Chapter 37
Kirill
No one speaks for a long time as every man sits trapped inside his own cage of sorrow, each an unreachable island adrift in the aftermath of recent revelations. The thick, heavy air presses in, squeezing breath from our lungs.
The crushing gravity is almost too much.
Despite everything, though, my mind keeps slipping back to the hotel, to Jordan in that sterile, ugly light, with her arms locked around her body.
I left her there. I let the lifeline go, convinced I did the right thing. Something I rarely have a chance to do.
Why, then, does it feel so wrong?
My palm sweats against the gift box, and I shift my stance.
No one lifts their head.
Kolya glares at the floor as if willing it to swallow him whole.
Vanya is stiff, his usual ease splintered and leaving nothing left but glassy edges.
Max’s fists dig gouges in his thighs, his knuckles bone-white as he punishes his own flesh.
Alexei breathes slow and steady. As I watch his lips move, counting every inhale, every exhale, I know he’s fighting to stay above water.
Broken men. All of us. Yet still loyal.
Loyal enough to…
The irony tastes like blood.
I abandoned my only light so she wouldn’t have to see this. Wouldn’t have to break the same way we did.
But right now, I just want to hear Jordan’s voice slicing through this silence. Listen to her wild talk of wavelengths and auras. Drink in her green gaze, which always sees more than the rest of us. Feel her warmth beating back this cold.
Roman moves first. The lethargy snaps, burned away in an instant. A new heat blazes in his eyes, his jaw clenches, and every muscle draws tight with purpose. He’s constructed of iron once more, forged in the flames of loss and pain.
“Enough about the past. Kirill, tell me what happened. What did you find?”
Old reflexes return. Stand straight. Report. Turn everything into clean lines, facts, and orders.
My comfort zone. My native language.
“I retrieved Jordan Thorne.” My clipped voice sounds dead, all emotion stripped out.
“Clean extraction. She lived alone in a studio apartment and has only one friend in real life who might notice her missing.” Unless her subscribers start asking questions.
But Jordan’s probably already resumed her podcast and live streams.
Roman never blinks. “And then?”
“Complications. There was a professional attempt on her life the first night. They came straight to her apartment building. They knew where she’d be.” My report doesn’t even come close to describing her or what happened.
Brick by brick, I lay everything out. Keeping my tone flat, I only share the necessary details regarding the attack near her apartment, changing to the second safe house, and rewarding her for her cooperation by allowing her to attend her conference.
I leave out some information that Roman doesn’t need to know, like how beautiful she was and her ability to make every day interesting and exciting. The addictive way she melted under my tongue, and how I finally got her to trust me.
As I talk, images of our time together jumble behind my words. I remember Jordan pressed against me in the dark, her body molten and wild under mine even when she was exhausted, her voice splintering when she broke.
None of that belongs here.
“We figured out 237 was a reference to the model number of her father’s safe where he kept all his research.
Alistair Thorne hid a cache of evidence, held by her mother at the Hearst estate, which is owned by her stepfather.
” I force myself to stay clinical. “We went during a formal event. Security everywhere.”
Roman shares a glance with Igor. They both know how hard it is to gain access to Hearst’s estate.
“The detective that talked to Sasha tracked Jordan down at the hotel. Then days later, he showed up at the Hearst charity gala and spoke to Jordan’s mother, but she shut him down.
” As only the super-rich can do. I remember the glint of steel in Eleanor Hearst’s eyes.
“She got us to the safe, but someone had already emptied it and left this box.”
Roman’s face tightens. “Who?”
“I’m not sure. But right after we opened it, a professional crew confronted us. Three Eastern European men. Not Falcone’s usual muscle. These weren’t street-level thugs. They were high-grade, disciplined, expensive. Before one of them fired, he said, ‘Gio sends his regards.’”
Every head whips up, sharp and alert.
Roman’s face remains still, but his gaze ices over.
Mikhail’s blue eyes narrow on me. “You’re sure they weren’t Gio’s usual people?”
“Absolutely.” I hold the intense stare. “Different caliber. These were ringers. Specialists. Imported.”
A brief, ragged pause follows as the men around me absorb all the information I’ve just thrown at their feet.
Alexei watches Roman for a moment. “Gio’s outsourcing his wars now.”
Roman’s lips press together. “He must be mostly incapacitated if he’s desperate enough to hire outsiders. And not as dead as Kolya here promised.”
Kolya flinches but offers no excuse for himself.
Max’s jaw jumps. After all, he warned us that Gio might not be dead.
We all should have insisted on checking. Should have known better.
Not dead ’til you see the body.
It’s bad enough when a detective starts reopening old wounds. Gio Falcone wheeling and dealing with unknown muscle? Even worse.
And now a player with enough reach to swap out evidence for a message before we get there? That’s a whole new level of bad.
Alexei finally breaks the silence. “This isn’t about chasing treasure anymore. It’s self-preservation. It’s war.”
The last pieces of Roman’s old self burn away. The man who lost everything on that island has died, leaving only the Pakhan behind. A man built for this kind of fight.
Roman’s gaze snaps to mine. “Show me what was in the safe.”
I set the box on the table. The perfect white rectangle, accented with crimson silk, gleams under the overheads. The wrapping is still crisp and geometric, untouched by everything it’s endured. The red bow stands out. Mocking.
