Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Kholod
"Speak."
My voice cut through the air like ice, the gun barrel pressed against the forehead of the man kneeling before me.
Allen McBride, Kieran's right-hand man. This bastard had been lying low until last night, when my men dragged him out of some run-down apartment in Newark.
"I'll tell you... I'll tell you everything..." He was trembling like a leaf, urine staining his pants. "Mr. Morozov... please spare my life..."
"Then start talking." I tapped his skull with the gun barrel. "Marco Bellucci. What really happened back then?"
"It was... it was Kieran who forced him..." Allen's voice shook. "Marco owed Kieran gambling debts, couldn't pay up. Kieran threatened to go after his daughter... he had no choice."
My finger tightened on the trigger.
"His daughter?"
"Yeah... that girl Noelle... Kieran knew Marco loved his daughter most, so he used her as leverage."
"What information did he leak?"
"Some... some trivial stuff..." Allen swallowed hard. "Places you frequented, your license plate numbers, and that you'd be passing through South District that night... but he didn't know Kieran had set up an ambush!"
"And his death?"
"That was Kieran..." Allen was shaking all over. "He silenced him, made it look like suicide... then spread rumors that you drove him to it..."
My breathing suddenly grew heavy.
So Marco Bellucci never wanted to kill me. Everything was just to protect Noelle.
"Who else was involved in this scheme?"
"No... no one else."
"Ah—" I snapped one of his fingers.
"Really! Really, no one else!"
"Tell me everything you know."
"There's Isabella Vance... she was Kieran's informant, responsible for passing along your information. Kieran helped her fabricate evidence to make you suspect Miss Noelle..."
"Why?"
"Because... Isabella wanted to marry you, wanted to become Mrs. Morozov..."
My hand began to tremble.
Isabella. Of course it was her. That seemingly innocent woman had actually conspired with Kieran to orchestrate such an elaborate scheme.
Bang!
The gunshot rang out. Allen collapsed in a pool of blood.
"Boss." Dmitri stepped forward.
"Dump him in the Delaware River."
"Yes, sir."
I walked out of the warehouse into the deepest darkness before dawn. Standing at the dock, watching the churning waters—the truth was finally clear.
Noelle was innocent. And I had destroyed the most innocent person of all.
"Where's Isabella Vance?"
"At her apartment."
"Bring her to me."
Half an hour later, Isabella was brought to an abandoned factory in Kensington.
When she was pushed in, she was still wearing a silk robe, her hair disheveled, makeup smeared.
"Kholod?" She saw me, terror flashing in her eyes. "What is this? Why did you bring me here?"
I sat quietly in my chair, watching her coldly.
"Kholod, say something!" Her voice began to tremble. "What did I do wrong?"
"You know exactly what you did wrong."
"I... I don't understand..."
"Don't understand?" I stood up, walking toward her step by step. "Let me help you remember. Three years ago, on Christmas Eve, the person who saved me—was that you?"
Her face instantly turned deathly pale.
"It was... it was me... I saved you..."
"Liar." I grabbed her chin. "You worked with Kieran, drove a wedge between me and Noelle, fabricated evidence, set one trap after another..."
"No... I didn't..."
"Still lying." I released her and turned to Dmitri. "Proceed as planned."
"No!" She screamed. "Kholod! Listen to me! I love you! I did all this because I love you!"
I laughed coldly. "You call this love?"
"Yes!" She sobbed. "I've loved you since the first time I saw you! But you only had eyes for Noelle! I was jealous of her! Hated her! Why should she get everything from you without lifting a finger?"
"Because she deserves it."
I leaned down and whispered in her ear.
"And you're nothing but a greedy fraud."
"No!"
"Take her away."
Isabella's screams gradually faded beyond the door.
I lit a cigar, standing in the empty factory. I'd originally planned to use every interrogation method to torture her, but now I felt only exhaustion, too drained even for anger.
Since escaping death and controlling Philadelphia—hell, half of America—I'd been confident everything was under my control.
Only when it came to Noelle had I repeatedly lost my mind to suspicion and jealousy, easily believing fabricated evidence, forgetting the most basic Morozov family rule—evidence must be verified three times.
I'd even needed Anya to point out the obvious flaws.
Killing Allen, disposing of Isabella—it was just putting an end to this farce. Meaningless. Noelle had already left me, abandoned everything connected to me, vanished without a trace.
Now I didn't even know who to hate, except myself.
Back at the manor, I didn't enter the bedroom but went to the library instead. Her landscape paintings still hung on the walls, her art supplies sat by the fireplace. I picked up a charcoal pencil—so light, still bearing traces of her grip.
"Noelle..." I whispered.
Leaving the library, I pushed open the master bedroom door. Her scent hit me immediately—faint orange blossom mixed with something uniquely hers. I lay on the side where she used to sleep, her fragrance still lingering on the pillow.
