Chapter 24
GAVAN
“Sir?”
I frown. I’ve just gotten off a long, tortuous call with Yuri, Viktor, Konstantin—and Anatoli Sevgeny, who is currently helming the Kalishnik Bratva given that Marko remains in a coma.
We were discussing the ongoing Council issues with Abram and his continued push for power wrapped in the guise of fear of Drazen Krylov.
And honestly, even though we’re all on the same “side” regarding giving in to Abram’s hysteria, we’re becoming divided on where we stand on the idea that it’s actually Drazen behind all the attacks.
Viktor, who’s fine after the explosion in his hotel suite here in New York, doesn’t seem to believe it.
“I have many enemies,” he made it clear on our call.
“Not just from being at the helm of the Kashenko Bratva, but also through our non-profit organization,” he added, referencing the Free Them Foundation that he and his wife Fiona run, which liberates children around the world from human trafficking.
Fiona’s contribution to the operations is liaising with local governments and lobbying Congress. Viktor’s is actively hunting down the inhuman trash who trafficked the kids in the first place, and eliminating them with extreme prejudice.
Word is, he and his men have a fondness for wood-chippers when it comes to erasing child-abusing pieces of shit from the face of the earth. I see absolutely nothing wrong with this.
But, long story short, he’s made some serious enemies.
Anatoli, in contrast to Viktor, seems the most worried about Drazen being a real person.
Which makes sense considering his boss and good friend Marko nearly got blown to pieces.
But as Yuri pointed out, we don’t even know what Drazen looks like, never mind his handwriting.
Which sort of negates the “signed calling card” left at the scene of the car-bombing.
Not to mention a similar card found at the scene of Viktor’s hotel explosion—the second playing card that Abram himself so dramatically slapped down on my desk, while Eilish was under it , which didn’t have a message written on it at all.
It did have another burn circle through the head of the king of diamonds, though.
Konstantin, who I wanted to be included in the call even though he’s technically hands-off for the next year, is—surprisingly—on Anatoli’s side in believing Drazen really is a threat, and behind the attacks.
And me? I’m not sure what I think yet.
In the meantime, we’re all tightening security and actively putting teams of people out there to see if they can track Drazen down. Whether or not he’s behind these attacks will become little clearer if we can prove he actually exists.
“Mr. Tsarenko?”
I frown, focusing my attention back to the intercom. “Yes, Rachel?”
“Apologies, sir, but you have an unscheduled visitor.”
“Not today, I don’t,” I growl. The conference call and its subject matter has me riled up enough. The fact that Eilish has been buried in advisor meetings and other schoolwork for two fucking days in a row isn’t exactly improving my disposition.
“Sir, I’m afraid he’s quite insistent…”
“Please tell him I insist that he get the fuck out of the building until I can schedule him in.” I pause, my mouth twisting before I exhale and rub my temples. “Rachel?”
“Sir?”
“Who is he, anyway.”
“A Mr. Petrov. Stanislav Petrov.”
I scowl. “ Who ?”
“He says he’s an antiques appraiser?”
Shit .
“And I’m afraid he actually might have what looks like a legal document concerning—”
“Bring him up, Rachel,” I growl quietly.
Fuck. Me.
This was going to happen sooner or later: Svetlana’s goddamn expert, here to go over and authenticate the fucking Imperial Shield. I’ve been stringing that miserable fucking cunt along for weeks, and she’s clearly gotten tired of it.
Or, she’s smarter than I’d like to give her credit for and is starting to doubt I even have it.
Which is a problem.
Because she’d be right .
But sending this fucking guy away outright just now will only give that hunch of hers more weight. If I can send him back to that witch with a pretty story, I can possibly drag this out a little longer.
Until Eilish says yes to my proposal.
I know I could find almost literally any woman with a pulse to do this for me. Taylor Crown already has the contracts, watertight NDAs, and crystal clear prenup all drawn up.
But I don’t want any woman with a pulse. I want Eilish. Even if it’s a fake marriage that is just a means to an end.
And I’m not quite sure how to deal with that.
There’s a knock at my door.
“Enter.”
The door swings open. Rachel comes in first, biting her lip and almost, dare I say it, blushing as she clears her throat.
“Uh, Mr. Petrov, sir.”
The appraiser steps in next, and my brows shoot up.
Okay, not what I expected.
