Chapter 23
Kolya
Hours later, I drag Chloe through the reinforced door of the safe house, my hand firm on her elbow.
Beneath my fingers, her body radiates heat and fury. Gone is the sweet kindergarten teacher that’s all sunshine and rainbows. Except for the part where she paused to take her shoes off by the door.
This woman stalks into the living room ahead of me, all jagged edges and barely contained rage.
Good.
Anger makes people sloppy and vulnerable. And I need her vulnerability to rear its ugly head so I can unlock whatever secrets she’s hiding about the island, the diamonds, and her connection to Roman’s past.
Once again, the mission has evolved.
Now, it’s about more than just retrieving twenty million in stones. The job’s about survival. Mine, hers, maybe even the Kozlov Bratva’s.
Sentimentality has no place here.
I close the door behind us with a heavy thud, the electronic locks engaging automatically.
I know the combination to get out.
She doesn’t.
We’re sealed in, just the two of us and her secrets.
The safe house boasts standard Kozlov protection. Reinforced windows, state-of-the-art security system, fully stocked kitchen, medical supplies, and weapons.
Three bedrooms, three baths, and a view of Lake Michigan through bulletproof glass. Blinds currently cover the windows with special film that makes them impossible to see in, even at night.
The walls are cream white. Nothing ostentatious. No big paintings or sculptures. Minimalist. Utilitarian. No carpet in this space or the rest of the house because sealed hardwood floors are easier to clean.
A place to hide, to heal, to plan.
Or in this case, to interrogate.
I point to the sofa, an overstuffed and extra-long three-seater sectional large enough to nap on. “Sit.”
She whirls on me, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do.”
I shrug out of my jacket and brush past her to check the perimeter in a habit so ingrained, it’s practically muscle memory. “Stand, then. Makes no difference to me.”
“Where are we?” She trails behind me as I trudge through the living room toward the kitchen. “How long have you been planning this? The whole time? Since we met at the farmers market? No, at the school?”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to.
The truth is all over my face when I pivot to scowl at her.
Yes, from the beginning. Yes, everything was calculated. Yes, you were a mark.
She releases a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I’m such an idiot. You’ve been playing me this entire time.”
“Not everything was a lie.” I’m not sure why the distinction matters to me.
Her eyes harden, bright with unshed tears and cold rage I didn’t expect from someone like her.
“Just the important parts, right? Just your name, your job, your reason for being in my life. What about the men trying to kill us? Are they fake too? Do they work for you? Were they staged? Like the hoodies at the farmers market? The jerks at Hobby Hut?”
I ignore her, open the black cupboards, and scan the white granite countertops, checking supplies.
Everything’s stocked per protocol. I fill a glass with filtered water from the stainless steel fridge.
A peace offering of sorts, or maybe just a tactical strategy to keep her hydrated for the impending interrogation.
She slaps my hand away when I offer the drink.
Water splashes across the front of my shirt, soaking through to my skin. I don’t flinch. Don’t react. Just give her the same detached focus I would any other subject.
“I trusted you! I let you into my home. I let you—” She cuts herself off, but we both know what she was going to say next.
I let you touch me. I let you inside me. I gave you parts of myself I’ve never given anyone else.
“I don’t give a shit about your trust.” The lie nearly chokes me, and I swallow the bitter flavor left behind. “I care about information. About the diamonds. About the island.”
She flinches at the mention of the island, a reaction so small, most wouldn’t notice.
But I’m not most people. I’m trained to exploit weaknesses.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. What diamonds?” She takes a beat. “What island?”
Hmm. So, she doesn’t know about the diamonds but does know about the island.
I crowd her, backing her against the kitchen counter. “We’re past that, Chloe. We’re past the lies. I know you were on Isla de Huesos fifteen years ago during the chaos.”
Her face pales, the freckles standing out in sharp relief against her skin. “How—”
“Doesn’t matter how I know. What matters is what you saw. What you took.”
She shoves past me and stalks back into the living room. “I didn’t take anything. I was a child!”
I follow her. “Children can be used. They can carry things. Hide things.”
“You’re insane.” She paces the room, her movements jerky with pent-up energy. “I don’t have your precious diamonds. Or even know anything about them. I’m a kindergarten teacher, for goodness’ sake! You saw my house. If I were swimming in diamonds, would I be living in a one-bedroom bungalow?”
