Chapter 29
Anton
It’s afternoon. Mary’s still sleeping. I’d know if she weren’t. The penthouse stays too quiet without her moving around.
I’ve still got the earpiece in, low enough to catch the faint sound of her breathing when she shifts in bed. No footsteps, no drawers opening. She hasn’t tried to leave.
Now I’m here, in a place I know too well and somehow don’t belong in anymore.
The meeting room at the Mirage doesn’t look like a meeting room. It looks like a card shark’s wet dream—velvet walls the color of old blood, chandelier light soft enough to hide the tells, and a table big enough to seat twelve men who don’t trust each other.
Igor Vetrov sits at the head, black suit pressed to perfection, not a strand of his silver hair out of place. His eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, unreadable—move slowly over the room, cataloguing everyone. The habit of a man who’s been in power too long and still sleeps with one eye open.
On his right, Yuri is quietly cracking pistachios, the shells piling on a silver saucer. Next to him, Mikhail, built like a safe, hands clasped over a stomach that says he’s survived too many assassination attempts to care about cholesterol.
Lev leans back two chairs down from me, restless. His foot taps under the table. No smile today.
Igor takes his time lighting a cigarette.
“Viktor Kozlov,” he says, smoke curling upward. “Two million dollars missing from my casino floor. I told you to bring me both—the man and the money.”
He tilts his head slightly, eyes still on me. “I have neither.”
“He’s gone underground,” I say.
I could tell him to ask his nephew where the money went. Could mention the Brightside accounts, the clean transfers, the way Timofey’s been building his own empire under Igor’s nose. But not yet. Not without proof that won’t get me killed for suggesting it.
“That’s convenient.”
Lev shifts again, the muscle in his jaw ticking like he’s chewing broken glass. His fingers drum once against the table before he forces them flat, the kind of control that never lasts long with him.
“Convenient for who?” he says.
Igor ignores him, gaze still on me. “I expected you to have him by now.”
“He was here three days ago.”
What I don’t say: three days ago, I was standing over a dead man on Mary Sullivan’s grandmother’s porch, an assassin who wasn’t Kozlov.
Since then, I’ve put three more in the ground: two Russians who slit Dave Thornton’s throat, and a cop who tried to put a bullet in Mary.
None of them part of the original plan. And none of them leading me closer to Kozlov.
“Three days is a long time,” Igor says. “Long enough for him to leave the country. Long enough for a man to… disappear.”
“I’m still working it.”
“Working it,” Igor repeats, like he’s rolling the words in his mouth to see if they taste like a lie.
Yuri cracks a pistachio. Mikhail doesn’t move at all.
Igor leans back in his chair, eyes on me for a long moment before sliding to Lev. He takes a slow drink, sets the glass down with precision. “It’s not like you to drag your feet, Anton. You’ve always been my cleanest blade. Lately… people are saying the edge is dulling.”
I meet his stare without blinking. If I give him even a flicker of something he can use, I’m done.
Mary’s face flashes unbidden. Those hazel eyes, wide with fear when I saw her at her grandmother’s. The way her lips parted when she saw the blood. First time I’ve kept something this big from Igor. First time I’ve had something worth hiding.
“People say a lot of things,” I tell him. “Doesn’t make them true. What we know is that Viktor’s working with someone. Someone who knew exactly when to move that money—”
The door opens. No knock.
Timofey Volkov walks in like he owns the air we’re breathing. Hair slicked back, suit tailored so well it probably came with its own bodyguard. He goes straight to Igor, leans in, kisses both cheeks.
“Uncle.” Smooth, easy, like this is a family brunch and not a table full of men deciding who lives and dies this week.
He takes the empty seat on Igor’s left. Across from me. Winks like we’ve shared a joke I don’t remember telling. Doesn’t even look at Lev—might as well have stepped over him on the way in.
Igor’s smile fades as soon as Timofey’s settled. “Tell me, Anton—who could work with Viktor and move two million from under your nose without leaving a trace?”
Timofey smooths a cufflink, the sharp scent of his cologne drifting across the table. “Must be someone with inside knowledge,” he says, eyes locking on mine. “Someone who knows how things run here.” His mouth curves just enough to be a smile. “Someone who knows them… very well.”
Lev tips his chair back a fraction, elbow hooked over the backrest like he’s settling in for a show.
“If someone’s helping him, they’re good. Very good.”
Igor stubs out his cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “Or they’re sitting at this table.”
I laugh—short, sharp, humorless. Down my drink in one pull, let the burn settle before I set the glass back with enough force to make Yuri pause mid-pistachio.
“You want to know who’s helping Viktor?” I lean forward, eyes on Igor but making sure Timofey catches every word. “Look for someone with clean hands. Someone who keeps their distance from the dirty work. Someone who smiles at this table while their accounts get fat in the Caymans.”
Timofey’s smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.
“Careful, Anton,” he says, adjusting his watch—Patek Philippe, of course.
“Paranoia’s an ugly look. Speaking of looks—” He shifts, addressing the room but keeping his eyes on me.
“Valeriya’s birthday is next month. Big party.
You should come, Anton. I’ll introduce you to some friends.
Beautiful women. Educated. It’s not healthy, all this… solitude.”
“I’m good.”
