Chapter 20
DMITRI
The hush in my office is absolute—no music, no distractions, barely even a hint of the hum of the city below. Everyone has gone home for the evening, and the executive floor is quiet and dark.
My desk lamp casts a circle of pale light across my desk, blurring paperwork that had failed to have any meaning as soon as Pavel came into my office to tell me that there had been an attempt on Clara’s life.
I haven’t lost myself like that since I heard the shot and found Lauren on the ground in a growing pool of blood.
And the only thing that pulled me back, that kept me from charging out of here like a madman and going after Andrey Mikhailov, was Clara’s tears and trembling shoulders. They had cooled the inferno to sparks, holding her in my arms, feeling her shaking and crying until there was nothing left.
A headache pounds behind my eyes, and I rub at my temples, willing myself to focus, to compartmentalize.
But that ability has deserted me tonight.
I lean back, the leather of my chair creaking in protest. My gaze on the brilliant Manhattan skyline before me, I take a slow, deliberate sip of the three fingers of scotch, a heavy-handed pour tonight.
I don’t want to get drunk, as I did the other night when Clara came to confront me about the Mikhailovs.
But I need something to take the edge off, something to make it disappear before I feel too much.
A knock precedes the door opening. I don’t turn around because there is only one person it can be at this time of the night.
“Dima.”
Pavel’s ghostly reflection watches me in the window glass, like a specter come to drag me to hell. But if death were here to drag me to hell, Pavel would be right by my side, as he has always been.
When he moves to come stand by my side, I know instantly there’s something on his mind. Pavel is many things—ruthless, physically imposing, serious, and unendingly loyal—but when he has something to say, he doesn’t hold back.
“Clara?” I sit up, scotch sloshing over the rim of the glass and leaving dark drops on the arm of my chair.
He shakes his head. “She’s fine. I waited at her apartment until our men were in place. A friend named Emily came to check on her, too.”
“Thank you, Pashka.”
When it’s just the two of us, as it was so often on the frozen streets of St. Petersburg, we talk as the brothers we are, addressing each other as we did when we were boys.
Pavel places the thick folder he has in his hands on the desk. “The background checks are done, Dima.”
“On all of my employees?”
He nods. “Every one of them. Clean, thorough, nothing missed. There were a few inconsistencies—some loans here and there, and strange travel visas—but nothing that stood out as a red flag. However—”
Pavel hesitates, an unfamiliar expression on his face, his jaw clenching. My fingers tighten around my glass.
“Clara’s friend, the one who is staying with her now, Emily Colton. Do you know anything about her?”
“Clara’s mentioned her often. I believe they’ve been friends since their freshman year at Columbia. She is an art conservator.”
What in the world could an art restoration specialist have to do with the mole in my organization? And why is Pavel dancing around the subject? “Pashka?”
“Her professional history is spotless. It’s her personal life.” Pavel opens the folder and flips to a color photo of two laughing women. “This is Emily Colton. She’s engaged to be married next month. Her fiancé is Agent Michael Hunt of the FBI.”
The logic is brutal, simple, and undeniable. It bypasses all the complex calculations I’ve been making about loyalties, old grudges, enemies, and chess play. It’s a perfect, clean resolution.
And utterly confounding.
A brilliant young lawyer who just happens to stumble into my apartment one night, who then applies for a job at my corporation, one who has a direct line to the federal government.
I slam my glass down. “No, it’s not Clara.”
Pavel doesn’t say a word; he doesn’t have to.
“Someone just tried to kill her today, Pasha.” I shove myself to my feet and start pacing the length of the windows. “Why would they kill their own informant?”
“Who says they were killing their own informant?” Pavel replies. “Andrey—if it is Andrey, as we believe—would still think she was simply your girlfriend. Two things can be true at the same time, Dima.”
“Of course it’s Andrey,” I snarl.
I don’t want to listen, but it’s impossible to deny the truth of what he’s saying.
My mind is a battlefield of disbelief and cold, hard calculation.
The thought makes me sick, not just from betrayal, but because Clara, the woman who is slowly taking over my heart, may have been trying to take down my operation the entire time.
