Chapter 3 – Egor
The man’s palms went banging down on the iron table between us, and he sucked a breath through his teeth. “Fucking answer me already, dammit! Tell me what happened that night, Mr. Yezhov. Don’t make me go hard on you.”
Like the coward even fucking could.
I sighed, rolled my eyes, and clasped my hands on my knees. When I locked gazes with the brunette guard by the door, he shifted uncomfortably and hovered a hand over the butt of the gun tucked between his belt. Funny how they were still terrified of my presence in the room, even with the cuffs on.
The officer across the table—the one that resembled a Japanese animation character, with the uneven blond haircut and green eyes—looked even more displeased, fucking irritated, and was squeamish himself. He backed off the table and inhaled deeply with shut eyes while I watched in amusement.
I spared a glance at his name tag.
Officer Clinton.
With a resigned sigh, he turned back to the table. “God, this is so fucking infuriating. Look here, Mr. Yezhov, you’re a grown-ass man. You have to understand that making this…this process easy for us will make it easier for you. You just have to….” He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw like he struggled with using the most appropriate words to construct a sentence. “You just have to fucking open your mouth first to say something, okay?”
I blinked.
And his cheeks turned to a ridiculous red hue. Fury. Rage. Anger.
Again, the palms went down on the table, the sound bouncing off the walls. “ Goddamit !” he hissed under his breath and started rapid-firing questions.
“Why did you have a knife that night, Mr. Yezhov? Did you intend to murder Mr. Gallagher?”
Why, yes, I did. But of course, I wasn’t going to give the kind officer the satisfaction of knowing that I’d wanted to off Ronan’s head with the dagger. He was just going to have to figure that part out on his own.
“We have eyewitnesses at The Reindeer Hotel who saw you enter the building. Security footage records you in the hallway making your way to Mr. Gallagher’s room.”
Where he fucked a whore that I paid. Well, almost fucked . Incredible. Did the eyewitnesses disclose that part, too, or was the story one-sided?
Officer Clinton leaned forward, his voice firm but controlled. “Mr. Yezhov, we have evidence that suggests your intention to murder Mr. Gallagher. Your fingerprints were found on the weapon used in the attack. Care to explain that?"
Un-fucking-believable .
I was this close to losing my shit but relaxed, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned back with a poker face. Normally, I’d snort at his low-level IQ whack interrogation questions, but I couldn’t even find the strength.
Why the fuck did he ask me why I had a knife then?
Surely, I wasn’t starting a cooking class with Ronan, or was I?
Frankly, I found this—the entire process, the cursing and desperate pleading to have me speak—quite boring. This officer was a quack. A fucking amateur was what he was. He didn’t know shit about doing the job.
Someone, please, get this idiot out of here.
As if someone actually did hear my thoughts, the door buzzed and opened, and another person walked in, black boots clicking on the floor.
The officer backed off the table, but I could only stare as the magnificent creature strode into the room.
Playtime was over.
Finally, something pleasant to feast my eyes on.
Having lived over four decades, I could say I’d had my fair share of women: the beautiful ones, gorgeous ones, elegant ones. But never any woman like her. With striking beauty, she was the type that made heads turn—so much to see, yet minimum on display.
She was soft and easy on the eyes with smooth, pale-gold skin, dark hair sitting pretty on her head in a thick, messy bun, and a straight blue shirt and black pants that meant no-nonsense.
She smiled subtly, and her lips curved upwards in a way that made me curious. Despite her young appearance, she carried herself with class and confidence. Confidence that poor excuse of a man— Officer Clinton —lacked.
Whoever this was, she’d successfully snagged my attention—as well as the officer’s.
He walked over to her with a tired smile, like an exhausted husband going back to his wife. “Hey.” His eyes flicked to me and back to her. “Good luck with him. He’s all yours.”
With narrowed eyes, I watched their exchange. She didn’t smile back like a wife.
“Sure.” She gave a curt nod, and the officer evacuated the room with his nervous guard.
Hers mounted himself by the door while she ambled forward with firm but graceful strides, taking a seat across the table.
She knitted her fingers together and smiled again, bright brown eyes drinking me in as she said, “Good morning, Mr. Yezhov. I’m Detective Fox, Freya Fox, and I’m here to spend a few minutes with you. That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Hm.”
I recrossed my legs, one over the other, scanning her like an object on an examination table. She radiated good vibes and positive energy—the type that could draw anyone in and make even the most rational person want to be close to her. It was synonymous with reeling them in like fish on a hook.
And it made me wonder: Who is this woman?
I arched a brow. “Detective, you say?”
“Yes.” Her head bobbed in the affirmative, and the smile on her face didn’t falter. “Detective Freya Fox, from narcotics.”
“Ah….”
Her eyes twinkled, thick lashes fluttered, and a dimple appeared on one side of her cheek, kicking her charm to over a hundred degrees. She beamed. “Impressed?”
I snickered. “ Ty dyeven dosh' let dlya etogo?”