“Are you?” He tilts his head, mock concern dripping from every syllable. “When’s the last time you had a real conversation with someone who wasn’t bleeding?”
Lev’s foot stops tapping.
“Enough.” Igor’s voice cuts through, but there’s something almost amused in his expression. Like watching his dogs snap at each other entertains him.
Timofey raises his hands in surrender, all innocence. “Just looking out for our best enforcer, Uncle. Can’t have him burning out.” He turns back to Igor, smooth as oil. “Speaking of looking out, I’ve arranged that meeting with Senator Morrison you wanted. Thursday. Private dinner at Caesars.”
Igor’s eyes sharpen. “Morrison agreed?”
“Money talks louder than votes.” Timofey straightens his tie. “He’s interested in our… campaign contributions. Very interested.”
“Good.” Igor nods, and I watch him swallow Timofey’s bullshit whole. The nephew playing the devoted heir while bleeding the kingdom dry. “This is how we evolve, Anton. Political connections. Legitimate channels.”
“Legitimate,” I repeat, flat.
Timofey’s eyes glitter. “Problem with progress, Anton?”
“No problem. Just noting that legitimate money doesn’t usually come in duffel bags at 3 AM.”
“Times change,” Timofey says. “Those who don’t change with them get left behind. Or buried.”
The threat hangs there, wrapped in designer cologne and white teeth.
Igor stands, signaling the meeting’s end. Everyone starts to rise except me.
“I want Viktor Kozlov,” Igor says, looking directly at me. “Here. Breathing. With my money.” He buttons his jacket with practiced precision. “You have forty-eight hours.”
The room goes still.
“Forty-eight hours?” Lev’s voice is carefully neutral.
“Problem?” Igor asks.
“No problem,” I say before Lev can answer. “Forty-eight hours.”
Igor nods once, then walks out. Timofey follows, but not before leaning close.
“Tick tock, Anton,” he whispers. “Better find him before someone finds you.”
He’s gone before I can respond, leaving me with forty-eight hours to find a ghost who’s probably already dead, while the real thief sits at Igor’s table, planning birthday parties and political dinners.
“Сука,” I mutter under my breath.
Lev waits until the door’s shut, checks it twice, then shoves his chair back, the scrape of marble loud in the quiet.
“I want to take that pretty-boy Patek and ram it so far down his throat he’ll be shitting Swiss parts.
Then I’ll use his tie to hang him from that chandelier—right in front of his uncle.
” He rolls his shoulders, like he’s already picturing it. “Let him tick-tock his way to hell.”
I don’t respond.
“You know exactly what he’s doing,” Lev says, pacing like a caged dog. “We all do. Bleeding the accounts dry while he plays the loyal little nephew. And Igor? He just sits there, lapping it up like it’s his babushka’s borscht.”
I let him move. Better he burns it off here than in front of the wrong audience.
“Forty-eight hours is bullshit.”
“I know.”
“He knows it, too.”
“I know.”
“So what’s the play?”
I stand, buttoning my jacket. “Find Viktor. Or someone close enough to pass for him long enough to keep Igor off my back.”
“Yes, boss.” Lev yawns, stretching like a cat who’s been forced to sit through a board meeting. Then his mouth curves into that smirk I’ve learned to hate. The one that means he’s about to say something I don’t want to hear.
“Speaking of dead…” He examines his nails, casual as hell. “Your Mary made Dima actually talk. A lot yesterday.”
“She’s not my anything.”
“Right.” Lev walks over to Igor’s abandoned cart, finds the Macallan 25. Pours himself three fingers. “You should fuck her.”
I stare at him. “That your professional opinion?”
“That’s my personal one.” He downs the whiskey, and pours another, bigger this time. “When’s the last time you got your dick wet? And I don’t mean from your own hand. I’m talking about actual human contact. With a woman. Who’s breathing.”
“Thanks for the concern.”
He smirks. “Not concern. Observation. You’ve been tracking her, listening to every little grocery aisle laugh—don’t bother denying it. She’s under your skin.”
“She’s not.”
“Right.” He takes a slow sip, like he’s savoring the punchline. “Like you absolutely don’t get that look on your face when you look at her.”
“I don’t have a look.”
“You have a look. It’s the same look you get before you break someone’s kneecaps, except…” He pauses, pretending to think. “Hornier.”
“I’m driving.” I grab the keys before he can. “You’re drunk.”
“I’ve had two drinks.”
“Of Igor’s Macallan. That’s like eight normal drinks.”
“Fair.” He follows me to the door, still carrying the glass because of course he is. “But seriously, when was the last time? Two years? Three?”
“Drop it.”
“Your dick’s probably forgotten what it’s for. Thinks it’s just for pissing now.”
I keep walking toward the lift. A couple of Igor’s men step aside to let us pass. Lev doesn’t bother lowering his voice, doesn’t even glance at them—just grins like he’s trying to see how far he can push before I break his jaw.
I think about last night, watching her texts pop up on my cloned screen:
Boris: There’s a man named Evan at your apartment. Should I kill him?
Mary: No! God, no. Just… ignore him. He’s nobody.
Boris: Says he’s your boyfriend.
Mary: WHAT?
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Mary: Just punch him in the face and tell him I moved.
It takes me a second to realize I’m smiling. She’s learning.