Chapter 14
CLARA
The weather has turned colder, bringing a hint of winter in the air, along with a constant, gray drizzle that refuses to turn to snow.
After my morning sickness calms, I head out of my apartment with my now-constant companions—ginger ale and saltine crackers—to trudge through the gloomy damp to my favorite café one block over.
Emily’s sister, the OB/GYN, gave me a list of everything I can’t have, which is honestly depressing. If I can’t have a glass of wine at night, I’m at least keeping my caffeine, even if the limit is one cup a day.
I start to feel better once I’m seated at my favorite table against the front windows. The café’s coziness and familiarity are soothing: the soft hum of conversation, occasional laughter, jazz coming from the speakers, and the whir and whoosh of the espresso machines.
I feel like I can finally take a deep breath as I sip at my coffee, gazing out at the wet street while I watch cars drive past and people hurry by on the sidewalk, hunched under umbrellas.
I pull out my laptop and begin working on a few things I hadn’t gotten to during the week, thanks to the raid. Halfway through an email, I feel, rather than see, someone approach my table. When the person stops beside me, I finally raise my head.
A man stands over me. He’s tall, with olive skin, gray eyes under thick eyebrows, and dark hair that is slightly damp. He looks familiar, but I can’t remember where I’ve seen him before.
“Can I help you?” I ask slowly, removing my earbuds.
“No, but I think I can help you.”
The man’s mouth stretches into a grin that should be charming. But instead, something about it puts me instantly on guard.
Before I can say anything else, the man slips into the chair across from me without an invitation.
“Uh, excuse me, but—”
He waves his hand like he’s erasing my words. “I have a few minutes while they prepare my coffee.”
All I can do is blink at him. It almost feels like someone is playing a prank on me.
“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else. I don’t know you, and I’m not looking for company right now.”
The man winks, and again, I find it disturbing, instead of charming.
“Sometimes, you don’t know what you need until it arrives.”
Is this guy hitting on me?
“Okay, look, I don’t know who you are. I’ve already told you I’m not looking for company, and I don’t want to share my table.”
I look around and see there are other tables open, it’s not like the café is full. He doesn’t need to sit with me.
“You may not know me, but I know you, Clara Benson.”
I freeze at the sound of my name slinking off the man’s tongue, and it takes me a long moment to gather the courage to ask, “Who are you?”
I have a feeling I suddenly understand what this is about. Or rather, who this is about.
The man sketches a mocking bow like he’s just performed in a play. “Andrey Mikhailov at your service.”
“Natasha’s—”
“Brother,” he finishes for me. “Twins, actually. She’s the scarier half.”
The man says the words with a spark of amusement in his eyes. I’ve met Natasha, and she was scary. However, there’s something about this guy that has my fight or flight instinct pulsating.
“In fact, I understand you met my little sister just the other day.”
I grab a piece of my sugar-sprinkled scone for something to do, as nervous energy courses through me, crushing it into crumbs between my fingers, instead of eating it. “Little? I thought you said you were twins.”
“I’m five minutes older.”
“Oh.”
I might be great at arguing in court, but this conversation is entirely out of my league.
I glance at my phone, sitting beside my laptop, and wonder if I can text Emily to come save me.
Or even Dmitri, who insisted I put his personal number, as well as his lackey’s, in my phone after the raid and the drama with Dean.
Noticing what I’m looking at, Andrey says, “I’m only here for a few minutes. I don’t think anyone can get here that fast, do you?”
I bury my hands in my lap, clenching them into tight fists. Andrey’s eyes are still glittering with amusement.
“Yes, I did meet Natasha,” I finally say. “I was in a meeting with the CEO of my company when she interrupted us. Did she send you?”
“A meeting? Is that what he’s calling it these days?” Andrey chuckles. “And no, I’m here all on my own.”
“Yes, a meeting,” I stress the word. “About a subject I have a feeling you already know all about.”
“Ah yes, Natasha filled me in on everything.”
From the way Andrey grins, I have a feeling Natasha was well aware what Dmitri and I were up to.
“Okay, I’m done with this conversation.” I smack my laptop closed. “Enjoy your coffee.”
“Did Dmitri tell you what happened between them? Him and Natasha?”
I hate that I want to know what went on between them, and I remain at the table, instead of storming off, glaring at Andrey.
“Why would my boss, the CEO of a multinational corporation, tell me anything about himself, aside from what I need to know as a member of his legal team?”
Andrey regards me for a moment, a smirk curling up one corner of his mouth, something shining in his eyes that makes me shiver. “Keep telling people that, I’m sure they believe you.”