The woman who sat there while I bared my soul, while I showed her my deepest, darkest grief. I might have been drunk, but I wasn’t so drunk that I don’t remember the way she held me, consoled me.
“The mole was operating before we hired Clara.” I cling to that fact.
“It doesn’t mean she was the only one. Just that she was the most important, sent to get close to you. And as a member of the legal team, she has access to all our files.”
Pavel’s theory, monstrous as it is, fits better than anything else. The affection I was beginning to feel for Clara is now a raw, exposed nerve. I had been concerned, protective, tender with the woman who might, at this moment, be passing on secrets.
Just as the awful weight of the possibility settles on my shoulders, a chime cuts through the air, an innocuous, digital sound from my computer, alerting me to a new email. Out of habit, my attention flicks to the screen and reads the glowing subject line on the pop-up:
Clara Benson: Official Resignation
I cross the space to the computer in two strides and click it open, reading the message with a growing sense of rage.
The timing is too precise, too damning. The background check, the conversation… the clues all point directly to Clara, and now she’s trying to bolt.
“She’s running.”
The thought ignites a volcano that instantly evaporates any denial. My hands clench into fists around the edge of the desk, my knuckles turning bone white. This isn’t just business; this is personal. That woman took my vulnerability, my growing trust, and exploited it.
“Contact her. Now.”
Pavel takes out his phone and puts it on speaker. It rings in the silence of my office, then goes to voicemail. He tries twice more, but Clara doesn’t pick up.
“What do you want to do?” he asks.
“Get the car. She doesn’t get to disappear. Not after this. Not when I—” I stop the words in their tracks, unwilling to follow that line of thought. I need to lock it in a box and throw away the key. “Find her.”
I don’t wait for Pavel’s reply as I turn on my heel, confident he is right behind me. I need to move, to burn off the suffocation of betrayal before it chokes me, before I burn something down.
Just then, Pavel’s phone rings. We both stop dead in our tracks, assuming it’s Clara.
It isn’t. It’s one of the men Pavel had stationed outside her apartment.
I’m going after her.
Two things are for certain: Clara is either running from her guilt or running for her life. Either way, I’m going to be the one who ends the chase.
My rage only builds on the drive to Clara’s apartment, exploding into fiery sparks when I see two figures hurrying out of the building. One unfamiliar, the other Clara.
I’m out of the car before Pavel fully stops, striding with purpose across the sidewalk to Clara. Whether it’s the sound of the car or my footsteps, Clara’s head jerks in my direction, and she stops so suddenly that it takes the other woman a moment to realize she’s no longer following.
“Dmitri.”
I stop a foot away from Clara. The woman I assume is Emily moves toward her in a protective gesture cut off by Pavel’s arrival.
“I see you received my email,” Clara says, a slight waver in her voice. She knows she’s caught.
“How could you do this to me?”
It's not what I wanted to say. It's not what I planned to say. But it's what comes out. It’s as if I can't control myself around this woman anymore. That’s always been the danger with Clara—my feelings for her, my fear for her safety.
I have to remain in control. Everything relies on that, along with my iron will and my hard-won ability to see clearly, to plan for all possibilities, to be one step ahead of my enemies at all times.
I learned that lesson the hard way with Lauren.
When she died, I almost lost myself entirely, and in the process, nearly my empire and my Brava, as well.
“I told you,” Clara glares up at me, defiant, “that I didn't want to be involved with someone in the mafia. I told you that I didn't want to put my professional reputation and my life on the line for something I didn't sign up for.”
When she stops and takes a breath, the pain I see on her face and in her eyes surprises me. When she speaks again, her words quiver as if she's holding back emotion. “You told me you would let me go. You promised you would let me go.”
“That was before I knew who you really are,” I hiss.
“Who I—” A line appears between Clara's eyes, confusion warring with emotion.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out? I trusted you, Clara. I never trust, but I trusted you.”
“And I never betrayed that trust, Dmitri. I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Clara protests.
The volcano inside me is about ready to explode. How can she stand there and pretend to have no idea what I'm talking about? How could she act like she cared for me, that she had feelings for me, when everything was a lie?
Clara winces when my fingers dig into her shoulders. “Do you know what I do with those who betray me?”
