51. Octavia
My fingers grip the seat as the plane lurches forward, touching down on a quiet gray runway. The only sound is the thundering race of the wheels against the track as the jet loses speed. The sun has risen, but you can hardly tell through the heavy cloud layer covering the sky.
Perhaps the world is in mourning.
Or, far more likely, the world simply kept spinning.
Alex rises from his chair across from me, face creased in a mixture of exhaustion and grief.
I feel bad for dragging him along while his sons and wife are left behind in the wreckage, but I can’t trust anyone else to guard my back right now.
Our soldiers don’t meet my gaze, and Dad’s allies won’t take our calls.
“Are you ready for this?”
I pull myself up to standing as the jet slows.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“If they separate us, remember what I said. What we have to offer.”
“I remember,” I murmur.
And I do.
I remember every word of preparation uttered on the two-hour flight. I remember the various streams of income that fund our syndicate. I remember the names of our underbosses, each rehearsed silently on the tip of my tongue.
I remember the slick sensation of clutching his bloody shirt between my fingers.
“Octavia,” Alex calls out, wandering between the seats to my side. “There’s one other thing we should discuss.”
“What is it?” My voice is still scratchy from the screams. I clear my throat, turning back to face him. The brown arcs beneath his eyes match mine, brightened by shock. He lost a brother and a son within the span of an hour.
“Vasiliy.”
I narrow my gaze. “What about him?”
“We have no claim to him,” he explains, dragging a hand over his face. “I know you’re going to ask Solokov to help return him.”
I open my mouth, but he waves me off before I can speak to that claim. “I’m not passing judgment. It’s a wise move. He’s a loyal soldier and a powerful strategist.”
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about how I might leverage Vas’ return while we’re in New York. I know Solokov and him have a relationship, so I’m hoping the connection will at least allow me in the door.
“But as a leader of the Siderov Bratva, there are only a few ways you could lay claim to a Morozov heir,” Alex explains, following me down the foggy plane steps. Condensation mists my face.
Two black SUVs pull up to the tarmac.
Ours. Not theirs.
I thought it would be best not to give a warning of our approach.
Always ask for forgiveness, not permission, one of the kids in my foster house used to say. The words stuck with me. The face did not.
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” I finally respond. “I’ll be laying a claim they won’t be able to question.”
The rain picks up. One of the few soldiers we took with us steps forward, cracking a dark umbrella. I move beneath, hand automatically shifting to check for the weight of my weapon. Before we left, I showered and changed into a fresh set of black cargo pants and a tight, long-sleeve zip-up.
It doesn’t matter.
The layer of blood still remains on my skin.
I climb into the car in silence, doing my best not to think about anything but the information I learned on the plane.
I’m not thinking about my gentle-hearted cousin, trapped somewhere in pain.
I’m not thinking of how easily I dropped my father’s hand and rose from the ground.
The road transitions from spaced suburbia to clustered apartments. Traffic picks up around us, horns blaring through the endless downpour that pelts our windows. Something about returning to the city like this thickens my anger. My body remembers all the hurt and pain I felt here.
I embrace the feeling.
It will make me sharper.
When our car finally pulls up to a tall building that I must have mindlessly walked past more times than I can count, I turn to Alex.
“You need to stay here.”
“What? No.” His hand swipes through the air. “No way in hell am I sending you in there alone!”
“Yes. You are. Because if I don’t walk out of there, you need to take over. You need to survive and find another way to retrieve Kirill.”
He shudders, eyes widening as he considers my point. “You don’t understand the magnitude of this—how much power these people hold!”
“Oh, I understand,” I say quietly, raising a brow.
“I’m walking into this trap with the desperate hope that these predators will hear me out before shooting a bullet into my skull, and I can only take that risk knowing that you will be sitting here, ready to change course.
Nik is trigger-happy, and Ben is prideful.
Maksim won’t leave Juliet. You are the only one left. Do you understand?”
His eyes roam over my face as if seeing me again for the first time. “Is this an order?”
“It is.”
I wait for painstaking seconds until he finally nods.
“If something feels wrong, you get out of there. By any means necessary.”
My head dips, fingers ghosting over my weapons one last time.
I’ve pulled open the car door when his voice fills the space, so different from the stern command he just issued.
“He would be so proud of you.”
My breath stutters.
The door slams shut behind me.
