Chapter 35
Kirill
The gates of Roman’s compound swing wide open, welcoming me back into the fold.
Once I pass through the threshold, they rumble closed behind me with a resounding clang.
I grip the steering wheel harder than necessary, my knuckles white against the black leather. The car echoes with the rattle of the iron barrier.
The house rises from the landscaped grounds like a fortress disguised as a home. Three stories of gray stone and white accents, all sharp angles and calculated intimidation.
This building showcases the epitome of old money, not the soulless face of the nouveau riche and their fancy high-tech gear.
Constructed to last the test of time, the compound features rough-hewn gray stone—stained and cleaned too many times to count—worn smooth by age, hands, and violence.
Broken edges hide bullet holes and chips.
Decorative balusters on the white porches provide great cover and are easy to resurface in minutes to hide evidence.
Floodlights wash the exterior in harsh white, eliminating any shadows where threats might lurk.
Meticulously maintained acres surround the house. Not for beauty, but for sight lines.
This is no place for anyone to approach unseen.
Guards patrol the perimeter in precise patterns, their earpieces glinting in the artificial light.
Each one carries a sidearm visible enough to act as a warning and moves with the steady focus of a man who understands exactly what he’s protecting and the cost of failure.
Tonight, and for the last few weeks, the family’s collective paranoia has grown by leaps and bounds. All because of this wretched scavenger hunt some psycho with too much time and resources on their hands gave us.
And because of the Falcones and their mercenaries trying to get in on the action.
This isn’t just Roman’s home. It’s his men’s home too.
They all have a place here if they don’t want to live out in town. Even for those who do, they can still spend the day, the night, or the week at the compound, among family.
These guards are protecting their Pakhan and their own safe haven.
And mine.
But tonight, the homecoming feels hollow.
Jordan’s absence is a physical ache in my chest.
I shouldn’t feel like this. I don’t do attachment. I don’t do regret either.
And yet, as I roll up the long, dark gravel driveway, with the crunch of stone heralding my approach, I can’t deny my regret as I recall her small, drenched silhouette outside that hotel. Shivering in the cold.
Kholodno.
I’d pulled away from the curb. Twenty feet down the road, I slowed, watching in the rearview mirror. She stood under the glare of the hotel canopy, lost, a drowned creature in her ruined dress.
I could have reversed. Could have gone back.
Instead, I stayed put as she wrapped her arms around herself, exposing her vulnerability. I felt like someone pried open my chest and ripped out my heart. Her face was a blank canvas. Due to shock, maybe. Or hurt.
I did that.
Fighting the guilt flooding me, I remind myself I offered her a clean exit. I solved the problem and dodged a bullet.
Yet the sharp pain beneath my sternum refuses to budge.
I shake off the memory of her quivering outside that hotel and reach for the package on the passenger seat.
Whatever’s inside, the contents set Gio Falcone’s men on us and got people killed tonight.
And it might be the only thing that makes sense of the confusion that’s been building since the mess on the island all those years ago.
The cool night air envelops me once I exit the car. My footsteps crunch on the gravel as I approach the house, each step an affirmation.
This is my world. I belong here. Not in hotels with frightened wellness gurus who read auras and cry over fathers long dead. Not in ballrooms with blood on my knuckles.
Better to be alone than with me.
I will let her keep the freedom she worked so hard for.
Repeating the mantra, I climb the steps. Conviction, not regret. Protection, not abandonment. I didn’t leave her. I saved her from me.
A guard nods when I pass, his gaze assessing me for threats.
The front entry, designed to keep the world and bullets at bay, boasts heavy wood and reinforced steel. I shove the door open and march into the marble foyer with its soaring ceilings and frosty grandeur.
The cherry wood paneling on the walls greets me with the soft scent of fresh staining. The chandelier, lit even at this late hour, brightens the entryway.
Home. Or at least, the closest thing I have to one.
I need to report to Roman.
The gift box pressed against my palm is a constant reminder of unfinished business and proof that whoever sent us that clue about “Insurance” is playing with us.
But I find myself hesitating, too aware of how empty my hands feel without Jordan’s wrist locked in my grip.
How quiet the world seems without her constant stream of babble about vibes and manifesting abundance. How much I might be missing without her pointing out what I’ve overlooked, like the energies that exist in metal and stone and people.
