Chapter 39
SASHA
“Don’t worry, this is neutral ground,” Johan had said earlier.
I still don’t trust the meeting site he picked, and I always trust my gut.
We’re meeting with Peter in a boardroom in a high-rise near the river. Not Orlov property, not Morozov. Some place we paid a few thousand to rent for a couple of hours, like college students organizing a frat party.
“Too exposed,” I say. “Too many windows, too many chances for this to go sideways.”
Maybe that’s Johan’s plan—he wants us all on edge enough to behave.
We’re just outside of it. Through the glass doors of the boardroom, I can see a small group of men already seated. Beyond, through the tall windows, is a late-winter’s day of white sky and softly falling snow. We’re up high enough that I can see the frozen steel expanse of the lake.
“It’s my father,” he says with a confident smile. “He’s not going to pull any stunts like that.”
Some choice words come to mind, words that might undermine his confidence in his statement. But I push those aside.
The door opens and one of my men steps out.
“What’s the word in there?” I ask.
“Room’s clear, no one’s armed. Everything’s on the up-and-up.”
I lean to the side, spotting Peter at the head of the long table.
“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” Johan says.
“Nervous isn’t the right word.”
Johan purses his lips. He knows the truth. Telling him was the whole reason I was able to get him here for this meeting, how I managed to have him arrange it with his father. The pretext is business, but there’s more to it than that.
Peter’s going to learn the truth about Gabriella.
“More that I know we’re right on the edge of this world changing forever. Nothing will be the same,” I explain.
“But that’s a good thing,” Johan says. “I learned I have a sister. Half-sister, anyway. More family means more joy, right?”
I grunt in response. Very good odds that Peter’s not going to be thinking about more joy. He’s going to be thinking about the lies, the betrayal.
“We ready?” my man asks.
Nothing to do but do it.
“We’re ready.”
My man opens the door. I step inside with my coat open, hands visible. Peter’s eyes flick to my hands, clocking my gesture right away. Good. Let him see I’m not here for violence.
He doesn’t stand, however. He sits in his seat, like a king holding court, his legs spread, one hand flat on the table. He wears a pleased smirk, as if all is going according to plan.
Little does he know.
“Orlov,” he says, as if my name is an insult.
“Morozov.”
I sit at the other far end of the table. Johan nods to his father, then sits on the window-side of the table, right in the middle. “Alright,” he says, “let’s get this done. Father, by now, you know about the merger.”
“In all of its gory detail,” he says.
Johan goes on. “In that case, you should know it’s moving forward, nearly done. Our lawyers have given it their approval, and all that’s left to do is sign on the bottom line. And that will be that.”
“And that will be that,” Peter echoes. “Meaning, I’ll be cut out of my own company.”
“We all know this means you’ll be free to pursue your other ventures,” I say, “the ones you already have lined up. The ones that threaten to be a thorn in my side.”
He shrugs. “If you want to go legit, go. But don’t expect the rest of us to follow. Some of us still value the old ways. I don’t really care what you do.”
“Very well,” I say. “Then perhaps this meeting can be the first small step in the long process of ending this war for good.”
Another shrug. “Perhaps. I suppose that depends on whether or not you’re a good boy, Sasha.”
He’s teasing me, taunting me, trying to get a rise out of me. But it’s toothless. He knows as well as I do that we both make money if we’re both ‘good boys’.
Assuming he doesn’t throw me out of the window in the next ten minutes.
Johan gives me a signal, a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Do it now, he says without words.
“Peter, there’s another reason I called this meeting.”
He straightens in his chair. “Then out with it.”
“You’re going to want to explode. Don’t.”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t tell me how to act. Now, let’s hear it.”
“Gabriella Resse.”
His expression doesn’t change. Not yet.
“She’s yours.”
The silence somehow feels like a bomb detonating. Peter blinks. Once. Twice. Three times.
“What?” His voice is thin.
“She’s your daughter, Peter,” I say, leaning in. “She’s Louisa’s child.”
For a moment, I swear he stops breathing. Then he laughs, a deep, disbelieving laughter, so loud it echoes off the glass walls of the room.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he says, shaking his head. “Even for a Bratva prince.”
