Chapter 21
Kolya
She wipes her mouth and licks her fingers off while I rebutton my pants.
Chloe is damn good at following orders. The taste of her still lingers on my tongue, the heat of her body a phantom against mine.
We spend the rest of the day playing actual board games and eating stale peanut butter crackers until the light shining through the tiny window fades to darkness.
Above us, the first firework screams across the sky, a whistle followed by a chest-thumping boom that vibrates through the ceiling.
Perfect timing.
I shift to the window, scanning a backyard now full of people with their faces tilted skyward. “Time to go.”
She nods, still a little zoned out from our session.
The young, sweet, organized kindergarten teacher, hiding in a basement, sucking my cock while our enemies hunt for us.
The universe has a fucked-up sense of humor.
Another explosion splits the air, this one bathing the basement in momentary blue glow. At least twenty people gather in the yard, their attention fixed upward as colors burst and fade above them. Children race across the grass with sparklers, tracing light patterns that burn against my retinas.
“Now. While they’re distracted.”
I work the window latch, rust flaking beneath my fingers. The hinges protest when I push it open, but another whistling rocket swallows the squeak. “I’ll go first. Then help you.”
I shove my shoulders through the tight space, scraping them against the frame before scrambling into a crouch in the shadows beside the house. Another explosion, this one red and gold, illuminates the lawn in brief, bloody light. In that flash, I catalogue everything.
Three men by the grill, a cluster of women with wine glasses, children darting between adult legs, the gate leading to the front yard standing half open.
I reach back through the window.
Chloe’s smaller hands grasp mine. She’s heavier than she appears, all lean muscle beneath soft skin. I guide her through the opening, steadying her as she tumbles into my arms. Her body fits against mine with a disturbing rightness.
“Stay low. Follow me. Step where I step.” I sneak along the side of the house. The air smells of gunpowder and char, the familiar scents of my life woven into this suburban setting.
Each explosion provides both cover and exposure. Darkness in which to move, chased by sudden, blinding brightness that freezes us in place.
I time our passage through the gate between bursts of fireworks. With everyone drawn to the backyard spectacle, the front yard remains mercifully empty. Keeping to the deepest shadows, I lead her toward the street, one arm around her waist.
She winces as we cross onto the sidewalk.
“Your feet.” I’d forgotten she was barefoot. Without thinking, I lift her into a bridal carry.
She stiffens before relaxing against me. “I can walk.”
“You’ll slow us down.” And her bare feet would leave trails for someone to track, especially if she stepped on a sharp object that drew blood.
Mostly, I don’t want her hurt, and that realization unsettles me.
I can’t explain the desire away with tactical reasoning, so I shove it aside for now.
Reflexively, I dodge the streetlamps, choosing paths through yards rather than down open roads. Every shadow is a potential threat, every noise a warning. My senses stretch outward, categorizing each input as either danger or irrelevant.
In my arms, Chloe feels warm and alive, her heartbeat a counterpoint to mine. I’ve carried bodies before, the dead and soon-to-be expired, but nothing like this.
I’ve never cradled someone against my chest like they’re precious.
Chyort vozmi. I’m compromised.
I set her down at the edge of another yard, where the grass meets the sidewalk. “Just for a minute.” I need to free my hands and check our surroundings more thoroughly.
She nods, still quiet, tracking me with those wide eyes that see too much and understand too little.
With nightfall, the neighborhood’s celebration has transformed.
What was once a hunting ground for men with guns is now a gauntlet of civilians, each one a potential witness or casualty.
Steering away from the most populated areas, we navigate a circuitous route that adds time but reduces exposure. Finally, her house comes into view. The block is quiet, the dying thud of a final bottle rocket marking the end of the celebrations.
I slow our approach, scanning for movement, for the telltale reflection of a scope, for anything out of place.
The front window is shattered, jagged glass teeth still clinging to the frame. I position myself between her and the street, shielding her with my body as we reach her porch.
Chloe freezes beside me, her attention trained on the broken window. For a moment, her cheerful mask slips, revealing the raw fear beneath. Then, like donning armor, she rebuilds her bright, determined expression.
“Good thing it’s a long weekend. I can get that fixed tomorrow morning. Home Depot opens at six. And the fire trucks are coming to school bright and early on Tuesday. I need to get my diorama supplies together. The kids’ll be so excited.”
She rambles as I assess our surroundings. No moving shadows across the street. No unfamiliar cars parked nearby. The shooters have either given up or gone to ground.
For now.
I guide her toward the entrance, scrutinizing the darkened interior before allowing her to enter. Someone ransacked her house. Upended the furniture. Emptied drawers onto the floor. Tore pictures from walls.
And they were thorough in their search.
Chloe stops just inside the door, a small, sad sound escaping her throat as she absorbs the destruction. She drifts through the chaos like a ghost, touching things, straightening a crooked picture frame, picking up scattered papers. Her movements are mechanical, disconnected from any real purpose.
She’s going to break soon. I sense the fissures, fracture lines spiderwebbing through her carefully constructed normality.
I need to contain her.
Not just for the mission, but because I don’t know who else might be out there, waiting to grab her the moment she’s alone.
“We could go somewhere.”
At this point, we don’t have a choice. I’d rather she accompany me willingly than force the issue. After what I overheard between her and Bree, she’s coming with me either way.
Her connection to the island, to Roman’s past, changes everything I knew about the mission. I’m royally pissed I wasn’t let in on these finer details—history that would help me do my job. But I also understand. There’s an order in the Kozlov Bratva, and I’m not privy to all the secrets. Yet.
She shakes her head, her hands trembling as she picks up a broken mug from the floor. “I can’t just…stop living my life. I have kids waiting for me. And the fire trucks are coming. I have to be normal again.”
