Chapter 44
44
ROMAN
T he parking lot of the Alhaurin prison in Malaga has only a few scattered cars. I’m here outside visiting hours and during siesta.
I pass through security without difficulty and am shown to a bare concrete room. I don’t have to wait long before the door opens again. The guard sits Yuri down on a chair, then leaves, closing the door behind him.
“Roman. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
Yuri’s smile is tinged with unease. He knows something is off.
“I thought you didn’t like to draw attention to our association.” He sits back in his chair and lights a cigarette, staring at me through calculating eyes as the smoke curls between us. “Isn’t that what you said last time you visited me? And yet here you are, outside visiting hours and in a private room, no less. Hardly subtle, moy syn .”
“I’m not your son.”
“No.” His smile fades completely, his eyes going flat and cold. “My son is dead. Both of my sons, in fact.”
“Mikhail is dead because of a war you started. Nikolai is dead because he trusted you. If you want someone to blame, Yuri, then look in the fucking mirror.”
He stares at me for a long moment. His cigarette burns down in his hand, the ash eventually falling unnoticed to the floor.
I take out a bottle of Graf vodka and pour two glasses. I push his across the table. “What shall we drink to?” I tilt my head to one side. “To health? No, that doesn’t feel right. To family?” I grimace and shake my head. “No. Because we’ve never really been family, Yuri, have we? Wait. I know.” I pick up my glass. “Let’s drink to truth.” I touch his glass with my own. “ Za pravdu .” I raise my glass to my lips.
Yuri doesn’t move. His face is pale. He stares at me across the table, cigarette forgotten in his hand. “Drink,” I snarl.
He drinks.
I pour us both another vodka and push the packet of cigarettes across the table toward him. He wants to ignore them, but despite the dead ash of his last one still in his hand, he’s unable to disguise the greed in his eyes. I feel a sudden, savage twist of hard contempt.
“Go ahead,” I say agreeably. “Why do we work, if not to enjoy these little luxuries, Yuri? Isn’t that what you used to tell Mikhail and me?”
He winces as if he’s been struck.
You were never the man I wanted you to be. The man Mikhail and I needed you to be.
“You know,” I say conversationally, taking the old cigarette out of his hand and lighting the fresh one for him, “the thing I just couldn’t understand was how Ilyan Fedorov knew that Darya and Rosa were in London.”
Yuri’s eyes are locked on mine, but even now they slide sideways, as if he’s still trying to think of a way out of this.
As if there could ever be a way out of this.
“There was no digital trail of their whereabouts,” I go on. “Mak and I worked through every member of our teams, interrogating each man, but our operation was watertight. Eventually, I had to let it go. But it bothered me, Yuri. You know the other thing that bothered me?” I nod at the vodka on the table in front of him. “Drink.”
He drinks.
“Vera.”
Yuri visibly jumps at the name, as if he’s been given an electric shock.
“The man guarding Vera was shot. At first, we assumed he had been taken out by Fedorov’s men, but that wasn’t the case. The bullet came from Vera’s gun.”
Yuri draws on his cigarette, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Your wife shot her own guard, the man who had been sent to keep her safe. And then, showing a very uncharacteristic disregard for her own safety, she went downstairs to directly confront a deadly enemy who had invaded her home. Quite the show of heroism, isn’t it, for a woman who, to my knowledge, had never wielded anything more deadly than a credit card?”
Yuri licks his lips, his eyes sliding sideways, then to the floor, before coming back to mine.
“As if all of that wasn’t enough,” I say, “Vera then proceeded to shoot her own daughter-in-law. Without question. Without hesitation of any kind. She just pointed her gun at Inger’s head and blew it half off.”
Yuri blanches. His eyes drop to the empty vodka glass.
“By all means.” I refill his glass, and he gulps the contents before the bottle has even returned to the table, his hand shaking. I stare at him, wondering how I ever thought this man was powerful.
But did I ever truly think that? I wonder. As I have every moment since Alexei handed me a name on a piece of paper, I remember the long-ago words of Zinaida Melikov, the Russian heiress who murdered her father: Most of all, you should ask yourself: why did Yuri take you in? What does he have to gain?
“Vera told us she shot Inger out of grief. It sounded plausible enough. Vera is an old woman who had already lost one son. Now her other son was dead, seemingly betrayed by her own daughter-in-law. That’s enough to send anyone over the edge into insanity, right?”
Yuri doesn’t answer. I pour him another glass. His eyes are slightly glassy. He stares at the vodka, but doesn’t touch it.
“Drink,” I say calmly.
He does.
“Then I listened to the accounts of all the people who were there that day. I couldn’t play the audio back because it wasn’t recorded, but between Darya, Rosa, and Sergei, I got a pretty accurate account of Inger’s last words. Would you like to know what they were, Yuri?”
He doesn’t move, just stares at me.
“Inger said, and I quote: You said he’d be safe.
“Of course, everybody assumed she was talking to Fedorov. But Fedorov was already dead by then. Sergei was unconscious on the floor. The only two people alive and conscious outside that room were Inger and Vera. We all assumed Inger’s last words were a result of her grief and confusion, that she was talking to a dead Fedorov in a moment of madness.
