Chapter 45 Lena
LENA
The private jet cuts through clouds like a knife through silk, and I press my forehead against the cool window, watching the landscape transform beneath us. City gives way to suburbs, suburbs to farmland, farmland to the wild, untamed mountains I called home for three years.
My stomach churns, though whether from the altitude or the pregnancy or the sheer anxiety of returning to Montana, I can't tell. Probably all three.
"You okay?" Aleksandr's voice is low, meant only for my ears.
"Fine." I don't look at him, just keep my eyes on the mountains growing larger as we descend. "Just thinking."
His hand finds mine on the armrest, fingers lacing through mine with a possessiveness that should annoy me but doesn't. The gesture surprises me more than the touch itself.
He's not a man who shows affection in front of his soldiers, yet here he is, holding my hand like it's the most natural thing in the world.
I glance at him. He's focused on his laptop, reviewing something that makes his jaw tighten, but his thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. The contrast between the cold calculation on his face and the gentle touch is strange.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks without looking up from his screen.
"How different everything looks from up here." I turn back to the window. "When I drove out here three years ago, I was terrified. Every mile felt like I was driving deeper into exile. Now I'm flying back in a private jet with a Mob boss holding my hand. Life is weird."
His mouth quirks. "Is that what I am? A Mob boss?"
"Pakhan sounds too formal. Crime lord sounds too dramatic." I squeeze his fingers. "Mob boss has a nice ring to it."
"I'll update my business cards." He closes the laptop and turns to face me fully. Those gold eyes search my face, reading things I don't want him to see. "You're nervous."
"Observant."
"It's my job to notice things." His free hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "Talk to me."
I want to tell him about the baby. The secret sits on my tongue like a stone, heavy and impossible to swallow. But this isn't the time or place.
"I'm just worried about what we'll find," I say instead. It's not a lie, just not the whole truth. "Pavel was a good man. He didn't deserve to die like that."
His voice drops to that dangerous quiet that makes people nervous. "We'll find who did it. And why. Then they'll pay for it."
The certainty in his tone should terrify me. Instead, it makes me feel safe in a way that's probably deeply unhealthy.
The jet lands at a small private airfield outside town, and a black SUV waits on the tarmac. Danil drives while Aleksandr sits beside me in the back, his hand never leaving mine. The two guards follow in a second vehicle, and I feel the weight of all this protection like a physical thing.
The town looks exactly the same. Same weathered buildings, same pickup trucks parked at angles along Main Street, same sense that time moves differently here than in the rest of the world.
But I'm different. The woman who lived here in hiding is gone, replaced by someone I'm still trying to figure out.
John Davis's house sits on five acres at the edge of town, a modest ranch-style place with a well-maintained yard and a view of the mountains. Smoke curls from the chimney, and I see curtains twitch as we pull up the drive.
He's watching. Of course he is. Former FBI agents don't lose that instinct.
Aleksandr helps me out of the SUV, his hand on my elbow, and I notice the way he positions himself slightly in front of me. Protective. Always protective.
John opens the door before we can knock. He's dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, his hazel eyes moving over Aleksandr with the kind of assessment that comes from decades of studying dangerous men.
"Sasha, isn't it?" His voice is neutral, giving nothing away. "I wondered if you'd come back."
"Actually, it's Aleksandr. Aleksandr Romanov."
John nods. "Figured as much." He turns to me. "Maya, good to see you looking so well."
I smile. "Actually, it's Lena," I say with a slight grin. "Lena Orlova."
His smile gets a little brighter. "Figured that, too."
"Thanks for meeting us," Aleksandr says.
"Didn't have much choice, did I?" But there's no hostility in the words, just resignation. "Come in. We have a lot to discuss."
The house is exactly what I'd expect from a former FBI agent living alone.
Clean, organized, sparse. A few photographs on the mantel show a younger John with a woman who must have been his wife.
The furniture is comfortable but not expensive, and everything has the feel of a man who's given up trying to impress anyone.
Danil and the guards wait outside, and I'm grateful for the small mercy. No need to make John feel like he's surrounded by armed men, even though he is.
John gestures to the couch. "Sit. I'll make coffee."
"We're not here for coffee," Aleksandr says, but he sits anyway, pulling me down beside him. His arm goes around my shoulders, and I lean into his warmth despite the tension crackling through the room.
"No, you're here because Pavel Galkin is dead, and you want to know who killed him." John moves to the kitchen anyway, and I hear the sound of a coffee maker starting. "And because you think it's connected to whoever tried to kill you."
Aleksandr's body goes rigid beside me. "You know about that, too."
"I know a lot of things." John returns with three mugs, setting them on the coffee table with deliberate care.
"I know you disappeared for a month. I know you showed up at Maya's…
er, Lena's… cabin bleeding and half-dead.
I know you left with her, and I know Pavel was terrified in the weeks after you were here. "
"Terrified of what?" I ask.
