’ll know which one it is. Are they labeled?”
A faint giggle precedes her answer. “Yes. Below each artwork are gold nameplates. The name of the painting, along with other important information. It should be on the wall directly across from the door. It’s the focal point of the gallery. A large LED wall lamp hangs above it. It won’t be on, only because any light left on too long can damage the piece, but if you want to turn it on, there’s a switch to the right of it. If it still works after the fire.”
I flip the pen between my forefinger and thumb while I ask, “Is there a reason you’re asking me to do this? Did Alma wake up and say something about the painting?”
Her weary sigh drags through the line before her words do. “No. She was still asleep when I left. You’re going to think I’m crazy.”
Sitting up, I set the pen on the desk, close the folder in front of me, and reach for another. “Never. Tell me.”
“I had a dream.”
I wait for her to say more, but she doesn’t. “About?”
She explains. At first, it sounds like she’s reliving the nightmare of getting out of the penthouse until she gets to the part about hearing a gunshot. That’s when I stop her.
“Wait. Stop there.”
“Why?”
“Dreams can be a way for our minds to process reality,” I tell her. “Maybe it’s your brain trying to make sense of what you heard. It’s possible you heard the gunshot. It could’ve happened right before the fire alarm went off.”
The line goes quiet for a few seconds while she processes what I’ve said.