When I heard “expert antiques appraiser”, I imagined one of the fucking goblins from that bank in Harry Potter, or a hunched old man in tweed smelling like mothballs.
The man who walks in is neither of those. Tall, with an obviously muscular build, and a strong, sharp jawline.
He is wearing tweed, though.
“Ahh, Mr. Tsarenko!”
The appraiser beams widely at me as he crosses the room to shake my hand eagerly. His voice is heavily accented—Belarusian, unless my ears are rustier than I think. I keep my face neutral and my mouth a straight line as I firmly shake his hand back.
“I will not insult you and ask if this is a good time,” he chuckles. “I know you are, how do you say, busy-busy! No time is good time, yes?”
I frown. “Look, Mr. Petrov—”
“Please, call me Stanislav. All my friends do.”
He turns to wink at a blushing Rachel. Blushing .
“That’ll be all, Rachel,” I growl. She nods quickly and slips out of the room, closing the door behind her. When Stanislav turns back to me, he grins.
“I am not what you are expecting.”
I incline my head. “Not exactly.”
The man laughs. “What can I say, I’m an academic trapped in a footballer’s body. It’s a curse.” He shrugs before lifting his brow gracefully. “But you, Mr. Tsarenko, are every inch what I expected.”
I clear my throat. “Meaning?”
He laughs again. “Oh, all good things, Mr. Tsarenko. All good things, I assure you.” He grins as he drags his gaze around my office.
“You have wonderful taste, I must say.” He whistles appreciatively.
“In interior design, clothing.” He looks past me at the Monet on the wall. “Art…” his grin curls. “Women.”
I tense.
“ Excuse me ?” I hiss, sudden images of Eilish swirling through my head.
Stanislav holds his hands up, looking concerned. “I think you mistake my words. I simply make a joke.” He clears his throat. “Your secretary is…uh…very beautiful.”
My shoulders unbunch a little. My jaw stays tight, though.
“She’s very good at her job. I’m not fucking her, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
Stanislav laughs heartily. “That is probably wise. And I assure you, I was not suggesting anything. I apologize if it came out as such.”
He takes a deep breath. “Mr. Tsarenko, I think we’re off on the wrong foot. I am sorry. I’m very aware of the legal disagreements between yourself and your aunt—”
“She’s not my aunt.”
He dips his head. “Again with the wrong foot. My mistake. I assure you, my only interest in any of this dispute is to authenticate the extremely rare piece you have in your possession. I must confess, I am a bit of a…how do you say…” he chuckles.
“A stan for late period Imperialist Russian art.” He almost giggles. “Stanislav is a stan . Get it?”
Jesus Christ. This guy is making dad-jokes while being a dead ringer for Henry Cavill. All the same, it’s pretty clear that he’s here because he’s a nerd for Russian art, not because he’s Svetlana’s stooge. And that’s good.
He smiles. “Now, I know you’re a very busy man. Shall we get to it, so that I can get out of your hair?”
I take a deep breath, gesturing past him to the shelf with the empty glass display case.
“I wish you’d called ahead, Mr. Petrov. I’m afraid the building had a security breach a month ago. Since then, I’ve kept the Imperial Shield off-site in a very secure, private location.”
I almost feel bad at the crestfallen look on his face. Like a little kid who just came charging downstairs to find his stocking empty on Christmas morning.
“Ahh, I see.” He exhales, walking over to the glass case over the old wooden base anyway and looking at it fondly. “A shame. I would have loved to see it with my own eyes. You know the history of this particular Fabergé piece is quite fascinating—”
“I’m sure it is,” I grunt. “But, as you said, I’m afraid I’m fairly busy today, Mr. Petrov.”
He nods, smiling. “Of course, of course.” His eyes drop to the base of the case, where I’ve taped the note from Vadim. His lips part in a smile. “ To my son. All my love .” Stanislav turns back to me, beaming. “You had a very generous father.”
“I owe him everything.”
“I am envious of you, Mr. Tsarenko.” He chuckles. “And not just for your wonderful office view.” Stanislav sighs, clasping his hands together. “Well then. Perhaps another time?”
“Perhaps.”
He grins. “For now, I will tell Ms. Tsarenko that the Imperial Shield is safe and sound in your possession. Perhaps that will settle the matter until you complete your transaction with her.”