I nod, allowing her this temporary delusion. “Okay. You go get washed up. I’ll,” I wave at the disarray, “clean up a little.”
Scurrying over to me, she wraps her arms around my waist and burrows the side of her face into my chest.
I freeze.
I’m not used to being touched like this. Not as comfort or as connection. Pain or pleasure, yes. Sometimes even both. But not this.
I loosely wrap my arms around her to return the embrace. A foreign sensation bleeds through my entire body.
She sighs. “Thank you.”
After she gathers fresh clothes and tennis shoes from her bedroom, I wait for the lock to click on the bathroom door and the water to start running. Then I plug my phone into a charger I find on the kitchen counter and stride through the wrecked living room with silent efficiency.
The job has shifted. This is no longer simply about diamonds.
I need more information. About Chloe and the island and whatever connection exists between her and Roman. My previous investigation was thorough but limited, spent scouring for hiding spots. Now I’m looking for paper. For history.
I head straight for her already upended desk. The drawers lie scattered, contents spilled across the floor. I sift through them methodically. Bills, lesson plans, crayon drawings signed by tiny hands.
Useless.
Nothing connecting her to the island or to twenty million in diamonds. But there’s a method to my search that the previous intruders lacked. They sought valuables. I already tried that and found nothing.
This time, I’m hunting for secrets.
I stroll toward her bedroom, scanning each surface for anything personal.
My gaze lands on a framed photo of Chloe with her parents. I open the back to find nothing.
I pivot to the stack of romance novels on the nightstand and fan the pages of every single one.
After that, I revisit the ornate wooden box. Nothing inside matters.
Except the trinkets matter to her.
Which means they might matter to me.
There’s nothing else of note in the bedroom.
In the small home office, a file cabinet is partially hidden behind an overturned chair, the lock broken and dented in from a hard strike. Inside, labeled folders are tossed about, showing someone rifled through them. I pull each one, scanning the contents until I reach the back of the drawer.
The folder simply labeled Family appears unbothered.
Opening it, I find newspaper clippings, old photos, and a child’s drawing of three stick figures. Mom, dad, and a little girl in the middle. Thick, bitter disgust rises in my throat.
What am I doing?
I tear my eyes away from the reflection, refusing to acknowledge the question. The mission has changed, that’s all. I just need to gather more information.
This isn’t personal.
My gaze drifts back to the mirror and lands on a slip of paper tucked into the top left corner, between the frame and the wall.
Just the barest edge of yellowed scrap. Easy to miss against the paint.
I reach up and carefully extract an old newspaper clipping with browning edges.
Tragedy at the Alibi Club: Dozens Dead in Suspected Gang War. Locals Escaped.
Cold revelation slithers through my stomach. It’s not the same article I saw in Roman’s compound, the one Alexei and Aurora found in MJ’s research. This one’s from a small local paper. But it’s the same event.
I skim the text, picking out key phrases.
“…summit between powerful international business syndicates…” A sanitized, public term for what was really a mafia meeting.
“…tropical storm…fires…gunfights…”
“…Roman Kozlov, head of the Kozlov family at the center…daughter, Anika, nine, missing, presumed dead…wife, Lilia Kozlov, among the deceased, along with feared Banshee boss Colin Finegan and a high-ranking member of the Avramidis family…”
The very end contains a tiny section about the ongoing investigation, mentioning locals and tourists who were present on the island.
Including the Davidson family, who’d been vacationing on Isla de Huesos during the incident.
A photo of the family follows. The unnamed nine-year-old daughter, a thin girl with dark curls and wide, terrified eyes, sits in a hospital bed, flanked by her mother and father.
My hands go numb.
It’s true.
Chloe was on that island.
The same night Roman lost his wife and daughter. The same night that everything changed for the Kozlov Bratva. What did she see? What does she actually know?
My phone vibrates on the counter where it’s charging, the screen lighting up with Kirill’s name.
I step outside and scan the area, cracking the front door behind me. The cool night air carries the lingering scent of spent fireworks. “What?”
“What!” Kirill’s voice is sharp with impatience. “We’ve been trying to reach you. And you respond with ‘what.’ Where the fuck have you been?”
“A basement.”
A beat of silence. “I don’t even want to know.” His tone darkens. “Something’s happening, Kolya. The Falcones hit the South Side warehouse last night. Sasha was on duty.”
My chest tightens. Sasha Pisarev. Son of Roman’s second-in-command, Igor. He’s just a kid, really, compared to the rest of us. He should still be going out with someone more experienced, not on his own. Is that a sign of our thinning ranks? “Is he—”
“He’ll live. But Igor’s ready to tear this city apart. Roman’s barely holding him back.” He pauses, his breath hissing through his teeth. “Whatever you started is having echoes back here. Finish it. And get the hell home.”
Behind me, the water in the bathroom shuts off. Chloe will be out soon, expecting me to be cleaning up her living room, not ransacking what little privacy she has left.
“What’s your status?” Kirill demands.
I glance back through the half-open door. The newspaper clipping burns in my hand. “I’m back at her place.”
“And the package? Any updates?”
The diamonds. Always the fucking diamonds.
I make my decision in this moment, though it’s been building since I first read Chloe’s last name in that article. “I told you. I already searched her place. Nothing’s here. She doesn’t know anything. I need to keep searching. And some assholes have been on our tail. Gotta go.”
I hang up before he can question me further and identify the lie in my voice.
Because I do have something.
Not diamonds, but perhaps more valuable.
Information that connects Chloe directly to Roman’s past, to the night that shaped the way the Kozlov Bratva is run today.
Information I deliberately withheld from Kirill so I can puzzle more of it together.
I carefully fold the newspaper clipping and tuck it into my pocket.
This piece stays with me.
My insurance. My leverage.
My secret.