Chapter 44 Petyr
PETYR
Misha’s penthouse is cleaner than any single man’s place ought to be. It smells more like linen and lavender than it does whiskey and women, which can only mean that someone else has been keeping it that way in his absence.
Not a partner, though, if I had to guess. There’s no trace of a feminine touch anywhere. It’s the clinical high-rise of an unrepentant bachelor. Almost a carbon copy of my penthouse before Sima.
Sima. Lately, it’s been feeling more and more like her arrival into my life was a historical event. The kind that marks a “before” and “after.”
She gave me so much, and asked only for one thing in return: for me to find her sister.
Like hell am I going to fail.
Misha is sitting on the couch when I walk in. His arm is in a sling, but otherwise, he looks healthy. A scar still cuts down the side of his neck, pink but healing, though it’ll probably never fade completely.
“Petyr,” he says with a nod, but doesn’t get up. “Didn’t expect you to drop by.”
I close the door behind me. “I’m here to collect.”
He frowns. “Collect?”
“The debt,” I say. “You told me you owe me one.”
Misha huffs a laugh and leans back into the couch. He gestures for me to sit down as well, so I do. “I did. Didn’t think you’d cash it in this fast.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” I admit. “But I promised my wife something. And I think you’re the only one who can help me.”
That gets his attention. “Well, let’s hear it, then. Anything I can do for Sima, I’ll do.”
“She asked me to find someone,” I tell him. “Her sister. Lara Danilo.”
Misha’s brow knits. “Danilo? As in—”
“Yes.” I cut him off. “Her father’s side. The same ones who tried to take my head off two months ago.”
“So your wife is the daughter of the man you’re trying to put in the ground.” He shakes his head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’ve got a talent for complicated women, I see.”
“Just complicated circumstances. Though I’m hoping to uncomplicate them by putting her father in the ground, as you said.”
“I take it her brother is the one who shot at us.” His gaze levels with mine. “You put him in the ground, too. Wonder how that went over with her.”
“With all due respect, that’s none of your business, friend.”
He smirks like he expected my answer. “Very well. What do you need from me?”
“I’ve found part of the trail,” I say. “Lara was married off to Timur Volkov when she was eighteen.”
Misha’s face shutters at once. He goes from open and accepting to locked down like a vault in the blink of an eye. Strange. “Any particular reason you’re asking me?”
“Yes.” I don’t even bother to hide it. “Timur is your brother, isn’t he?”
Misha’s expression shifts fast. Surprise, then irritation. “Half-brother,” he says finally. “And now I’m wondering how the hell you know that, friend.”
“Because I’ve been digging into him. Your name didn’t come up easy, I assure you.”
His eyes narrow. “I’d hope not.”
“Relax. I wasn’t looking into you. It was just a happy coincidence.”
“Happy, huh?”
“Or useful.” I shrug. “My wife asked me to find her sister. While I was looking into her, I found the connection.”
Misha’s fingers drum on the mattress. A habit of his, I’ve noticed. Whenever he’s thinking, the drumming starts. “Well, that’s a fucked-up coincidence.”
“Yeah,” I say flatly. “She was eighteen when they married. He was, what, sixty?”
“Closer to seventy,” Misha mutters.
“I take it you didn’t show up at the wedding.”
“Fuck, no. You think I ever approved of that shit?” He rubs his temples. “I sent a card and the ugliest flowers I could find. Plus a bottle for the missus. Figured she’d need to drown her sorrows. Had no idea who she even was.”
He walks to his liquor cabinet and pours us both a glass of Macallan 25, then sits back down.
I accept the glass. “What can you tell me about Timur?”
“That he’s always been a parasite. Power, money, control—that’s all he cares about. And of course, pretty girls young enough to be his granddaughters.” He says that last part with deep disgust. I can’t disagree.
“I’m not here to argue morality,” I say. “Fuck knows we aren’t saints, either.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
“I just need to know if she’s safe. If she’s alive. And if she wants out.”
Misha tilts his head. “Why not find out yourself? You’ve got the means. If you asked for a meeting, Timur wouldn’t dare spurn you. Not when you control half the city by yourself.”
“Because I can’t get close without putting her in danger,” I tell him. “If Volkov even suspects what I’m looking for, he’ll tighten the leash. He knows I’m at war with the Danilos. That alone will connect me to his wife, even if he has no idea who mine is.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes narrowed. “Which means you want me to reach out to him, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.” I don’t bother to sugarcoat it. “You still have contacts in that circle. I’d appreciate some intel. Whatever you can find out.”
He huffs out a slow breath, rubs his jaw. “We’ve never been close, Petyr. He’s my half-brother by blood, nothing more.”
“Blood matters to men like us.”
“He’s not a man like us. He’s barely a man.” His face clouds over. “He’s a fucking monster.”
I don’t take his words lightly. Most people would call us monsters. If Misha’s using that word to describe someone else, a man he shares blood with, then he damn well means it.
But I’m not walking out of here with a no. It’s out of the question. Finding the connection between Misha and Timur was a stroke of luck, and I’m not about to let it go to waste.
He’ll help me. Because I saved his life, and he owes me.
That kind of debt drowns out all else.
Misha seems to come to the same conclusion. His shoulders slump. He sighs, low and deep. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“You’re asking a hell of a lot more than that, friend.”
He gives me a long look, but there’s no resentment in it. In fact, I’d say he’s a little amused. He must not come across demands like this often. In his corner of the world, he’s the one who makes the demands.
“You’re doing this for her,” he says. “I may not have a special lady in my life, but I can respect that.”
“I gave her my word.”
It’s more than that. Sima gave me everything. A home, a daughter. Her heart, even though I sure as fuck didn’t deserve it.
And despite all that, she asked for one thing in return. One.
No matter what it takes, I’ll give it to her.
Misha nods again, more to himself this time. “Alright. Give me a few days. I’ll reach out through old channels and find out if Lara Volkov is still breathing.”
I stand. “Thank you.”
He smirks and picks up his glass. “Don’t thank me yet. If this goes bad, it won’t just be Timur’s leash that tightens.”
“I’ll take that risk.”
“And if it gets ugly, you’ll be owing me one.”
I almost laugh. “I’ll take that risk, too.”
I turn to leave. Promises like this don’t end clean. If Misha says I might end up owing him in return, it means he knows how complicated this is going to get.
But I’m in too deep to care.
It’s for Sima. It’s all for her.
If I end up owing Misha a thousand favors, then so be it.