I allow a small smile to curl my mouth. “I appreciate it. Thank you, Stanislav.”
“Of course.”
When he’s gone, I stare at the empty glass case, my eyes reading the note from Vadim over and over. My cell phone buzzes.
It’s Korol.
“We got ‘em,” he growls thickly, his tone heavy. “We found the pieces of shit who jumped Eilish.”
My blood flows hot, the egg forgotten.
* * *
I lose track of time as I exact my vengeance. It’s hours later when I finally step back from the limp, near-dead, blood-soaked men hanging from meat hooks in the basement of one of my properties deep in Brooklyn.
I’m shirtless and covered in blood. It’s not my own blood, though. My muscles are still quivering from what I’ve just done to the two men who are quite literally begging for death.
They’ll have to beg harder if they want my mercy, though.
Behind me, Korol sits back in a metal chair, drinking a beer. He offers the bottle to me, and I take a sip to wet my throat before I turn back to the two pieces of shit who dared to lay hands on Eilish. Who hurt her.
It’s clear they’re both nothing more than a couple of knuckle-dragging street thugs.
But again, it’s clear they weren’t there to mug Eilish.
Or else they’d have taken the several thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry and other valuables on her person.
No, this was done to hurt her. It was done to send a message.
It means someone hired these two fucks, and I want to know who .
So far, they’ve both been silent on that front. Which would almost impress me under any other circumstances—like, if they hadn’t put Eilish in the fucking hospital.
“ P…please… ”
One of them men burbles blood and spittle from his savaged mouth as he tries to speak.
“What?” I snap. “Korol, did you hear anything?”
“Nah. I think one of these assholes just farted, boss.”
I snarl, advancing on the one who just tried to say something, relishing the way he flinches.
Or, tries to flinch, at least. He’s dangling from his arms: one shoulder has dislocated, at least one of his legs is definitely broken, along with most of his ribs and his nose, and his face looks like a fucking horror show.
Still, he’s doing better than his buddy, who’s drifting in and out of consciousness.
And who is now missing an eye.
“ What ,” I rasp in the first man’s face.
He whimpers, blubbering again.
“ Ple—please ,” he chokes.
“Please what ,” I snap. “Please stop? Please kill you, to end your suffering?”
His head lifts up and drops pathetically again, like he’s nodding.
“If you want this to stop,” I snarl, grabbing a handful of his hair. “If you long for the sweet embrace of death, you know what I need to know.”
He lifts and drops his head again in a small nod.
“ Okay… ”
The word croaks from his bloody lips. Next to him, his friend groans, and it sure looks to me like he’s shaking his head. I snort.
“You’re worried about any consequences from whoever hired you.
I can understand that. But let me be clear.
Neither of you is leaving this room alive.
Ever. But today is just day one of…well,” I smile.
“Of however long I choose to keep you alive and in misery.” I frown.
“You hurt someone I care for. And believe me, I can make your stay in this basement, and this pain, drag out for an eternity should I choose to. There’s no need to be afraid of whoever hired you anymore. ”
They both groan as I leer close in their faces.
“Be afraid of me , my friends. Be afraid of the pain I am prepared to inflict upon you for so long you will beg for Hell. Trust me,” I hiss as stab my gaze into both of their faces. “ I am your devil now .”
One-eye looks like he’s fading out again. But the one who tried to speak before lifts and drops his chin again.
“ Tell me ,” I snarl, leaning close. I pull the gun out from where it’s tucked in my belt and wave it in front of him. “Tell me, and you have my word, I will let you die right now.”
He nods again, a shell of a man. His lips move.
I frown, moving close. “What?”
“ Russian ,” he croaks.
I laugh coldly. “You’ll need to be more specific than that if you want this bullet—”
“ Draz …”
I go still and cold as the word tumbles from his mouth.
“ Say that again ,” I rasp.
“ Drazen ,” he chokes. “ Drazen…Krylov …”
The world turns red around me. My vision tunnels.
The gun raises in my hand.
“I’m a man of my word, shit-stain.”
Two shots blast through the room, ending both of their miseries. I turn to Korol, who’s looking at me unblinkingly.
“What do you want to do, Gavan?” he growls.
“I want to keep this quiet, and I don’t want Abram getting wind of it,” I mutter, glancing back at the carnage behind me. “Now—find someone to get rid of these two.”