I had a feeling he would suspect this was some kind of plot. I don’t blame him.
“I don’t lie about things like this. I don’t lie about blood.” My voice is steady, hard. I let him feel the steel beneath it.
His laughter cuts off as though it were sliced with a blade.
Johan exhales. It’s the first sound he’s made in a full minute. “Sasha wouldn’t make this up. He doesn’t play these kinds of games. Not where family is concerned.”
Peter says nothing, his mouth a flat line, his brow furrowed. He regards me as if hoping for some tell that this is all a sick prank. When he finds nothing, his face falls.
Finally, he speaks. “She can’t be mine. Louisa… she wouldn’t have…”
“She loved you,” I interrupt. “But she loved her child more. She loved her enough to know that she had to flee for their safety.”
Peter’s now shaking. He flicks his gaze to one of the men with whom he arrived, as if making sure he’s ready for anything that might happen.
“You expect me to believe…”
“I expect you to do the math. Think about when Louisa left, about how old Gabriella is. Hell, you can take a blood test if you’re still skeptical.”
Everyone in the room is frozen. Peter sinks back into his chair. He’s realized this is no bluff. He turns a sickly pale. No doubt he’s realizing the reality of what he’d almost done in those attempts on our lives.
“And she’s pregnant,” Johan says. “Twins, though I’m sure you already knew.”
Peter shakes his head. “The girl carrying your bastard spawn is my blood?”
Normally, such an insult wouldn’t go unpunished. This time I let it slide. There are more important matters at hand.
“Father,” Johan says.
Peter’s unraveling. His fingers twitch, his throat works. His eyes are glassy. “She’s bound to him.” He seems to be talking to everyone and no one. “Bound by conception. Bound to the Orlovs. You put your line, your heir, inside my daughter!”
Johan slams his fist onto the table. “Stop, Father. Pull yourself together.”
Peter doesn’t hear him. His face changes, from anger to horror. “Where is she now?”
“With Bogdan,” I say. “She’s safe.”
He shakes his head. “No, she isn’t. I sent men.”
My heart stops. “You what?”
Peter runs his hand down his face. “I sent men as a precaution. Before this meeting. I told them to pick her up.”
“You did what, Father?” Johan asks. “Are you insane?”
Peter’s not listening to him. He’s spiraling. “I need to call them.”
I shoot out of my chair. “Yes. You need to call them. Now.”
His phone is on the table. But with a shaky hand, he reaches into his pocket for a second. I have such a phone, too—the one used for things that are never written down.
He dials, then hits speaker and sets the phone on the table. The line rings. Once. Twice. Three times.
“No, no, no,” he says, shaking his head. “Pick up. You’re supposed to pick up.”
Johan rises and begins pacing, muttering curses under his breath. I sit back, perfectly still, my blood turned to ice water.
“Call again,” I say.
He does. The line rings, then it goes dead.
“What the hell?” I snarl. “What kind of men do you have on this operation?” My pulse is a war drum. The ice in my veins is melting, turning molten.
“I don’t know why they’re not answering,” he says, his voice thin, faraway. “They’re under explicit instructions.”
“You’ve lost control of them,” I reply. It feels like wind is moving through the room.
“They must already have her,” he says. “Must be taking her to the rendezvous point. They don’t know she’s mine.”
Johan shoots him a look of pure disgust. “Her life is in the hands of goons who can’t even follow simple goddamn directions? What were you thinking?”
I turn for a moment, fighting the urge to put a goddamn fist through Peter’s skull. Then I slip out my own phone. I call Bogdan, but like Peter calling his men, the line rings, rings. No answer.
Shit.
I text my driver, telling him to bring the car around, to have it ready.
“Do you know where she is?” I ask to Peter.
“I know the location where they’re supposed to take her.”
“Send me the location. Now.”
He nods, fumbling with his phone. Johan says nothing, his silence speaking louder than words ever could.
I walk out without another word.
“Orlov…” Peter’s voice follows weakly behind.
I’m focused on the task at hand. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to reach her in time.
And if I don’t, Chicago will drown in blood.
I’ll make goddamn sure of it.