“But it bothered me, Yuri. I’m stubborn like that. Wouldn’t Vera be just as angry at Fedorov as Inger? Wouldn’t that make them allies, rather than enemies? It was a loose end. One which made no sense at all. Then Vera disappeared, right in the middle of our investigation. Went to a health spa in the Swiss Alps. No phone reception, no internet. Said she needed to ‘heal.’ Do you know what Switzerland is famous for, Yuri? Apart from banks, chocolate, and watches, of course. I’ll give you a guess. No? Fine. I’ll help you out.”
I pour myself a glass of vodka. “Switzerland is famous for refusing to extradite its citizens. Now, I know what you’re going to say, Yuri: Vera holds passports for the UK and the US. Not Switzerland. Right?” I don’t wait for him to answer. “Wrong. As I’m sure you’re aware, your wife’s first ever passport was issued in Switzerland. That was long before you met her, of course. The passport was issued for one Vera Peretz, a Jewish refugee from Poland. She was traveling with her ‘father,’ a man named Andras Peretz. Only Peretz was really Ilyan Fedorov. He used the orphaned daughter of one of his own murdered captains to help with his new identity when he entered the US. After all, people have a lot more sympathy for a man with a young daughter, don’t they?”
I toss off my vodka and push Yuri’s toward him. “Drink,” I say quietly.
He almost chokes as he swallows it. Eyes watering, he stares at me.
“Vera Peretz owed Ilyan Fedorov everything. He saved her life and gave her the best of everything—including an adoptive brother.” I lean forward, clasping my hands on the table in front of me. Yuri’s nostrils flare, his every muscle tense. “Do you know how Nikolai described Vilnus Orlov, right before I put a bullet through his head?”
He makes a small, impotent noise, like a trapped, wounded animal.
I smile coldly. “Nikolai described Orlov as a friend of the family . The words stuck in my head, Yuri. I’ve been part of your family for almost two decades, and I’ve never once heard of Vilnus Orlov being a family friend. And I would have known. If I’d ever heard so much as a whisper of that fucking name, I’d have been gone from your household before you had time to pull a gun. But you were always very careful, weren’t you, to keep that little secret? Just like Vera never disclosed the reason she hated my presence at her table, in her family.”
“We didn’t know.” He rasps the words in a pathetic protest, the panic starting to spread across his eyes. “We weren’t sure—”
“But you suspected, Yuri, didn’t you?” I cut him off coldly. “Or rather, Vera did. Vera might have been long gone from her adoptive father’s home, but she was still in touch with him. She’d been raised knowing about the Naryshkin treasure, the great wealth that her parents had been killed for, that had been stolen from her adoptive father. And then suddenly, out of the blue, I turn up. A homeless Russian boy named Roman, in Miami. The miracle is that she told you of her suspicions, rather than Ilyan himself, or even Vilnus. That’s what happened, Yuri, wasn’t it? She told you the story about the vault, about the missing boy her brother had been searching for all these years, and suddenly you realized that, quite by accident, you’d stumbled across a fucking gold mine.
“I remember being surprised when you invited me out onto your yacht after Mikhail had been shot. You’d already given me a fat envelope of cash. In my experience, men like you paid your debts, then considered matters settled. You barely looked at me the first time you met me. But a few days later... well. Suddenly, I was a hero. A second son. A man to whom you owed everything. Your son owed me his life, you said, and so my life was now your responsibility.”
I shake my head. “And I was dumb enough to believe you,” I say softly. “Lonely and desperate enough to truly believe you gave a fuck about me.”
“Roman—”
“Don’t,” I say quietly. “Just fucking don’t, Yuri. It’s way too late. When was it that you became certain of who I was?”
He stares at me, body stiff, lips pressed together, as if he’s actually considering not answering. Then he slumps back in his seat, lighting another cigarette, the fight seeping from his old, sagging body. “Not for a long time,” he says dully. “I suspected. You had no identity, no past, and it was clear you weren’t telling me the truth about your background. Then, you and Mikhail miraculously got funding for Hale. I knew nobody would have given you that kind of backing without surety of some kind. But in the end, it was Nikolai and Inger who pieced it together, with the help of some journalist.”
“And all that time,” I say, staring at him in contempt, “you could have told Fedorov. Or Orlov. But you wanted to take it all for yourself, Yuri, didn’t you? You thought that you could play us all. You even suggested I take Inger as my wife after Mikhail died. It was only when you suspected Orlov was moving in that you told Inger the truth.”
His mouth twists. “Inger was smart,” he mutters, looking away. “Smarter than Nikolai.”
“You thought you could use her to get what you wanted,” I say. I’d laugh if it wasn’t so pathetic. “But in the end, it was her who played you, although not to Orlov. She hated him, did you know that? He raped her several years ago. Even for someone without a conscience like Inger, rape isn’t a crime you forgive. You were right about her being smart. Inger went to the one person you all overlooked: Vera.”
Yuri spits on the floor and avoids my eyes.
