Chapter Twenty-Six
In which it’s a shame that Roman never chipped Violet.
Roman…
I throw my stiletto up, admiring how the light plays along the blade before I catch it again, handle first. I toss it up again, this time catching the razor-sharp tip between my thumb and forefinger.
"You have to stop that before you carve up my office furniture," Dmitri says sternly. "Why are you so edgy?"
We're in his office on the CEO level of the Morozov Group, the office building we keep downtown for appearances and the occasional visit with legitimate business partners.
"I haven't heard from Violet."
Shit. I just blurted that out like a lovesick fourteen-year-old boy.
Dmitri, of course, takes advantage of this. "Maybe you should have Ioann slip a piece of paper in her notebook. 'Do you like me? Check yes or no.' Then you can stop hovering around my office like an angst-ridden ghoul."
"Thank you brother. I always know I can count on you for support." I flip my stiletto again.
"What are families for?" he says graciously.
His taunting smile fades as he watches me throw the blade and catch it for another three or four rounds.
"You know, your sense is always good about things like this.
I've noticed you get agitated when something's going sideways and we just haven't caught it yet.
Do you think Violet could be in danger?"
My hand pauses in mid-air and the blade flashes down. I move my thigh just in time for it to bury itself in the expensive leather of Dmitri's chair.
"That's shell cordovan leather!" Dmitri snaps. "Go. You do better when you're on the move. Head over to Hope House and see her for yourself."
The problem is, Violet seems to be doing just fine since she took her thieving sisters - something I appreciated about them, of course – and moved back home.
The only interaction we have had since then is Violet stubbornly trying to send me her pitiful savings and my sending them back.
She knows by now that I bought out the tenant in the apartment across the hall from her when she moved in with me so we could keep an eye on her place.
On the day I sent her home, I bought out the tenants on either side, they're currently filled with my people.
I have a team following her to back up Ioann, who dutifully sends me messages four times a day.
The overnight team patrols the hall and sends a report at midnight and six am.
And of course, I've had her apartment wired. I monitor the security camera feed on my phone like a fucking pervert. Watching Violet eat. Watching Violet sleep. Watching Violet cry a little in the kitchen every morning before the girls wake up.
I'd like to think she's crying for me, though she hasn't called once.
Fuck. Dmitri's right, I sound like a fucking seventh grader. Of course, by my seventh grade I'd already killed my first man and had the family crest tattooed on my rib cage. But I must have left my emotional development somewhere back in prep school.
I'm heading towards the parking garage when I get a call from the backup team. "Sir. It's Misha. Ioann has not responded to our hourly call, he's ten minutes late. Permission to move in?"
An electrochemical surge lights up every nerve in my body as I break into a run.
Violet's in danger.
"Get in there," I say. "Report back immediately."
"On it, sir."
Slamming my foot on the gas, I peel out of the parking garage, startling a flock of pigeons, scattering them in every direction. Stabbing my dashboard button, I pull up Misha's phone number.
He answers immediately. "Sir. There is no sign of Miss Monroe or her sisters. The girl at the front desk –"
"Jones," I supply.
"-stated that Miss Monroe and her sisters left fifteen minutes ago, accompanied by two men."
"Call Kolya. Have him pull up traffic cameras for a six-block radius around the shelter. Traffic's shit, they can't have gotten far."
I hear him murmuring to his partner before saying, "It's done."
"Did Jones see the car?"
"She did," he sounds regretful. "A plain black town car, she didn't catch the license plate. They went through the employee side entrance into the alley."
"Fuck!" I slam my fists against my steering wheel. The Bugatti swerves slightly and angry horns blare around me. "Motherfucking New York traffic. I'll be there in less than twenty minutes. Keep me updated."
There are security cameras inside the shelter. Violet had a pitiful three camera set with an inadequate system that didn't send the data off-site. I'd had the system updated and another eight cameras installed.
I pull up the shelter's security feed on my phone at the next stoplight, clicking through the eight cameras.
I see Violet pale, but resolute, her arm gripped by a big, blocky-looking bastard.
Based on the position of his other hand, it looks like he's holding a gun on her.
Rose and Iris are in front of her with another thug. I sent it to Kolya.
Scrolling through the footage, the camera in front of Violet's office door shows it's been left open.
I can just see the back of a man leaving down the employee hallway.
Her office is empty. She never leaves her door open when she's not in her office.
There are too many sensitive files and she is adamant about the privacy of the kids who go there.
I take a sharp left and park the car in the same alley where Violet was dragged out. Racing into the lobby, I startle some girls breakdancing over by the water cooler. They dissipate instantly; they've experienced enough trouble to not want to be involved.
"Jones." I put my hands flat on her counter. "Tell me very carefully what you saw?"
She stumbles through her explanation again, voice shaking, ending with, "I'm terribly sorry Mr. Moro- Ro-, Mr. Mor-"
"Roman is fine," I correct impatiently.
"I should have questioned it," she says, red-eyed. "I should've wondered why she was leaving so early, you know? She said something weird, though."
"What?"
"She said if I was having trouble with anything I should reach out to Maureen over in the Women and Children's shelter. It's just one door down, she's the director there."
"Why is that weird?" I ask, feeling my patience beginning to fray.
"Well, why wouldn't she just tell me to ask Larry?" Jones says. "I mean, he is the shelter's Assistant Director."
"Is he here?" I'm gripping the countertop and the cheap wood is beginning to crack.
She hitches her shoulder towards the hallway. "Last time I saw him, he was in Violet's office."
I stride down the hall, Misha intercepts me, looking grim. "Boss, we found Ioann."
He's been shoved into the storage closet next to Violet's office, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. His eyes are still open, and I brush my hand over his eyelids, closing them before dropping my head. Ioann has been a proud Morozov Bratva man for over fifteen years.
"Make sure he's taken care of," I say. "Call our recovery crew. Have you seen Larry here anywhere?"
"Her blue-haired friend?" Misha shakes his head. "No, but I know he came in around the same time as Miss Monroe did today."
In Violet's office, I look around. No Larry.
Her little jar of paper clips and pencils is still neatly settled on the right side of her desk, a stack of paperwork in the file on the left.
Everything looks undisturbed until I look at her window.
Her beloved orchids have all fallen from the windowsill.
They're on the chipped linoleum floor, pots smashed and the blooms already beginning to wilt.
I lace my hands over my head. I rein in everything; the fury, the terror for Violet and her sisters. I rein it in and I unfold each step in the constellation of Violet as I see it. I search each piece of action, of everyone who could be involved and then my head tilts slightly.
One piece that didn't come into play yet. Or maybe it had.
I called Dmitri. "Brother, she's gone."
His voice sharpens. "Does she have a tracking implant?"
"No, goddamn it." I run my hand through my hair, gripping the ends. "I should have chipped her when I had the chance. Fuck this body autonomy bullshit!"
"Take a breath," he says. "You have an army behind you."
"Yeah." I close my eyes for a moment. "Kolya is going through traffic camera feeds around the shelter, she's been gone about twenty minutes and traffic is especially shitty today. It had to slow them down."
We both know that twenty minutes could mean she's been taken away by helicopter. She could be a few minutes away from a private airfield, or put on a boat waiting at the harbor.
"What do you need," he says, sharp and certain. I look at Violet's wilting purple and white orchids, forlorn in the smashed ceramic.
"Tell Father that I need his favor."