I ignore the way my heart thumps heavily in my chest, continuing with the piercing glare. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get out of me, Mr. Mikhailov, but I am an employee at Smirnov Corporation, the newest member of the legal team. That’s all.”
The barista calls his name, and I breathe a sigh of relief as Andrey leaves the table, despite him flashing me another of those frightening grins. The relief is short-lived, however, because he returns only a moment later with what looks like a triple shot of pure espresso.
My morning is officially ruined.
“Mr. Mikhailov, really, I have no idea what you want, and even if I had anything to give you, I wouldn’t.”
When I stand and reach for my tote to shove my laptop inside, he reaches out and grabs my arm. The impish smile has gone frigid, revealing something that looks far more menacing. It’s in that moment that I notice the flash of something under his suit coat—the outline of a gun.
“Sit down, Ms. Benson. I have something you’ll want to hear.”
I do as he says, sinking slowly into my seat, my eyes darting around to see if anyone is paying attention. No one is looking in our direction, everyone is caught up in their work, their conversations, or their music.
The smirk slips back onto Andrey’s face. “I just want to talk,” he says in a conversational tone before taking a sip of his triple shot.
“Fine. Talk.” My heart beats frantically as I try to keep my gaze from wandering back to the gun.
“I’m here as a courtesy to you. I want to give you a clearer picture of Dmitri and Natasha. You may not know it, but they were involved. Very involved. In fact, Dmitri’s never gotten over her.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“I’m getting to that.” He takes another sip from the small espresso cup. “This was before Dmitri met Lauren, of course.”
“Oh? Is that someone else in the company?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“She was Dmitri’s wife.”
The café goes silent to my ears, and it takes all my self-control to calmly say, “I didn’t know he was married.”
A look of sadness overtakes his grin. “Was being the operative word, Ms. Benson. Lauren Anderson-Smirnov died in a drive-by shooting. It’s still unsolved.”
“I had no idea,” I calmly say.
It’s not the response Andrey expected. He tilts his head and peers at me.
“Dmitri went mad after that for a time. Almost lost his company and his, well, you know.”
His Bratva.
“I suppose it was a natural response, losing your wife and child in such a—”
“You only mentioned a wife, not a child.” I cut him off, unable to control sounding shocked, because I am.
“Oh, didn’t I mention it? She was five months pregnant at the time.”
My stomach drops, and I feel sick, my hand twitching as I force it to stay on the table, instead of covering my belly where there is life growing inside me. There is no way Andrey Mikhailov can know I’m pregnant.
“Lost in his grief and looking for someone to blame, he accused me of killing them.” Andrey’s expression turns to sadness and regret, but there is something off about it, like it’s practiced and not sincere. “But to be honest, I always wondered…”
He pauses and waits for me to ask the question before finally continuing without it.
“I always wondered if he didn’t order the hit himself.”
“On his pregnant wife?”
“You’re surprised, but our world is a dark one.
Worse things have happened. Lauren was an outsider, and maybe she decided she’d had enough.
Maybe with a child on the way, she decided the darkness was too much and she tried to leave him, but he refused to let her go.
That’s the way it goes in our world sometimes. ”
My entire body feels cold.
Refused to let her go.
Is he really suggesting that Dmitri killed his wife when she tried to leave him?
“You know I’m a lawyer, and if we were in court, that would fall under hearsay, Mr. Mikhailov.” Just as at the police station, I hide behind the attorney side of myself.
He shrugs. “Of course. But between the two of us, I believe I know more about what kind of darkness is out there.”
I can’t argue with that.
“Dmitri never got over my sister because they’re too much alike—ruthless, cold, power-hungry, and possessive. Whatever you think you see in Dmitri Smirnov, Ms. Benson, you’re imagining it. He doesn’t have an ounce of humanity left, if he ever had any to begin with.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I switch tactics.
“Because I want to avoid bloodshed. Because I don’t want another innocent woman killed. A woman who doesn’t deserve to be dragged into our world by someone who only cares about getting what he wants.”
“And you’re different from him how?”
Another shrug before Andrey downs the rest of his triple shot. “It was good speaking with you, Ms. Benson.”
“I can’t say the same.”
“Remember what I said—you don’t know Dmitri like I do. It’s best you remove yourself from the situation before it gets worse. Oh, and I would think about changing your coffee shop. Routines make it easy for others to find you.”
And then he leaves, whistling cheerfully and slightly off tune, as though he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on my life and threatened me in the same sentence.
The door opens and closes, allowing in a damp, cold gust of air. But when I shiver, it isn’t from the weather.
I run to the bathroom to throw up.