I’m not quite sure what I expected to find in the lobby of the illustrious Solokov Industries building.
But it sure as hell isn’t the high-pitched scream of a toddler running my way.
“Ophelia! Damn it,” a woman calls out as she chases the little escape artist who wobbles towards me on unsteady legs.
It’s practically second nature to catch the squirming child and lift her into my arms. When I turn, the beautiful woman, dressed in a sleek pantsuit and sky-high heels, has finally caught up, eyes flaring in concern.
“I’m so sorry! Her uncle thought it’d be funny to teach her tag, and ever since, she’s been firmly in a running phase. I swear I must be sprinting a mile each day trying to catch up to her!”
Despite everything, a small smile lifts my lips as I look down at the girl with dark brown curls and an unrepentant grin.
“It’s no trouble at all,” I say, depositing the child into her mother’s waiting arms.
But then the woman’s sharp grey gaze flicks down.
I can see the moment she recognizes the bulge in my belt.
The gun beneath.
“Andrei!” the woman calls.
A massive man materializes beside me with an assessing look.
“I mean no harm,” I say slowly, lifting my empty palms into the air.
“Then you won’t mind my head of security removing your weapons in the presence of my child.”
Shit.
“Of course.” My throat bobs. I was hoping to get further into the building before being disarmed.
“What is your business here?” he asks.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy this big. The behemoth appears above me, plucking my guns from either side with a frown. He looks about five seconds away from throwing me out on my ass. There’s no way I could take him unarmed.
So I play my Hail Mary. I face the woman, still standing by with a squirming toddler in her arms.
“I need to see the Pakhan,” I plead, feeling the weight of my knives tug free from my pants. “Please.”
Grey eyes shine back.
Two sets, actually, because the little girl is still wriggling in her mother’s hold, trying to free herself once more.
“And what business do you have with my husband?”
The Pakhan’s wife. My luck shifts. Something flickers in the center of my chest. Not the usual, predictable anger.
Hope.
“A matter of life and death, ma’am,” I respond, sinking to my knees before her. Cold from the linoleum presses into my pants. The head of security could take my life right here and now. Would they kill me in front of the child?
It wouldn’t have stopped Vasiliy’s uncle.
Pakhans don’t beg. Leaders don’t bend. But I am not a leader right now. I am drowning in frozen depths, pleading for a liferaft.
The woman hasn’t turned away. Her inspection feels incredibly analytical, and I can’t tell which way she’s swaying. Then she glances down for the briefest moment at the chaotic bundle of joy in her arms.
“She’s unarmed?” she asks her head of security.
He nods.
“Alright. Follow me.”
She turns toward the elevator, and I stumble after her, pleased when the big guy doesn’t topple my bones back down to the hard floor.
Thank God. The elevator flies past numerous levels, rising much higher than I’d anticipated.
Manhattan Ballet is only a handful of blocks away.
I often walked past the large glass doors of this place on my way to the studio, but I never bothered to look up.
A ding sounds through the air as the doors slide open, revealing a massive office space with floor-to-ceiling windows. We’re so high that hazy clouds float around the surrounding buildings.
“Daddy!” the child squeals, and that one word tries to knock over the precariously stacked blocks of my mind. The woman sets the girl down, allowing her to run off towards the two men sitting at a desk on the far side of the room.
“I thought you two were headed home, menace,” one of them calls out as he scoops the tiny child into his massive arms and plants a kiss on her forehead.
The woman beside me folds her arms stubbornly across her chest. “Yes, well, it seems that a certain uncle has turned my child into a monster. She runs from me as soon as her feet hit the ground.”
The other man, a tall, blond guy who looks oddly familiar, laughs. “That’s because we’re going for gold, Cass. She’s gonna be an Olympian one day.”
“Fine. You catch her then!” The woman, Cass, throws up her arms. “I’ve brought you something else as well.”
My stomach clenches.
“Oh?” The man’s eyes glitter. Then he looks over to me with stark curiosity. “And what would that be?”
I’m grateful for the woman stepping closer, a casual show of backup in front of a predator I’ve spent hours preparing to die at the hands of.
“A pro bono,” she says simply.
The dark-haired man tilts his head at a disconcerting angle, stepping forward. “What is your name, pro-bono?”
My throat burns in anticipation before the two words even crawl free.
“Octavia Siderov.”