Chapter Twelve
In which Dmitri reminds everyone - yet again - that is Ava is not his girlfriend.
Dmitri…
“How did Ava take it?” It’s early evening and my mother is walking down the clinic hall with me.
“Better than you might think,” I admit. “I thought she’d lose it, but she might be storing it up for later when it hits her. Or she’s playing it cool so she can try to knock me out and escape.”
“You’re looking tired enough that she might be able to get away with it,” Mother says, eyeing my stubble and wrinkled shirt.
“I appreciate your faith in me,” I say dryly. “If you think she’s healthy enough to release her, I want to move her out tonight.”
“You can always put her at our house,” she says. “We have better security than Fort Knox.” She’s eyeing me shrewdly because she knows perfectly well that I’m not letting Ava out of my sight, but she wants to force me to admit it.
A sympathetic nurse helped Ava shower and dress in clean clothes.
She brightens when she sees Mother again, immediately launching into a torrent of questions that my mother seems just as happy to answer.
I take this moment of bonding via medical terminology to tackle the most uncomfortable part of my day.
Calling my father.
His phone rings only twice before he picks up. “Dmitri.” His deep voice is just as chilly as I feel. “I understand you've been busy."
I give him the quickest possible rundown without leaving out any important facts, or letting him think I'm hiding something from him. My growing feelings for Ava would definitely be in that category, but even the Pakhan doesn't need to know everything.
"It's brilliant,” he says thoughtfully. “Sell an apartment and a girl as a package deal.
Wiring the unit to keep her in." It sounds cruel, but I know my father is simply thinking out loud, assembling the details into a tidy bundle.
“This doesn't follow any known patterns that we've been tracking,” he says.
“Exactly,” I agree. “There could be units all over the city like this, fuck, all over the world wherever there's too much real estate and too little oversight.”
"And rich ublyudki to pay for it,” he sighs. “You said you had rescued a victim.”
“Yes, Ava Blue. She's a physician's assistant at Bellevue Hospital. She and Mother have been swapping stories about gruesome ER patients.”
“I'm sure your mother is in heaven,” he says dryly. “Where are you keeping her?”
There it is.
“At my place.”
There's a short silence that seems to say all kinds of things about not getting involved with a victim and why would I allow a stranger into my domain when there are Morozov safe houses dotted all over the city.
“Hmm…”
There’s another stretch of silence until he says, “I’m sure she’ll be well-guarded. Have Kolya send me everything you have so far.”
“Of course. How is the mess with the missing guns and the Popov Bratva?”
“They’ll be paying for them,” he says in a way that indicates more than just financially. “I’ll be home in a couple of days.”
“It will be good to see you,” I say warmly. My father may be colder and more reserved than most, but he has never held back from showing us affection.
“You as well, moy syn, my son. Keep an eye on your mother for me. And Roman. Most especially, Roman.”
“I will,” I chuckle.
“There he is!” Mother loops her arm through Ava’s, bringing her over to me. “Ready to get out of here?”
Ava smiles uncomfortably, “I’m very grateful for everything you’ve done. But I could hide out at home in Colorado. I’d feel-”
“They’ll find you anywhere you try to hide,” I interrupt her. “I assure you that they very likely know you’re here.”
The color fades from her face and I feel a twinge of guilt.
“It’s true,” Mother says sympathetically.
“Dmitri is not trying to scare you, though of course it is terrifying. You are safest with him.” She gives Ava’s arm a gentle squeeze.
“Though I’d love it if you wanted to visit me here and sit in on a surgery or two.
Your ER experience would come in very handy. ”
Laughing, Ava nods. “I would love that. Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for me.”
They hug briefly, and Mother gives me a smug, meaningful smile over Ava’s shoulder.
I like her, she mouths.
Escorting Ava out the door, Kir and Demid fall into position, one in front of us, one in back. She looks over her shoulder at a looming Kir and raises her brow. “Do you always have two bodyguards with you?”
“Kir is my Second,” I say. “Demid, my driver. If I am not with you, you will have two bodyguards.”
“Yeah, because that’s not completely over the top,” she says as I help her into the Aston Martin before sliding in myself. She jumps a little as the door shuts with a heavy clunk. “Is this sucker armored? Like a Brink’s truck?”
“Much better than Brink's,” Demid says, settling behind the wheel.
She’s quiet, watching the city pass by in streaks of color when my phone rings.
“Good news or bad news first?” Roman says without preamble.
“Bad news,” I sigh.
“Robert Meyers is dead. They found chunks of him dumped in front of a 7-11 in the Bronx. The coroner thinks most of the chunks were cut off while he was alive.”
“Good,” I say with a savage satisfaction. “They were definitely sending a message. I’m pleased that he suffered. The bad news being that we’ll get nothing out of him.”
“Exactly,” Roman says. “Whoever placed Ava in that apartment wiped all the footage from the offsite server - too late, fuckheads - and the entire security system footage for the last month was erased from The McManus file storage. Unfortunately, we won’t get anything more from that.
I was hoping to see if we could identify any workmen who’d been up on the tenth floor. ”
“Ilya lives on that floor,” I say. “Have a chat with him and see if he has anything to offer.”
Roman groans. “He’s got the IQ of a bar of soap, and probably the memory of one, given all the pot he smokes. I’ll give it a try.”
Hanging up, I see that Ava’s watching me with a frown. “Who’s dead?”
“The man who bought you,” I say. “The trafficking ring cut him into pieces before we could pick him up for questioning.”
She bites her lip thoughtfully. “Crap. You could have gotten a lot out of him, especially now that I know you are not bound by the rule of law.”
“We still have plenty of leads,” I say, even though that’s not entirely true. “Just keep thinking of any details you might not have remembered before. Anything they might have said, names, perhaps.”
Shuddering, she admits, “I don’t want to remember. I don’t. But I’ll try.”
Surprising myself, I take her hand, holding it like we’re a couple, like this is something not born from blood and terror. “I know you will.”
***
Ublyudki - Russian for ‘bastards.’