6. Alexei #3
I close my eyes and see Clara standing in our kitchen with Ivy on her hip.
Clara laughing because Ivy smeared mashed banana across the high chair.
Clara refusing a photographer at one of my early charity events because she said she hated attention.
Clara asking me not to post family photos online because she wanted Ivy to have privacy.
I thought it was caution because of me, my world, and the violence I brought into her life. Now I’m not so sure.
“What did she tell you?” Roman asks.
I look out at the approaching building. “That she came from a wealthy family in New York. Controlling. Image-driven. She said she left because she wanted her life to belong to her.”
“And you believed her.”
“Yes.”
“Because you had proof?”
I set my jaw before I answer. “Because I loved her.”
“That’s not proof.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
Roman lets the answer stand on its own. He’s never been the type to soften uncomfortable truths, and I trust him more than anyone because of it.
“The woman in the photographs with Enzo,” he says. “I still don’t have her name.”
“That says enough.”
“It does,” Roman confirms. “She’s old enough to have known Clara.”
A slow, unpleasant pressure forms in my abdomen. “You think they’re connected.”
“I think Clara erased herself before Savannah, and now a woman with enough money, reach, and discipline to hide from my people is standing near the man who tried to take your daughter.”
His voice drops a fraction. “I think people leave families every day, Alexei. They don’t erase themselves unless there’s a reason.”
My grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles whiten. “What reason?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
The car slows outside Black Tide. Viktor gets out first, scanning the entrance while my driver steps around to open my door. I remain seated.
Roman speaks again. “Is there anything you haven’t told me?”
The question irritates me because it assumes omission where there may only be ignorance. The worst part is that I don’t know which one is true.
“No.”
“Think,” Roman pushes.
“I am thinking.”
“Think harder.”
Clara in bed beside me, pregnant and restless, one hand curved over her stomach while she listened to the house at night.
Clara checking the nursery window after the staff had already done it.
Clara refusing certain invitations from New York families, and I never cared enough to question her.
Clara asking me once, very quietly, if I believed people could ever really leave the lives they were born into.
I answered as a Bratva man. “No.”
She said nothing afterward.
My throat tightens around the memory, but my voice remains calm. “There’s a box at the mansion of her things. Personal items. Papers she kept. I haven’t gone through it in years.”
“Go through it.”
“I will.”
“And Alexei.” Roman's voice grows more serious. “Don’t let grief make you sentimental. Search it like evidence.”
The words are cruel enough to be useful. “I know how to search evidence.”
“I’m aware.” He pauses. “That’s why I’m reminding you that this was your wife.”
The line goes quiet before Roman adds, “Find out who Clara was before she became Clara Bennett.”
He ends the call.
I lower the phone and sit motionless while the Black Tide entrance waits beyond the tinted glass. Men cross the loading area near the rear gates. Employees move through the lobby inside, carrying tablets, folders, coffee, and problems they believe matter today.
Viktor opens my door. I step out and button my jacket. I enter through the private side entrance. Conversations end before I reach the elevator. People move out of my way without looking like they’re doing it, which is the mark of good employees and frightened ones. Both serve a purpose.
By the time I reach the executive floor, Luka has already sent confirmation that Maggie arrived safely at the shelter. I read the message twice, then I put the phone away.
Sasha waits outside my office with a tablet in one hand and a folder in the other. As Black Tide's executive coordinator, she spends most of her days organizing problems before they reach my desk. One look at me and she adjusts whatever she planned to say.
“What do you need?” she asks.
Efficient and intelligent. One of the reasons she’s lasted this long.
“Conference room. Secure line. Pull Luka in remotely. Bring me everyone cleared for private research work.”
Her eyes dart toward Viktor, then back to me. “How many?”
“Enough.”
That’s all she needs.
Ten minutes later, six people sit around the secured conference room table.
Sasha stands near the screen, Viktor remains by the door, and Luka appears on the wall monitor from the vehicle outside Second Chance Savannah, which tells me he positioned himself where he can see the entrance and still answer me.
I stand at the head of the table and look at each person once.
“Everything tied to Enzo DeLuca gets frozen, watched, or traced. I want every route, broker, shell company, port worker, driver, account, and favor he’s used in the last five years. If his name touched it, I want it in front of me.”
Sasha’s fingers move across the tablet. “His associates?”
“Watched.”
She pauses only long enough to make a note. “His family?”
“Watched.”
“Understood.” She continues typing.
“My name doesn’t appear on anything. Black Tide doesn’t interfere on paper. Use outside layers where needed.”
Several nods follow.
I turn toward the screen. “Luka.”
“Yes, boss.”
“The man Maggie identified. Scar near the jaw. Italian accent. Baseball cap. He doesn’t disappear from Savannah unless someone helped him. Find that someone.”
“Already working it.”
“Work faster.”
His mouth flattens. “Understood.”
I look back at the room. “Now, Clara.”
The air changes. No one speaks, but they hear the difference. They’ve heard her name in this building before, always carefully, always with the respect given to a dead woman tied to a man no one wants to wound by accident. Today, the name becomes an assignment.
Sasha’s fingers go still against the tablet. “Clara Agapov?”
“Yes.”
Viktor’s full attention moves to me. I feel it from across the room. I ignore him.
“I want every record. Every account, address, known associate, phone number, employer, and lease connected to her life before Savannah.”
Sasha pauses with her stylus over the screen. “Before Savannah?”
“Yes.”
No one asks for clarification.
I continue, my voice lower now. “There’s an unidentified woman tied to Enzo DeLuca. Older. Refined. Likely New York connections. She’s stayed hidden from Roman’s people. Assume money, influence, and legitimate fronts. Assume she uses intermediaries and doesn’t expose herself without a reason.”
A man near the far end of the table reacts, then remembers where he is. Fear isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s the brief realization that a problem is bigger than expected.
“Find the connection between that woman and Clara,” I say. “Don’t force an answer or invent one. I want facts.”
Sasha nods once. “And if we find nothing?”
“Then you keep digging until nothing becomes something.”
Viktor speaks from the door. “Maggie?”
I look at him.
“She’s at the shelter,” he says carefully. “If Clara is connected to this woman, and this woman is connected to Ivy, we should stop assuming Maggie matters only because she witnessed the attack.”
I dislike that Viktor says it, and I dislike it more that he’s right.
“Maggie remains under protection.”
“Does she know we think there's more going on?” Viktor asks.
“No.”
Luka’s voice comes through the screen. “She knows enough to be annoyed with me already.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “What did she do?”
“She told one of the men he was standing too close to the cats and making them judgmental.”
Sasha glances down at her tablet to hide her reaction. Viktor looks at the floor.
In my mind, I see Maggie surrounded by dogs, reporters, frightened volunteers, and my men, still finding the energy to scold someone on behalf of cats. The image almost pulls me out of the conversation.