Chapter 38
Chapter
Thirty-Eight
Dimitri
Uri spends hours getting ready. He’s changed his shirt at least seven times, I lost count how much he’s adjusted his hair, and had me test three different colognes.
“You know she’s not going to fuck you, right?” I say, leaning against his bedroom door frame.
“Huh?”
“Amanda Chase. It’s not going to happen. She has a boyfriend,” I say, putting a hand to my mouth to dramatically whisper, “and you’re gay.”
Uri stares at me, blinking in confusion like his brain is buffering. He shrugs. “Oh, right. I just want to look good for the pictures.” I don’t believe him for a second. “What are your plans for the evening?”
“Donny’s coming over. We’re watching the game.” I’m not sure which one. Donny’s been quiet lately. Probably got dumped again.
Uri smooths a stubborn chunk of hair. He’s wearing a custom-made shirt and pants tailored so well he looks different than I normally see him. He looks like a model. He’s rocking that “quiet luxury” vibe with the Rolex he thought he lost back in Russia. His hand hovers over his gun, but he decides to leave it behind. No need to antagonize security.
Ian is sprawled on Uri’s bed, focused on his Switch, battling some pixelated monster.
“You excited?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, not looking up. “Shae and Uri are way more excited, though. Drew’s been acting weird lately. I think he’s mad at me.”
“Why?”
Ian shrugs. “Dunno. He forgave me for the whole not-speaking-English thing. Whatever this is, I’m sure it’ll pass.”
I grunt in reply, checking my watch. “You two better get going.”
They step out of Uri’s room, smoothing their clothes and flashing identical smiles. It’s rare to have a win-column moment like this, and I’m glad they’re getting it.
Once they leave, I start cleaning the kitchen—putting away dishes, wiping counters, mopping the floor. All the things I used to pay someone to do now feel like second nature. I’m shoving a load of laundry into the machine when Donny lets himself in.
“Bro, your security is fucking awful,” he announces.
I guess it is. Between the lack of crime and absence of the ever-present looming threat of death, I’ve been lulled into a false sense of safety.
Donny drops onto the couch in swishy track pants and a tank top. Does he own anything with sleeves? His wardrobe is strictly tank tops and funeral suits. Nothing in between.
“How’s watching other people fuck for a living going?” he asks, flipping through channels.
“I do paperwork and manage the staff.”
While that’s true, working at The Playground has desensitized me to a lot of things. Pain brings pleasure. The blur between reality and role-playing messes with my head. It makes me think about Katya and how much I miss her. A few more months, that’s what she told me.
In quiet moments, I imagine taking her on a real date. Or how Uri would react to seeing her again. I worry about Ian. Does he even remember her? Maybe the scars on his arms will trigger a memory or two.
Donny props his feet on the coffee table.
“Put your feet down,” I snap.
“What, you worried I’m gonna ruin your Ikea table?”
“I built it myself, so fuck you, be respectful.”
“You got any beer?”
“Go look for yourself, you needy little bitch.” I punch his shoulder, and he huffs. That’s the thing about Donny—he takes shit as well as he gives it.
A pounding at the door stops us cold, and I stretch out my arm for the gun secured under the coffee table.
“Mr. Koslov, open the door!”
Koslov? I haven’t used that name since Russia. Alana changed it to Johnson when she brought us to the States.
“Try the door,” someone says outside.
The knob wiggles. Donny didn’t lock it. My security really is shit.
“Mr. Koslov, we are entering your residence. We’re with the Majesty Task Force.”
Sweat breaks out on my back as the door swings open. Three men in suits enter.
“Mr. Koslov, we need you to come with us.”
Donny draws his gun. “Fuck you. He’s not going anywhere.”
The youngest agent, blond and wiry, glances at Donny. “Mr. Donatello Marciano, you’re welcome to come.”
Donatello? Really? The smart ninja turtle?
“Dude, no one calls me that. Ever,” Donny growls. His growl has all the menace of a puppy trying to be intimidating.
“Do you know where your sister is?”
“She’s out of town with her boyfriend,” Donny says. The color drains from his face. “Is Izzy okay?”
The lead agent checks his phone. “The Olympians have been collected and are en route. We need to leave now.”
Donny pulls away as one goes to reach for him, but the others stand their ground. “This isn’t a request. You’re coming with us.”
“What’s this about?” I ask.
The agents all make quick eye contact and one says, “The kids.”