She saw my shark aura.
The thought, unwelcome and razor-sharp, slices through me. I bury the reaction deep inside because I have no room for that on the surface. No space for Jordan and her ghosts in this place of hard edges and even harder men.
She belongs with her mystical auras and yoga mats, where she’ll be safer.
I’m halfway down the main corridor when Roman steps out of his office, his sharp black eyes cutting straight to me.
He stands at about my height, though he always appears taller, with brown hair just starting to gray at the temples. Mixed with his straight shoulders and rigid, focused expression, the older man gives off the impression of a living weapon at rest instead of a human. Always ready.
He doesn’t greet me or ask questions about the mission. Just jerks his chin in a gesture that brooks no argument. “We’re waiting for you.” He pivots away immediately, disappearing back through the doorway without bothering to see if I follow.
We?
Instinct prickles at the base of my skull.
Did I walk into an emergency meeting? More bad news?
Or is this just me reading energies?
Whatever’s happening, it’s not routine at this time of night, not with Roman’s jaw set and his shoulders rigid.
I glide down the hall, alert for any sign of what I’m about to walk into. The corridor is all old money and new safety measures. Antique tables support priceless artifacts, and discreet security cameras blend into the crown molding.
The trappings of power, Russian style.
Roman’s office door stands open, light spilling out across the polished floor. I pause for a split second, arranging my face into its usual mask of indifference before entering.
The massive, imposing space—designed to reflect the man who owns it—features a dark mahogany desk, cherry wood paneling, chair rail molding, and leather chairs positioned for maximum disadvantage to visitors. Books line the walls, untouched and perfect, selected for appearance rather than content.
But it’s the lone painting of the literal woman behind the man that always draws my eye.
The picture has a prominent spot on the wall behind Roman’s desk.
Lilia. Roman’s late wife. She sat for the portrait, akin to the ones you’d see of royalty, with a professional artist. Like a queen posed on a red velvet cushion stool, she’s angled to the side to show off her pink pant suit.
Her dark hair’s smoothed back into a tight, sleek style, and her hazel, gold-flecked eyes sparkle with life. The painter perfectly captured the elegant hands folded at her waist, her long fingers ready to flex.
Along the top corner, a key dangles from a chain. I find the necklace a strange, sentimental touch in this unsentimental space.
A life framed in gold, lost but not forgotten.
No one’s seen Roman’s wife or daughter since they died on Isla de Huesos fifteen years ago. Whatever happened there has been eating at the Kozlov family ever since like a slow poison working through the bloodstream and tainting our cooperation and alliances with the other crime families.
If not for that island, Jordan and I never would have crossed paths.
Still. Fuck that place.
Roman’s head turns sharply, his gaze finding mine with laser precision. Sometimes I wonder if he can read minds. Maybe he’s like Jordan and can sense the conflict eating away at my stomach.
I brace for the storm he’s about to unleash. Nothing in this room happens by accident, least of all a midnight summons. The package at my side presses heavy, as if whatever’s inside knows what’s coming next.
I step fully into the office, ready to report and face whatever comes next.
A quick scan of the room’s occupants informs me that my mission, my package, and my conflicted feelings about Jordan don’t matter.
Men pack the room like sardines, all watching me with the air of a legion welcoming a scout back from the front lines.
Alarm prickles my skin. What happened to set the very air on edge? What did I miss?
Roman’s office pulses with a tension thick enough to swim through.
Jordan would have a name for this.
A gathering of black auras, negative energies clashing like storm fronts…
Roman sits behind his desk, every inch the king with no hair out of place, not a ripple in his expensive suit, his eyes more frigid than the Siberian wind. His fingers rest on polished wood, and his perfect nails tap a silent, measured rhythm. If the room breathes, it does so on his cue.
Igor Pisarev, our second-in-command, stands steady at Roman’s right shoulder, regarding me with brown eyes that measure, tally, and remember.
With Igor, loyalty isn’t up for debate. He’s the one thing you can count on, locked and fixed when everything else in the room shifts, tilts, or gets slippery.
Mikhail Kozlov, Roman’s brother, sits on the left end of the desk. His wavy brown hair, though lighter than his brother’s, grays just the same. Broad shoulders dwarf the chair back.