“Vera hasn’t been happy these past few years.” Yuri sits in sullen silence as I speak. “Dependent on me for her credit card usage, confined to the London house. I never tried to constrain her spending. And that house is hardly a prison. But none of it was enough for Vera. She always liked the fine things in life, always wanted more. Maybe that’s why she and Inger got along so well. Vera saw a way to ensure she had endless wealth for the rest of her days, and who knows—maybe, if Fedorov had succeeded, she would have. But I doubt it, Yuri. Fedorov was a cold, ruthless fuck.
“Which brings us to Nikolai.” I sit back in my chair and pour two more glasses, sliding Yuri’s across the table to him. “Do you know,” I say meditatively, “I think Inger actually loved Nikolai? It makes sense, when you think about it. Inger was a narcissist. She needed constant affirmation that she was beautiful, lovable. Nikolai genuinely believed those things about her, was maybe the only person who did. She might not have been certain that you would prioritize Nikolai’s life—after all, she lost Mikhail as a result of your wars. But she did trust Vera. And who knows? Maybe Vera genuinely thought that Fedorov wouldn’t harm her son.”
I swallow the vodka, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat. I don’t feel remotely inebriated. The alcohol simply clarifies every word I’m saying, each piece of the puzzle gleaming cold and hard as ice in my mind.
“Drink,” I say coldly.
Yuri does.
“Your wife is safe.”
His head jerks up, his eyes narrowing.
Is it really possible that he still thinks there’s hope for him?
“I hope she enjoys the Swiss spa, because she won’t ever leave it. I’ve paid them an extremely generous amount to ensure she does not. Enough to hire an extremely good security team, which a good friend of mine will be providing. Vera will be made comfortable for the rest of her life. But her passports are gone, as are her bank accounts. In fact, Vera Stevanovsky officially died yesterday. There’s even a funeral being held for her in London as we speak. Unfortunately, none of her grandchildren are able to attend, since they are still grieving the deaths of their mother and uncle. Everyone understands, of course.”
Yuri’s face crumples into a pinched, resentful scowl. “I had nothing to do with this. It was Vera—”
“ Yerunda .” I cut him off brutally. “That is bullshit, Yuri. You’ve been planning this for years. You know it, and so do I. But that all ends today. Your grandchildren will never know the truth of what you did; I will spare them that. They will grow up surrounded by love and honorable men. People who won’t risk their lives or trade them to sadistic fucks for gain.”
“And you truly believe that bullshit?” He sneers at me across the table, all trace of surrender gone. This is Yuri the vicious pakhan , who built a business on the back of girls and drugs, and held it through torture and intimidation. “You truly believe you can take care of business in our world with all that touchy-feely bullshit, Roman? The truth is that your family won’t ever be safe. Not that Petrovsky slut you knocked up or the bastard she’s carrying. Her father will take everything you have. And her brother is a psychopath, from what I hear—”
This time, my laugh is genuine. “It’s funny you should mention psychopaths, Yuri.” I pour us both a shot of vodka and cover them with my hand. “Another psychopath, Zinaida Melikov, gave me a piece of advice a long time ago. She said I should ask myself why you took me in, what you had to gain. Do you want to know what else she said, Yuri?”
He stares at me, white-faced and silent.
“She said I should kill you before you got me killed. She told me that weak men die—and take others down with them.”
I slide his glass across the table. “Our world is dangerous, that much is true. But it is our job to protect our children from that world for as long as we can, and then to prepare them for it. That’s what good men do, Yuri. Weak men get greedy, and then they get caught. They abandon their children to wars that aren’t theirs and sell them out for money.
“Our world might be dark. It might be brutal. It might demand that we are able to be both brutal and dark when those things are required. But to survive that world, we need to be better than what surrounds us. Smarter. More honorable. We need to be a light that others follow, not the darkness that kills anything good.”
His mouth twists in contempt. “You sound like a fucking preacher, Roman, not a pakhan .”
I smile coldly. “You forget, Yuri. The Bible is the most brutal book there is. An eye for an eye , for example.” I nod at his glass. “Drink.”
He makes no move to take the glass. “Here?” he says skeptically, looking around the bare concrete walls. “You think you can kill me here and just walk away from it? There’s no amount of money you could pay to make an entire prison guard look the other way. Weren’t you the one telling me I needed to be more careful?”
“But that was you, Yuri.” I touch the metal of my pistol, feel its comforting weight at my hip. “This is me, now. And I don’t have to be careful. Not here. Not anywhere. I don’t just own the guards. Or the warden. I own the men who own the prison. I own the men who they answer to. Let’s just say that in five minutes, I will walk out of here, and an entire prison of people will swear under oath that they’ve never so much as heard my name, let alone laid eyes on me.”
I nod at the glass again. “ Za pososhok ,” I say quietly. One for the road.
Yuri grabs the glass and tosses off the vodka.
“My father always taught me that it’s bad manners to offer a man a drink after that toast.” I raise the pistol. “So I won’t.”
I walk out of the prison ten minutes later, Yuri’s brains still sliding down the concrete wall.
Nobody says a fucking word.