“A kindergarten teacher who just happens to have been on an island during a mafia bloodbath.” My voice remains even. Emotionless. “A kindergarten teacher who just happens to be the target of professional killers.”
“Because of you!” She spins to face me. “They’re after me because of you! My life was perfectly normal until you showed up with your…your…” She gestures wildly at my body, at my face, at my holster, at everything that makes me who I am. “With your lies and your violence and…your darn bedroom eyes!”
I almost laugh at that last part.
It’s a damn good thing none of the other guys were present to hear that. I’d never live it down.
Although, there’s nothing funny about this situation or about the danger we’re both in.
“My life,” her voice rises with each word, “was perfectly fine before you invaded it. I had my students and my friends and my routine, and now I have bullets through my windows and men with guns hunting me down and you dragging me to some…some secret hideout like I’m your prisoner!”
I point to all the locked doors. “Until I get what I need, you are a prisoner. In an impenetrable cage that will keep you safe.”
Chloe slams her fists on her hips. “And what is that, exactly? What do you want from me? What could I possibly have that’s worth all this?”
Every molecule in my body attunes to her, scouring for any hint of omission or subterfuge. “Twenty million in diamonds, for starters.”
She throws her hands up in exasperation. “I don’t have any diamonds. Not even earrings! I don’t even have a savings account.”
Stable and angry eye contact. No hint of her trying to conceal anything. She’s not lying. Which means… “Maybe not anymore. But you must know something. You’re connected to this somehow.”
She strides to the window and glares out at the lake, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle as if she’s barely holding herself together. For a moment, I see her at the farmers market. Bright and unguarded, a splash of color in a grayscale world.
The memory irritates me into pushing harder. “Who were you carrying them for? Who planted them on you? Think.”
She whirls back around to face me. “No one. There were no diamonds! There was just—” She stops abruptly.
This is where I need to pry. “Just what?”
“Just fire.” Her fingers dig into her own flesh. “And guns. And people dying.”
Yeah, she was definitely there. Not just on the island, but close to where things went down. “What did you see, Chloe?”
Her eyes flash with defiance. “Nothing that would help you. Nothing about your precious stones. And you had better hope they found a substitute for me. The fire trucks are coming tomorrow.”
I blink, momentarily thrown off balance by the non sequitur. “What?”
“The fire trucks.” Her tone drips venom. “For my class. For Fire Safety Week. They’re coming to the school, and if I’m not there… My kids have been looking forward to this since their first day back.”
This woman.
Standing in a fortified safe house. Denying any knowledge of diamonds worth millions. Dodging professional killers. And she’s worried about disappointing five-year-olds.
Because she’s more resilient than anyone I’ve ever met.
I can’t help the respect—or perhaps pride—surging in my chest.
I resist the impulse to smile. “I’m sure the school will find a suitable substitute to handle the program.”
“That’s not the point!” She’s shouting again, her face flushed with anger. “The point is you’ve ruined everything. My life, my job, my home…are all gone because of you.”
Enough.
Time to bring out the heavy artillery.
I reach into my pocket and withdraw the newspaper clipping I snatched from her mirror. The aged paper crinkles as I unfold it. “What is this? Why do you keep it?”
She stops shouting. Her attention fixates on the paper in my hand, recognition bleeding the color from her face.
The immediate transformation—fiery defiance to frozen terror in the space of a heartbeat—alarms me.
“Where did you get that?” Her voice cracks.
“It was in your house. Hidden in plain sight. Saw it when I was picking up.” I stalk closer, holding the article where she can clearly read the headline. “Why keep this, Chloe? Why keep a reminder of the worst day of your life?”
Her breathing quickens and becomes ragged. Her hand rises to her throat, her fingers splaying across her collarbone as if for purchase.
I’m familiar with the signs of an impending panic attack. The rapid respiration rate, the dilated pupils, the trembling hands.
I hadn’t expected the mere sight of the article to tear through her defenses so completely, but if I consider the fact that she was a child, and that it had to be very traumatic, this tracks.
“I…” Her voice fails. Her knees buckle, and she stumbles backward, catching herself on the arm of the sofa.
When she falls, my chest lurches. Not reaching for her requires Herculean effort. My muscles twitch with the urge to wrap my arms around her trembling shoulders.