Are you even old enough for this?
She sucked in her cheeks, folded her arms on the table, and shrugged. “ Mne dvadtsat' dva goda. Po moemu ponimaniyu, eto ozna?aet, chto moya rabota legal'na.”
I am twenty-two years old. That makes having this job legal.
She’d responded in Russian.
I dropped my leg and raised my eyebrow higher, my curiosity about this stranger going into overdrive. “Are you Russian?”
She laughed, and her voice was like music, filling the air with a melody that was impossible to resist. It started with a soft, gentle chuckle, like the tinkling of a tiny bell, and grew into a joyful throaty sound.
“Unless my father kept that part hidden from me, as far as I know, I’m not Russian. I just…. Let’s say I have a thing for learning different languages.”
“Hm.”
“Yes.”
“How many do you speak?”
“Four and counting.”
I drummed my fingers on my knees and cocked my head to the side. “Well, have you ever been to Russia?”
She shook her head. “I haven’t. Not yet, anyway. I would love to visit Moscow someday. I hear one can only get the best beef stroganoff there.”
I made a concurring grunt. “One taste leaves you wanting more.”
Her chuckle floated between us. “Can’t wait to have that one taste, then. And, oh, I’d love to take a live video in front of the Kremlin. Or maybe the Red Square. Now, that’s what I’d call an experience.”
I studied her, thoroughly impressed by her vast display of knowledge and smart idea to try to build a non-hostile atmosphere between us.
But I knew better.
It didn’t matter how rich the sound of her laughter was or how deep of an interest she showed in my hometown; this detective was no friend.
Straightening in my seat, I circled a finger in the air. “This moment right here is officially over, Detective Fox. Why don’t you go ahead and say whatever it is you came here to say? You look smart enough to know the importance of good time management. So, don’t waste mine, and I won’t waste yours.”
That caught her off-guard.
I could tell with the abrupt drop of her smile and how she cleared her throat. She shifted to the edge of her seat and intertwined her fingers. With one small twist over her shoulders, she signaled the guard by the door to give us some privacy.
His nod was brisk before he disappeared out of sight.
Silently, the door behind us clicked shut.
“Great.” Another smile came, but it wasn’t quite as bright. “Now, it’s just the two of us. I hope you’re comfortable.”
I scoffed. “You don’t have the capacity to make me uncomfortable, Detective. Please, go on.”
If she was insulted, not even the slightest muscle tick revealed it.
Interesting.
She deserved some accolades for being able to keep her shit together.
“Mr. Yezhov,” she started, pronouncing my name like every letter was a piece to a puzzle she tried to solve, “I didn’t come here to ask you questions. If I did, I’d be wasting my time and yours. We both know you wouldn’t answer them.”
I stifled a grin.
She pointed at me. “You were not the only one in that hotel two nights ago with Ronan Gallagher. Your lawyer was with you, wasn’t he?”
I didn’t answer, but she’d already made it clear that she didn’t expect me to.
She shifted her arms, adjusting her weight on the table with a wry smile.
“I’ve always known somehow that the system is a bit corrupt. How corrupt? I didn’t know that much. Two days later, and no one has offered any reasonable explanation for the sudden disappearance of your lawyer from the scene of the arrest, why he’s not seated in this room, this very minute, and why there’s absolutely no trace of his involvement in this case. You know something? You can decide not to say anything, but you can’t lie to me.”
She tilted forward, and strands of dark hair fell over her eyes. “You and I know that you have powerful people in powerful places pulling strings. And one of those strings has your lawyer tied to it. If the accomplice of a lawyer is out, then the victim in custody has hope.”
She smiled, but this time, it was taunting.
“However, you are a smart man, Mr. Yezhov. You already know how this works, don’t you? This is an attempted murder case, and you were caught with the weapon held to Ronan Gallagher’s neck. You’re not getting out that easy. Not when you have Officer Clark sitting on this one.” She tapped a finger on her cheek. “Well, there is an exception. That’s if Mr. Gallagher decides to drop charges. But we both know he won’t.”
With a final hum, she finished, “So, your silence is deliberate. You are thinking, strategizing, and relisting different ways you could get out of here.”
Again, this woman deserved more than accolades. She deserved the Nobel Prize for being a fucking genius. But her analysis didn’t explain her visit.
My brows furrowed. “Then why are you here?”
“Simple. To strike an agreement.”
And it just kept getting better and better.
I felt my lips curve up.
What could she possibly have to offer?
“I’m listening.”
Dramatically, she cleared her throat and lowered her tone. “Sooner or later, this thing with Ronan is going to blow up. How long you’re going to wait is still unknown, but if there’s no strong case against you to prove your intention to kill him, coupled with the help of your lawyer, you’re practically a free bird. But….”
Her silence lingered, and I lifted a brow. Suspense was not my thing. It irked me to the bone. Impatience gnawed at my nerves.
“But what?”