“Let’s see what the bastard left us this time.” Roman’s frigid tone could rival a blizzard.
He reaches for the package, taking the ribbon in one hand and the knot in the other before pulling. Silk, dark as old blood, slides loose and puddles on the wood. With one clean, violent rip, he claws the paper open.
The sound is too heavy.
“Wait.” Vanya darts forward and catches Roman’s hands to halt the movement. “There’s something under the wrapping. Look.”
I lean closer.
Vanya’s right.
There’s a second thicker piece of paper under the packaging. This one’s glossy and covered in greens, browns, and grays.
“What is it?” Kolya comes up behind Vanya to peer over his shoulder.
I do the same. “It’s a satellite photo.” I hunch down, attempting to get a better view. “Or an aerial shot. But of where?”
Carefully, Roman peels back more of the paper. He spreads the image out on the table, smoothing creases and turning it until he can make some sense of what he’s seeing
In stark resolution, we find a sprawling gothic structure, with lawns clipped close, courtyards, and winding paths to the water. Every detail is visible from above.
Kolya breathes. “A map.”
Alexei’s finger traces the coastline at the edge. “Isla de Huesos.”
I taste bile. “That fucking island.”
Chaos Island.
Vanya’s fitting name.
Kolya shakes his head, his skin pale. “What the hell? Another damn clue we have to figure out?”
“And we haven’t even seen what’s inside yet.” Roman picks up the box and impatiently lifts the lid.
Inside, rather than a thumb drive or a mini hard drive or a compilation of decades of research, he finds a single sheet of paper with two lines, the indent indicative of typewriter keystrokes.
Roman holds the paper up to the light. “St. Augustine Rare Books and Manuscripts Library. ‘The greedy tsar found only ice in his hands.’”
Silence fills the room as we all ponder those words.
Ice in his hands? Who was the greedy tsar? Weren’t they all? Is this a real tsar or another name for a Pakhan?
For a moment, Roman doesn’t move. Then his face hardens.
I know this mask. It’s the calm one before the killing starts.
He’s being played. Humiliated. Challenged.
Roman addresses Mikhail. “Where’s Sergei?”
Sergei, the man who shaped all the others. He’s the standard, Roman’s most trusted man regarding secrets and security.
Calculation flashes through Mikhail’s eyes. “On business.” That’s all he has to say about it, and those two words could mean any number of things. Considering how little he offers, Sergei’s likely off on a job so hush-hush that the rest of us shouldn’t even know he’s gone.
Tension passes between the brothers.
“Find him. Bring him home.” Roman sweeps the room with authority, his gaze raking over us. “Someone’s playing me. Threatening me. No one does that.”
We stand with the perfect posture of soldiers while waiting for his orders.
If we knew who to kill to stop all of this, I’d go do the deed now.
Roman starts pacing. He never paces.
Each turn is clipped and precise but also threaded with violence at the core. “Kill the bastard…hunt him down…string him up…”
We all exchange wary glances.
Roman’s fracturing, his control slipping.
A man who rules with logic and tactics is coming undone before our very eyes. A crack forms in the molten core of our world.
“It’s a trap.” Alexei breaks the standstill. “Someone’s baiting us. They want us to chase.”
Kolya runs a hand over his closely cropped hair.
“Every clue has only led to more questions. When are we going to get some actual answers? Chloe doesn’t know any more about the subject.
She’s even allowed her therapist to hypnotize her to find hidden memories, but there’s nothing there.
Kirill, you’re sure your woman doesn’t know more? ”
My woman?
A pleased sort of hum stirs in my gut.
I like the ring of that, even if Kolya calling Jordan that in front of Roman chills my spine. “She was never there. And never had access to his things until today. She found the safe when we were at the gala, and I opened it. She can’t be hiding anything.”
“I want to know how Gio keeps figuring out where we are and who we’re looking for.” Max trails off as he stares at the open door that Sasha disappeared through.
Maybe Sasha talked to more than just the cops.
Vanya smooths his perfectly groomed eyebrows. “Well, the next step is clear as mud. Either they want us on that island or at St. Augustine. If that’s even the real target and not a trap.”
But Roman has already gone past reason and strategy. Something feral has replaced the cold chess master.
He’s a man at war with a ghost in the shadows. “Trap or not, we move. Someone’s threatening my family. Mocking me. This ends immediately.”
I turn the note over again. “St. Augustine Rare Books and Manuscripts Library. That a public library? A store?”
Alexei beats him to the answer. “A private library. They collect rare books. You can only get in by appointments.”
Roman stops pacing. Decision hardens his face, and the mask snaps into place. “Vanya, you go. Get whatever’s waiting. Bring it back. No mistakes.”
Vanya nods. Just once. He’s the obvious choice considering he can talk his way past barriers and blend in with any group of people with his charm and ability to coax instead of smash through. He’ll seduce the secrets out of them, breeze through security, retrieve what we need, and disappear.
Roman gestures to the sheet of paper. “I want answers. Real answers. And to find out who’s behind this all.”
As my hand lingers on the satellite image, I picture Jordan in the penthouse I rented for her, safe behind glass and steel.
Is she truly safe, though? Or did I leave her exposed, a walking target with no protection?
Misgiving lodges in my gut.
Someone set all of this in motion. Someone who knows Jordan, Alistair, and the history of the island. They know our every move before we make it.
The question is, how?