Eyes closed, face buried in the pillow, suffocating regret completely overwhelmed me. Tears fell silently.
The next morning, Dmitri was already waiting in the study.
"Boss."
"Report."
"Kieran's remaining forces have been eliminated, all Philadelphia strongholds destroyed, key members confirmed dead, but Kieran escaped."
"Find him. Kill him."
"Our men are closing in. He headed northwest. Isabella has been dealt with as ordered."
I nodded.
"Next, except for those hunting Kieran, use every resource to find my wife. Remember—we're asking her to come back. No disturbance, no harm. Confirm her safety first. I'll see her myself."
"Yes, boss."
He turned to leave.
I walked to the window.
Noelle, where are you?
Are you safe?
"Boss, we have a lead!" Dmitri practically burst into the study, excitement in his voice for the first time in ages.
I immediately stood and took the photograph from his hand. The image showed Iceland's blue ice cave, signed "T.C."—but that distinctive brushwork and signature made me catch my breath instantly.
"Give me details!"
"We found this painting at an auction house in Boston. After comparison by multiple experts, the brushwork is confirmed to match your wife's exactly. This is the most reliable lead we've had in two years."
Two years. She'd vanished without a trace. Zoe had gone into the mountains early to paint, Isabella was handled, and Lorenzo had disappeared, too. Only now, from these carefully designed disguises, could I glimpse her trail—both annoyed by her cleverness and proud of that quick thinking.
My fingertips traced the signature in the photo, as if I could see her standing at an easel, lost in her work.
"Any other leads?"
"We only found that the artist goes by Tara Coleman. We suspect it's Mrs. Morozov's alias. But the painting's origin isn't clear—they just said it changed hands several times."
"Tara Coleman..." I repeated the name, the style feeling strangely familiar.
"Continue investigating the painting's source."
"Yes, sir."
"Tara Coleman..." I muttered the name, unconsciously walking to the library.
I went in, pacing before the bookshelves, thinking about possible origins for this name. Casually, I caught sight of a book about Native Americans.
"Of course! The Indians!"
I rushed to the map, finding the Maka tribal lands in Washington State.
I immediately dialed. "Dmitri, send people to Washington. Focus on searching for 'Tara Coleman' who appeared suddenly two years ago."
"Yes, sir."
Found you, Noelle.
This time, I won't let you leave.
"Boss, are you really going to live here?"
Dmitri stood before a modest little building, brow furrowed.
"Yes." I pushed open the door. "You head back to Philadelphia."
"But boss—"
"The family needs someone in charge." I cut him off. "Don't contact me unless it's urgent."
Dmitri was silent for a few seconds, then finally nodded.
"Yes, boss. But Nick and the others will stay with you."
"Fine."
Niaube was a tiny seaside town with fewer than a thousand residents. Noelle's little shop was on the coastal street. This was primarily a fishing town, over 4,000 miles from Philadelphia.
Sea breeze carried the salt-tinged air. The streets were narrow, lined with colorful little houses. My place was close to Noelle's, around the corner where she couldn't easily spot me.
I positioned myself behind a wood carving near her shop, keeping hidden while watching her through the storefront window. Noelle was talking with a customer, smiling.
She wore a beige knit sweater and jeans, hair casually pulled into a ponytail. Simple, plain, yet beautiful enough to capture my complete attention.
After the customer left, I was about to approach when I saw a familiar figure emerge from the back door.
Lorenzo Conti. He was actually here! So he had helped her escape.
He was carrying a child. My breathing stopped.
The child wore a soft green onesie, curly hair framing his forehead, giggling happily.
Noelle walked over, naturally taking the child from his arms as the three of them left the shop.
"Tara, he just woke up." Lorenzo's tone was gentle and familiar.
"Thank you, Lorenzo." She kissed the child's forehead. "Hey, baby, did you miss mommy?"
The child giggled, little hands patting her cheek. Finally, I could see those eyes clearly—clear brown, identical to Noelle's.
"He's a good boy. Went right to sleep after his bottle."
"Thank you for this."
"I enjoy taking care of him."
The harmony of their scene together stabbed at my eyes. Rage boiled in my chest, my fingertips unconsciously moving to the gun at my waist.
I wanted to charge in.
I wanted to demand answers.
I wanted to—
Just as impulse peaked, memory crashed down like ice water—Noelle bound and wounded, those dead eyes looking at me saying, "Kholod, I wish you burn in hell forever."
"Kholod, I wish you burn in hell forever."
My hand slowly dropped from the gun. What right did I have to be angry? I had pushed her away with my own hands, driven her off in the most brutal way possible. This scene was nothing but the consequence of my own actions.
After the rage died, only bone-deep cold remained. I stepped back, silently watching that warm picture.
That figure who once belonged to me, that family that would never be mine.
I had lost her forever.