“What if there’s real evidence of a murder? One you committed? If someone like Officer Clark gets his hands on solid evidence, what do you think will happen?”
I bent my neck to the side, studying her intently. Serious eyes, full lips, jaw set….
This was no random hypothesis or a ploy to scare me. She wasn’t joking. And it upset me. Made me wonder what she knew and how much.
I’d killed many; that much was true. But not once had I left any shred of evidence behind. So, what was she talking about?
“What are you saying?”
In silence, she produced a hardcopy photograph from one of her pockets and slid it across the table.
After one glimpse of it, my eyes snapped back to hers.
What the fuck ?
I didn’t make a sound, move, or even blink. But I didn’t have to.
This Enola Holmes of a woman wore a knowing grin, reeling in the triumph that she’d caught me red-handed and had me right where she wanted me.
The photograph stared at me from the table, although I looked away. My gaze didn’t have to linger. Even in the dark, I’d make out the ex- Pahkan ’s face anywhere. Those dead, soulless eyes, silver hair, and sketchy scars trailing from his left eye down to his chin.
Because he was my uncle.
The same one I’d put two bullets in two years ago.
The late Boris Yezhov.
Shit.
I’d made sure no one knew about it. No one except Arlo and Niko. So, how the fuck did this woman find out?
She mimicked my sitting position, leaning back on her chair with crossed legs and arms over her chest. She wore a wry smile. “At the end of the day, Mr. Yezhov, you’re not that good at erasing evidence.”
I didn’t process when words went flying out of my mouth. “You’re talking shit.”
That seemed to pull a chuckle out of her. “Oh, I am, aren’t I?” She withdrew the photograph and tucked it back into her pocket. “You don’t believe that I have solid evidence showing that you murdered your uncle?”
My eyes went hard.
I didn’t answer.
“If I release it to the public, two things will happen.” She held up two fingers and pushed them down as she spoke. “One, your people are going to flip when they find out. There’ll be an inner turmoil amongst them, and it’ll cause chaos. Loyal followers of your late uncle will rise against you, won’t they? To overthrow you. Or kill you, maybe. Two, you will finally face the wrath of the law. A life sentence or a minimum of twenty years in prison, and nothing less.”
Silence settled for a few minutes before she smacked her lips.
“But I haven’t told anyone about it. Not my supervisors, not anyone.”
“Why not?”
My sharp retort wiped all hints of her amusement away. She dropped her leg and gripped the table's edge like she wanted to claw it.
The detective in her came out. The real one. The one without the unnecessary laughter or talks about beef stroganoff and live videos. The no-nonsense, smart-ass, I-mean-business Detective Freya Fox stared back at me.
“When you meet your friend, Mr. Arlo Kenzov, you will give him an immediate order to wrap up the Bratva operations in LA, and you will move back to Russia. You have ten days. You think you’re so untouchable, don’t you? But I can tell you, Mr. Yezhov, you’re not invincible. All you have to do is give me a chance to prove that your armor is, in fact, destructible. If you don’t adhere, I will hand over the evidence to my supervisors, and trust me, no power on or beyond the Earth will save you from what’s coming.”
Silence reigned between us.
Then, I bobbed my head. “Hm.”
Really interesting.
To make it clear, she wouldn’t expose me if I did her bidding. She’d let me go quietly as long as I steered clear of her city. And if I didn’t do as she’d said, she would unleash hell on me.
This was no proposal for an agreement; it was a threat. A threat given by a twenty-two-year-old woman to a man almost double her age with triple her experience. It was almost laughable.
Except….
It wasn’t just entertaining. Her confidence, fearlessness, and audaciousness struck something inside me like a lit match.
I liked it. I enjoyed watching the cat become a tiger.
And I wanted to see just how long she could keep her roar.
Bending forward, I lowered my tone and growled, “Run.”
Her smirk melted, and her eyes grew wide.
“Run for as long as you can, Detective, because the only one here with destructible armor is, in fact, you. Believe me, you don’t want me to catch you.”
The fear in her eyes lingered, but briefly.
Like a ninja, she bounced back, appearing even fiercer than before. She leaned forward, close enough for me to spot the golden-brown flecks in her eyes.
“If you kill me, Mr. Yezhov, consider your life over.”
The door creaked open behind us, and the guard she’d dismissed marched inside. He ignored me and looked straight ahead. “Your fifteen minutes are up, Detective.”
We held gazes for a moment longer before she reluctantly lifted herself off the chair and sashayed away. My eyes didn’t miss the tempting sway of her slender hips and the perfect curve of her ass through her pants before the door closed behind her.
She was as sexy as she was feisty. And her feistiness had hit level hundred rather quickly.
I liked how daring she was. Made me want to test her, taste her, and hurt her in the most unimaginable ways, at the same time.
A smirk appeared on my lips.
Huh.
The bastard Ronan was right; two could play this game, after all.
By the time I was done breaking her little claws, the tiger would become a fucking mouse.