Chapter 29Valerian
29
Valerian
T he brass bell above Bloom House’s entrance clangs violently as I shove through the door, nearly yanking it off its hinges. The familiar scents of sweet jasmine, delicate roses, and sharp eucalyptus hit me instantly, but they do nothing to settle the unease crawling up my spine. No music hums from the stereo by the register. No soft singing drifts from the back room, where Claire usually helps her parents arrange bouquets.
“Claire?” My voice cuts through the silence, sharp and demanding. Sunlight filters through the front windows, casting long shadows across the empty display pedestals. A pair of scissors lies abandoned on the wooden workbench beside a half-finished arrangement of white lilies, their stems already browning in the stagnant water.
“Claire, are you here?” The silence tightens around me. Even the usual creak of the old floorboards feels absent, as if the shop itself is holding its breath. The vintage cash register’s drawer is slightly ajar, which is something Linda or Robert would never allow during business hours.
My gut twists painfully. Something is wrong.
Claire’s phone lies face-down on the granite countertop, its pink case askew. I pick it up, running my fingers over the screen. Dozens of jagged lines spread outward from a central impact point like a frozen explosion.
Someone threw this.
Hard.
“No one just leaves a broken phone,” I say, more to myself than the others. The message is obvious. They want me to know they have her.
“Where the hell is she?” My question slices through the heavy silence. I spin around to face Viktor and Dmitri, who flank the doorway in their dark suits. Their expressions are carefully neutral, but I catch the subtle clench of Viktor’s jaw, and the way Dmitri’s hands curl into fists at his sides.
“We’ve got teams checking the usual spots,” says Viktor, his accent thickening with tension. “Nothing yet.”
“The cameras?” I demand.
Dmitri shakes his head. “Cut. They knew what they were doing.”
I slam the broken phone back onto the counter. Tiny shards of glass skitter across the surface like ice crystals. They’re toying with me and showing off their reach. My fingers itch to grab my Makarov PM and hunt down whoever dared to touch what’s mine, but first, I need to find her.
Dmitri steps closer to the desk, extending his hand. Between his thick thumb and forefinger, something glints in the office lighting. “Boss, I found this in the back room, near the office.”
My breath stalls. A silver teardrop earring dangles from his grip—the one Claire picked out this morning from her jewelry box while I watched from the doorway. The sight of it alone, without its mate, without her, makes me cold inside.
“She must still have on the other one,” I say, measuring each word carefully as I take the earring from Dmitri. The silver feels cold against my palm, but I curl my fingers around it like it’s a talisman. “At least we know she was conscious enough to fight back.” The last words come out clipped, barely containing the violence threatening to break free.
Dmitri shuffles his feet against the concrete floor, the sound echoing in the warehouse. His throat makes a dry clicking sound before he speaks. “Should we expand the search radius?”
The silver earring is cold against my fingers as I slide it into my breast pocket. The weight of it there, so close to my thundering heart, feels like both comfort and accusation. “Double it. I want eyes on every street corner and every back alley from Washington Avenue to Spring Garden Street. Someone had to see something—a car, a struggle, anything.”
“Valerian?” Viktor’s voice splinters the thick silence, sharp and urgent. His face drains of color as he stands by the industrial refrigeration unit. “You need to see this.”
Each step I take toward him sounds like a gunshot against the floor. The fluorescent lights overhead cast sickly shadows across Viktor’s face as he steps aside. The metallic door of the refrigeration unit hangs open, releasing wisps of cold vapor that curl around my ankles.
Inside, Ivan and Sergei are crumpled together, their bodies twisted at unnatural angles. Their skin has taken on a bluish tinge. These men who’d sworn to protect Claire with their lives are now wedged between flowers like broken toys, discarded and forgotten. Their guns are still holstered, unused. This hadn’t been a fight but an execution.
Dmitri shoulders past me, the leather of his jacket creaking as he kneels beside the bodies. He presses his fingers against Sergei’s throat, then Ivan’s. The cold vapor from the refrigeration unit swirls around him, carrying the metallic scent of blood.
“Sergei’s dead,” he says, his Russian accent thickening with anger. He shifts to Ivan, pressing harder against the pulse point. “But Ivan... I’ve got something here. Weak, but he’s hanging on.”
“Call Dr. Neranov.” The words scrape out of my throat like broken glass. When Dmitri hesitates, I snap, “Now, goddammit.”
“Yes, boss.” He’s already pulling out his phone, stepping away to make the call. His voice drops to rapid-fire Russian as he paces.