Dread makes us docile as we follow the men without protest. They usher us into an unmarked SUV and confiscate our phones. An old, forgotten dread crawls up my spine. Dormant for years, it’s fully awake now.
They lead us into a nondescript building. No windows, no glamour, only grim efficiency. It’s not the kind of place I’d expect to see the most influential couple in the world, but there they are—Penny and Hadeon Olympian. Penny taps her fingers against a glass table, her brow furrowed. Hadeon sits with his head in his hands. Across from them is Duncan, Waverly’s and Shae’s father.
The door opens again, and another group of agents file in, led by a gray-haired man with a scowl that could carve stone. The man right behind him is mousy and thin, his suit hanging off his frame like he’s lost too much weight too fast. A third man walks over and sits silently at a computer, his sharp eyes studying us as he pulls up something on a screen the size of the wall.
She enters the room next, and everything stops for a second.
Katya.
Not good. All bad. My brain slams against a brick wall every time I try to imagine what’s happening. It’s like my mind won’t let me go there until someone confirms it—spells it out in plain words.
A male voice cuts through my fears. “Fifty-seven minutes ago, we intercepted a message from The Deviant.”
No. No. No. My stomach drops to my feet and shoots straight back up to my throat. My skin feels electric, my body on fire.
“His crew infiltrated the transport carrying your children and Uri Koslov. He is in possession of them.”
Gasps, cries, and Donny’s unmistakable, “Oh, fuck me,” fill the room.
Penny Olympian’s voice cuts through the chaos, ice-cold and sharp. “Do you have confirmation?”
“Yes.” Katya steps forward, calm and detached. “We’ve tracked the route and pinpointed their current location.”
She doesn’t look at me.
The man at the computer projects an overhead image of a warehouse surrounded by trees, a field stretching out behind it. The building is plain and flat-roofed, with a few ventilation stacks. Unremarkable.
“This is a live feed of the facility where the kids and Mr. Koslov are being held,” the man says.
“So what’s taking so long to launch a rescue?” Penny demands.
“We’re struggling to find schematics of the building,” another agent says. “Thermal imaging isn’t reliable. Our recon team is still an hour out.”
“Two hours?” Duncan slams his hand on the table. “Our kids have been missing for an hour, and it’s going to be another before they’re safe? Do you have any idea what can happen to a kid in two hours?”
“Sir, we understand this is a stressful time, but acting rashly could jeopardize their lives.”
“And Uri’s,” I whisper. My chest feels hollow, like I’ve already lost everything. “Has The Deviant made any demands?”
“No,” Katya replies. “I don’t think he knows we’ve tracked him yet.”
“That’s good,” the older agent says. Is this Declan, Katya’s new boss? “The Deviant is unpredictable. If he realizes we’re onto him, he won’t hesitate to kill them.”
“Jesus,” mutters the man at the computer. “A little compassion, bro.”
Penny leans back in her chair, her icy composure unshaken. “It doesn’t matter. The Olympians have their own team for this.” She pulls a sleek phone from her purse. “Archer, Tyrone, how far out are you?”
Static before one of them says, “Ninety minutes minimum.”
“What the fuck? Are you driving?” Hadeon snaps. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him angry.
“The Black Hawk is down,” the same voice says. “Nearest operational base is over an hour away.”
Fuck. Even the Olympians—arguably the most commanding family in the world—can’t save them.
I feel sick. My reflection stares back at me from the glass table, hollow-eyed and broken. What have I become? Weak. Lost. Protected my whole life by my father, my brother, even the women who pitied me. My one job is to protect my son, and I’ve failed.
I glance at Katya, but look away. I don’t deserve her, or her support. I’m disgusting. A failure.
Penny’s voice slices through my self-loathing. “The Olympians do not negotiate with terrorists.”
Donny bolts upright, yanking his wallet from his pocket. “I do!” He slams it on the table, spilling a cascade of credit cards. “Max them all out. Hell, he can have my Costco card and buy all the potato salad he wants. I need my nephew back. My sister will kill me.” He groans, flopping back into his chair, which rolls and dumps him unceremoniously onto the floor. “My mom’ll revive me just to kill me again, and don’t even get me started on what Nonna would do.”
The older man scoffs. “You’re worried about your mama?”
Donny’s panic turning his voice high-pitched and ragged, he shouts, “You don’t get it. There’s only one thing more terrifying than the women in my family?—”
Before he can finish, the screen flashes white as the building explodes.