I can feel the darkness rising, threatening to take over, pushing me to strangle the woman in front of me here and now, ending it. To give her what she deserves for betraying me, for making me believe she had feelings for me.
Fear joins the pain and confusion in her eyes.
“I haven’t betrayed you, Dmitri. I'm leaving like I told you I would, when you promised to let me go. I have to protect myself. I’ve told you twice now, and you promised you would let me go, if I could prove to you that's what I wanted.
Someone tried to hit me with a car today. I can't do this anymore.”
“How stupid do you think I am?”
Clara tries to wriggle out of my grasp. “Dmitri, let me go! I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“You think I wouldn't figure out who you are? You know I figured it out, and that's why you're running.”
“Figure what out?” She's fighting harder now, panic joining the fear. “I don't know what you're talking about, Dmitri. I was very clear that I was going to leave the other night, and you talked me out of it. But after today, I can't stay. I have to keep myself safe. Isn't that what you want, too?”
“I want you to know what I do to people who betray me. Someone who, for the first time since my wife died, I had actually felt something for.”
“Dmitri, please, let me go! You promised you would let me go.” Beneath my hands, Clara is breathing hard and fast, her body rigid.
“That was before I knew that you were the mole.”
“The what?” Clara freezes. “The mole? Dmitri, I'm not the mole. Whatever evidence you have, it isn't real.”
“No, what wasn't real was you.”
Clara's eyes widen with dawning horror that she's been found out, and she starts to shake as she realizes the true gravity of the situation.
“Oh my God, Dmitri, no! The only reason I'm leaving is because I'm scared. Someone tried to kill me because of my connection with you. I'm not the mole! I have no idea who the mole is. You have to believe me.”
“Then why don't we ask your friend here? This must be Emily.” My tone is menacing, and though the woman is glaring at me, I can see the fear in her eyes, too.
Emily looks to Pavel, standing close enough to grab her if she tries anything.
“My fiancé is in the FBI,” she warns with a tremor in her voice. “If anything happens to me, he'll come after you.”
“That's the problem, then, isn't it? I know that Clara's been passing information to him through you.”
“What?” Both women say at the same time.
“Dmitri, that’s not what’s happening.” Clara curls her hands around my arms. “That’s not what's happening at all.
I'm not telling Michael anything. I mean, come on, Emily just told you outright that he's FBI.
You really think she would do that if we were trying to keep it a secret from you?
He's not even part of the organized crime unit.
He has nothing to do with any of this. It's not the FBI coming after you, it's the police.
Their hatred for the FBI probably rivals their hatred of you.
They'd never pull them in on this—they want to be able to bring you in themselves.”
“It's true,” Emily says, her voice pleading. “Michael doesn't even know who you are. He doesn't know anything about you. Clara’s my best friend. That’s it, I swear.”
I stop, unsure what to believe.
“Dmitri, I'm telling the truth. Please believe me. None of it was a lie.” Clara’s fingers close around my arms tighter, her eyes pleading. “None of it was a lie. But I can't let myself be in this kind of danger. I was very clear about that.”
Pavel and I exchange a glance, one of unusual uncertainty. For once, I'm not sure what the answer is.
“Dmitri.” Clara reaches up and puts her hand on the side of my face. “I'm not going to betray you. I would never do that.”
Lights turn on down the street, the sound of an engine rumbles in the distance.
She shudders. “I have to be safe. You know what that's like, don't you? Isn't that why you came here tonight?”
“I can keep you safe.”
There’s a pause, then a thin veil of tears that Clara blinks away hastily.
She takes a breath and opens her mouth to reply, just as a car speeds closer. I hear the engine roar as someone punches the gas. I see the window roll down, all thoughts about the betrayal disappearing.
I'm thinking of an easy Sunday morning in the spring, the sky a perfect blue, the trees just starting to flower, alive with birds.
The sound of a gunshot that still echoes in my head endlessly, the spreading crimson pool, and gasping breath, my heart and my life shattering in one horrific, hellish moment.
There’s an explosion of gunfire, multiple shots, splitting the quiet like a lightning bolt. I’m moving before I’m even aware of it.
I will not let it happen again. I will not lose someone I love.