When I wake up, he’s gone.
Secretly, I’m relieved. I take a bath, wash my hair, and dress carefully. Jeans. A long sleeved, tight-fitted white sweater. A thick jacket to stave off the cold. I take a satchel with me, but there’s nothing inside it apart from a little cash and an extra change of clothes, just in case.
I tie my hair back and head downstairs. I know the staff’s movements now, so it’s easy to avoid them and slip outside.
The vehicles are parked off to the side of the gravel drive that winds up to the cabin. I hide in the brush and watch to see if they’re being manned yet. I wait through fifteen minutes of frigid stillness before I approach.
Some of Leo’s men head into the village for supplies most mornings. When I’m sure they haven’t yet disembarked from the warmth of the cabin to the jeeps, I climb into the first car in the line and hide underneath the same tarp I used last time I pulled this stunt.
Another fifteen or twenty minutes of silence passes with me mummified in the back of the car. I can’t feel my nose, my fingers, my toes, and every breath hurts like an ice pick in my throat.
At long last, I hear the thump of oncoming footsteps. The doors crank open, men chattering to themselves in Russian and English as they load up.
A few more agonizing breaths later, the engine roars to life, and blessed warmth fills the cabin.
I close my eyes during the drive to the village, absorbing every bump of the unpaved roads as softly as I can. When the car stops and the engine dies, I wait for the slamming of car doors.
Once everything is quiet again, I remove the tarp and peer outside. I don’t see anyone around, so I get out of the jeep and make a run for it.
I head into the nearest café and order a coffee that I don’t plan on staying long enough to drink. While I’m waiting, I scan the people sitting at the small tables. There’s a couple at the window table and an elderly man reading a newspaper in one of the center tables. I can see his car keys dangling against the waistband of his belt.
I pretend as though I’m heading to the bathroom and then I make a detour around his table. I have to dip low to retrieve the key, but I manage to snag it without him noticing.
I get a look from the couple as I head out the door, but I don’t turn back to see if they suspect anything.
When I press the unlock button on the fob, the headlights of a small blue car flash only a few feet away.
If the owner is paying attention, he’ll see me climb into his car and drive away. I have to move quickly. I start the engine and rip out of the street parking, not daring to check the rearview mirror.
I drive fast, speeding down mountain passes, listening for a siren that never comes.
The car doesn’t have navigation, but I don’t need it. I know where I’m going.
It takes me almost three hours to get there. I make a stop halfway to switch cars, more for peace of mind than anything else. And then I keep going.
After a year away, being back in the city—and free—feels strange. But I move through the streets like I never left.
I pass by all my old haunts and head to a bar I know is tied to the Mikhailov Bratva. It was part of my training with Anya. Know the land. Know your enemy.
And so long as Belov is leading the Mikhailov, they’re the fucking enemy.
I park the car right outside the pub and walk inside as confidently as I can.
“We’re closed,” a man rasps from behind the bar..
I walk up to the counter and plunk myself down on one of the swivel barstools. “Tell Spartak Belov I’m here to see him. And get me a drink while I wait. Something strong.”
The man snorts. “And who the hell do you think you are, little missy?”
I raise a brow and fix him with an icy glare. “Viktoria fucking Mikhailov,” I say. “Call Belov. I’ll wait.”
36
LEO
Gaiman and Jax aren’t sure what to do with my rage.
Truth be told, I’m not sure what to do with it, either.
My hands clench. The urge to lash out, to destroy something, to punish someone, is strong. But I need to save this rage for the man who deserves it.
“We don’t have a full security system set up here,” Gaiman says cautiously. “It covers a lot, but—Shit, Leo, we didn’t think Willow was a flight risk anymore. She didn’t even have an assigned guard.”
“Why the flying fuck did she make a run for it?” Jax interjects. “She seemed fine.”
“She’s not running from me,” I grit out. “She’s running towards him. Towards our son.”
Jax’s eyes go wide. “You mean… she’s taking Belov up on his deal?”
I turn my back on both of them. “Get the men ready. We’re going in.”
“Are you sure?” Gaiman asks. “Preparations aren’t—”
“We can’t wait any longer. Willow has forced my hand. It’s time to move forward and let the chips fall where they may.”
“But Willow and Pasha,” Gaiman warns. “They’ll be at risk.”
“He’ll use them,” I say. “Undoubtedly. But Willow is more capable than I’ve given her credit for. She’ll have to hold her own. At least until I can get close enough to Belov and snap his neck myself.”
My fingers flex, imagining the satisfying crunch of his spine. I told Ariel she could be the one to kill him. But now I’m all that’s left.
I don’t mind doing the job.
I’m moving to the door when my phone starts ringing. It’s a private number. “It’s him,” I say immediately. Willow must have given him my number. It’s the only way he’d have my private cell. “He’s requesting a video call.”
Gaiman rushes towards the monitor on my desk. “I’ll transfer the call to the computer.”
He takes my phone, taps some buttons on the screen, and hands me my phone. I press Accept.
At first, all I see is part of a room. White walls, shelves stuffed with books I know he’s never read. Generic. Unthreatening.
Then Belov steps into the frame.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he has a director standing behind the camera. The man loves putting on a show.
“Thanks so much for answering my call, old friend,” he croons. “Your dear wife gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Where is she?” I growl.
“Right here.” Belov waves his hand and the camera pans around. “Catching up with her grandfather.”
The camera lands on Semyon first. He’s in his wheelchair with his nurse standing right behind him. For the past several years, I’ve never seen one without the other. She’s the old man’s shadow. You get the feeling he’d die if she took too many steps away from his side.
In the chair next to Semyon is Willow.
She seems to be unharmed. She’s not even tied down. She’s sitting calmly next to him, if somewhat stiff and vacant-eyed.
“Willow.”
She looks off to the side, and I know she’s looking at me on the screen. “I’m sorry, Leo,” she murmurs. “I had to do it.”
Belov steps back in front of the camera, but I can still see both Willow and Semyon on either side of his monstrous head.