My mind races through scenarios, each worse than the last. Claire’s face flashes in my thoughts, her warm smile, those golden-flecked eyes. Now she’s alone, probably terrified. These men were meant to protect her. My fists clench at my sides. I’ll start with Matvey’s usual haunts, then move district by district if I have to. I’ll burn down every building in Philadelphia until I find her.
The electronic trill of my phone pierces the cold air. I yank it from my pocket and snap, “What have you done with Claire and her parents?” I’m sure it’s Matvey Petrov. The bastard dared to take Claire. “Where is she?” I demand.
Matvey’s laughter crackles through the line. “Now, now, Valerian. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”
“We’re not friends,” I spit. “Tell me where Claire is. Now.”
Silence stretches between us. I can almost picture Matvey’s smug grin on the other end of the line. My free hand curls into a fist, digging my nails into my palm.
Finally, Matvey speaks. His voice drips with malice. “She’s with us now, Valerian. If you want to keep her alive, you’d better hurry. I’ve waited too long for this.”
“What do you want?” The words scrape from my throat, each syllable edged with ice. My fingers clutch the phone so hard the case creaks.
“You have fifty-eight minutes.” Matvey’s voice drips with satisfaction, completely disregarding my question. “It was sixty, but you’ve wasted too much time asking questions.” A shuffling sound carries through the line, followed by muffled voices in the background. “We’ll give you an hour. After that, you’ll get her back in pieces...her, and your baby.”
The last word strikes me with the force of a sledgehammer. My lungs seize. The room spins, and I grab the edge of my desk to steady myself. Baby? The possibility thunders through me. Claire pregnant, carrying my child? My mouth goes dry.
“What are you talking about?” The question comes out rough, barely controlled. Sweat beads on my forehead as I struggle to process this revelation. It has to be a game he’s playing. Claire herself told me she probably can’t get pregnant without medical assistance, if at all.
Matvey’s laughter scrapes against my eardrum like broken glass. “Oh, you did not know?” His voice rises with theatrical delight. “How absolutely delightful.” He pauses, savoring the moment. “Tick-tock, Valerian. Time’s wasting.” He rattles off an address, then adds, “It won’t be easy to find us. You’re going to have to work for it.”
The line goes dead. I lower the phone, my mind racing. Pregnant. Claire might be pregnant with my child. The thought sends a jolt of protectiveness through me, followed quickly by rage at Matvey for putting them in danger. There’s a trace of hurt that she didn’t tell me if it is true, but I have to push that aside for now.
I type the address into my phone, my stomach dropping as the result appears. “Eastern State Penitentiary.” Of course, Matvey would choose somewhere like that—a sprawling, abandoned prison complex, where only a small part is functional for tourism, and the rest is sealed off. The perfect place to set a trap.
I shove the phone back into my pocket and turn to face my men. Their expressions are grim, waiting for orders. “We’re going to the ‘Eastern State Penitentiary.’ Get the cars and weapons ready. We have less than an hour to save her.”
I don’t wait for confirmation before striding toward the exit. My mind whirls with possibilities, each scenario worse than the last. Claire, alone and afraid. Our child, if there is one, in danger before it has even had a chance at life.
As I reach the door, Dmitri falls into step beside me. “Boss, this is almost certainly a trap.”
“I know,” I say, not breaking stride, “But we have no choice. Alert our contacts in law enforcement. I want eyes on that prison complex as soon as possible.”
Dmitri nods, already pulling out his phone. “What about Mikhailov? If the Petrovs are distracted, this might be our chance to?—”
“No,” I cut him off. “Claire is the priority. Everything else can wait.”
We burst out of Bloom House into the warm afternoon. Our convoy of black SUVs idles at the curb, engines purring. I slide into the lead vehicle, with Dmitri taking the passenger seat.
As we pull away from the curb, I allow myself one moment of weakness. I close my eyes, picturing Claire’s face. Her warm smile, the light in her eyes when she laughs, and the softness of her skin beneath my fingers. Unbidden, an image of her pregnant, with my hands cupping her belly, comes to me, and it feels right—until I contemplate the danger she or they are in.
I will find her and bring her home. God help anyone who stands in my way.
My eyelids snap open as hard resolve fills me. “Drive faster,” I order. The SUV surges forward, weaving through traffic. The clock is ticking. Claire is waiting, and Matvey Petrov is about to learn exactly why I am the most feared man in Philadelphia.