John settles into the armchair across from us, his weathered hands wrapped around his mug. "He wouldn't say. But he came to me three weeks ago, asking if I still had contacts in the Bureau. Said someone from his past had found him, and he needed to know if his cover was blown."
My stomach drops. "Did you help him?"
"I made some calls. Discreet ones." His expression darkens. "His cover was solid. No leaks from Witness Protection. Which meant whoever found him did it the old-fashioned way. They tracked him down."
Aleksandr leans forward, his gold eyes intense. "Did he say who?"
"No. But he was scared enough that he asked me to keep an eye on his place when he wasn't home." John stands and moves to a desk in the corner, pulling out a manila folder. "Which is how I got these."
He spreads photographs across the coffee table. My breath catches.
A woman in an expensive black Mercedes, her auburn hair catching the sunlight. The photos are taken from a distance, but the quality is good enough to see her face clearly.
Katya Rostova.
"She visited the area three times over six months," John says. "She met with Pavel at the diner. I watched them through the window. He looked terrified, and she looked like she was enjoying it."
Aleksandr's hand tightens on my shoulder. "When was the last time?"
"Two weeks before Pavel died." John taps one of the photos. "She stayed for three days that time. Rented a room at the motel, drove around town like she was scouting something. Then she left, and a week later, Pavel was dead."
"The police called it suicide," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"The police are idiots." John's tone is flat, certain.
"Pavel was shot in the head with his own gun, yes.
But the angle was wrong. The powder burns were wrong.
And there was no note, which doesn't fit his profile at all.
Men like Pavel, if they're going to kill themselves, they leave explanations. They need people to understand why."
Aleksandr stands, moving to study the photographs more closely.
"I know who you are, Romanov," John says. "I know what you do. I spent twenty years building cases against men like you."
"And yet you're helping me now." Aleksandr turns to face him. "Why?"
"Because Pavel was a good man who made bad choices and paid for them by testifying.
He deserved to live out his life in peace.
" John's jaw tightens. "And because whoever killed him staged it as a suicide, which means they think they're smart enough to get away with it.
I don't like people who think they're smarter than me. "
Despite everything, I almost smile. "So this is about ego?"
"This is about justice." But there's a hint of humor in his eyes. "The ego is just a bonus."
Aleksandr moves back to the couch, his hand finding mine again. "I need copies of everything you have. Photos, timeline, any notes you made about her movements."
"Already made copies." John pulls a flash drive from his pocket and sets it on the table. "But I want something in return."
"Name it."
"I want to know that when you find who did this, they answer for it properly." John's gaze is steady, unflinching. "I'm not asking you to turn them over to the police. I'm not that naive. But I want to know justice was served."
Aleksandr studies him for a long moment, then he nods. "You have my word."
"The word of a Pakhan." John's mouth quirks. "I suppose that'll have to do."
We talk for another hour, going over details, timelines, and possibilities. John's observations are sharp and thorough, the product of decades of investigative work. He noticed things the local police missed or didn't care about. Small inconsistencies that add up to murder.
By the time we stand to leave, the sun is setting, painting the mountains in shades of gold and purple. John walks us to the door, and I notice the way he moves. Careful. Watchful. A man who's spent his life looking over his shoulder.
"One more thing," John says as Aleksandr opens the door. His eyes find mine. "I know about the hit Romanov put on you three years ago. I know who your family is and what they did."
My heart stops. Beside me, Aleksandr goes very still.
"I also know he called it off," John continues.
"And I know you saved his life when you could have let him die in the snow.
" He pauses. "I don't know what's between you two now, and frankly, it's none of my business.
But for what it's worth, I think you're good for each other.
You make him more human, and he makes you braver. "
The words sit in my chest like a weight. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." His expression is serious. "Katya Rostova is dangerous. She's patient, she's smart, and she's got nothing left to lose. That makes her the worst kind of enemy."
"I know," Aleksandr says quietly. "But she made a mistake when she came after me. And now she's going to pay for it."
We walk to the SUV, and I'm acutely aware of Aleksandr's hand on my back, guiding me, protecting me. Danil opens the door, and I'm about to climb in when the world tilts sideways.
Nausea hits me like a freight train. My stomach lurches, and I barely make it to the bushes beside the driveway before I'm vomiting, my body heaving with violent spasms that leave me shaking and sweating despite the cold air.
Strong hands pull my hair back from my face. Aleksandr's voice is low and soothing in my ear, but I can't focus on the words. Can't focus on anything except the way my body is betraying me.
When it finally stops, I straighten slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My legs shake, and Aleksandr's arm goes around my waist, holding me up.
I turn to look at him, and my heart stops.
He's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. His gold eyes move over my face, down to my stomach, then back up to meet my gaze. There's calculation there, intelligence working through a puzzle, and I see the exact moment the pieces click into place.
He knows.