12. Alexei
ALEXEI
“I found something.”
Sasha's voice cuts through the background chatter of the video conference, immediately commanding everyone's attention.
I look up from the financial reports spread across my desk.
Over the secure video connection, Roman straightens in his chair in his New York office.
Viktor, standing near the door with one arm still secured in a sling, turns his attention toward Sasha as she steps closer to the conference table with a tablet tucked beneath one arm.
She places a file on the polished wood before pulling several documents onto the large screen mounted on the wall.
“One of Enzo DeLuca's shell companies routes money through a charitable foundation in New York,” she explains. “I kept seeing the same organization appear while tracing corporate filings.”
She enlarges the document.
The Bennett Foundation.
An uneasy silence fills the office.
Roman and I react at the same time.
“Bennett?” Roman asks sharply.
“Clara's surname,” I answer.
Sasha nods once. “Exactly.”
I stare at the screen.
Clara Bennett Agapov.
The name she used for years before our marriage. The name she claimed she chose after leaving her family behind.
Roman's expression hardens. “Clara said she picked that name herself.”
“She did,” I say automatically.
Or at least, that’s what I’ve always believed.
Sasha changes the image on the screen.
An elegant woman in her early thirties looks back at us from a photograph taken nearly three decades ago. Dark hair swept away from her face. Pearls at her throat. Refined. Wealthy.
Roman swears softly in Russian.
I rise slowly from my chair.
The woman in the photograph is older than the one Roman's investigators captured meeting privately with Enzo, but there’s no mistaking her. Time has added silver to her hair and fine lines around her eyes, yet I recognize her immediately.
Isabella Moretti.
The same eyes. The same sharp bone structure. The same carefully controlled composure.
Sasha folds her hands in front of her. “Facial comparison places it above ninety-one percent.”
Roman studies the image for several seconds. “Who exactly is she?”
“We're still trying to answer that,” Sasha admits.
“The foundation receives substantial donations from a private trust she controls, but the ownership trail disappears behind several layers of shell companies and private holdings.
She's spent a great deal of money ensuring she remains difficult to trace.”
I continue staring at the woman.
Clara rarely spoke about her family. She left New York, changed her name, and built an entirely new life in Savannah. I always believed Bennett represented freedom. A clean break from whatever had hurt her badly enough to walk away.
Now I’m no longer certain.
Roman watches me through the screen. “You think she’s connected to Clara.”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I continue studying the woman who has somehow inserted herself into every part of our investigation.
“I think Clara spent years running from something she never told me about.”
For the first time since Clara's death, I’m beginning to wonder how much of her past remained hidden.
The silence stretches until Roman notices me glance toward the time displayed in the corner of the monitor.
Twelve twenty.
Maggie should have eaten by now.
Roman notices exactly where my attention has gone. The corner of his mouth almost moves.
“Go,” he says.
I look back toward the screen. “We’re not finished.”
“We’re never finished,” Roman replies. “Sasha can keep digging. I can make calls. You can stop pretending you’re listening while thinking about whether Maggie ate lunch.”
Sasha lowers her gaze to her tablet with the discipline of an employee who values continued employment. Viktor suddenly seems very interested in the view outside the windows.
I narrow my eyes at my brother. “Careful.”
Roman doesn’t appear remotely concerned.
“Your woman is pregnant, stubborn, and surrounded by animals. That’s a bad combination if no one forces food into her hands.”
“She’s not a child.”
“No,” Roman agrees. “She’s worse. She has purpose.”
That, unfortunately, is true.
Maggie will feed every dog, comfort every volunteer, answer every phone call, and forget her own body exists until it forces her to stop. Pregnancy hasn’t changed that. If anything, it’s only made her more determined to prove she can still carry every responsibility she had before.
I look back at the photograph one final time.
The woman watches me from thirty years ago with dark, unreadable eyes. Clara's surname sits beside her foundation. Enzo's money moves through her network. Maggie and Ivy stand directly in the path of whoever has been orchestrating this.
“Keep working,” I tell Sasha. “I want to know how she connects to Clara.”
“I’ll find out,” Sasha promises.
I end the call with Roman and leave Black Tide through the private exit with Viktor at my side.
The late afternoon heat rises from the pavement in shimmering waves, mingling with the scent of river water, diesel, and salt from the nearby port.
Luka waits beside the SUV and opens the rear door as we approach.
“The shelter,” I tell him.
Viktor slides into the passenger seat.
Luka circles to the front and slides behind the wheel after shutting the rear door. “Mrs. Bennett called earlier.”
“Why?”
“She wanted to remind you that ginger candies help nausea and that Maggie won’t eat them unless someone puts them directly in front of her.”
I exhale slowly. “Stop at the deli.”
The deli Maggie likes sits three blocks from the shelter beneath striped awnings faded by years of Savannah heat. A bell rings loudly overhead when I enter, and conversation quiets the way it always does when people recognize me but are uncertain whether they should acknowledge it.
I ignore the attention and place Maggie's order. Turkey and avocado on toasted sourdough. Extra pickles. Sweet tea. Fruit. Crackers. Ginger candies because Mrs. Bennett has apparently appointed herself as commander of Maggie's stomach.
I add chicken salad, then remove it when I remember Maggie nearly fled the kitchen two days ago when Mrs. Bennett reheated leftover chicken.
Pregnancy changes many things. It seems chicken is one of them.
Back in the SUV, I place the bag beside me and pull out my phone, sending Maggie a text.
Me: You have to eat something.
Me: Maggie.
Me: Answer me.
Nothing.
Unease stirs beneath my skin. Ordinarily, I would think little of it. Maggie spends her days surrounded by barking dogs, ringing telephones, volunteers, and the endless emergencies that come with running an animal shelter.
Today, however, feels different.
I call her, but the call goes straight to voicemail. My jaw clenches.
I immediately dial Sam. No answer. That gives me pause. Sam always answers. I call again and listen as the phone rings unanswered. Once. Twice. Five times.
Nothing.
Unease grips me. Something’s wrong.
“Drive faster,” I tell Luka.
He says nothing, but the SUV accelerates.
Three minutes later, we turn onto the street leading toward Second Chance Savannah. I smell smoke before I see it.
At first, my mind rejects the information. Smoke can come from traffic, construction, restaurants, or any number of ordinary sources. Then the shelter comes into view. Black smoke pours from the rear roofline. The parking lot is full of people, animals, and fear.
Volunteers run across the pavement carrying carriers and leashes.
Dogs bark from makeshift holding areas beneath the trees.
Cats cry from stacked crates lined along the sidewalk.
One of my guards stands near the curb with his phone pressed to his ear while another helps a volunteer drag a panicked shepherd away from the entrance.
For one horrible second, the world narrows to the smoke. Then one of my men sees the SUV and runs toward me.
“Boss!” he calls out before the vehicle has fully stopped.
I’m out of the SUV before the door finishes opening.
“Where’s Maggie?”
The look on his face tells me before his words do. My blood turns to ice.
“Maggie's still inside!” he shouts.
I sprint toward the shelter with Luka on my heels. He grabs my arm just before I reach the entrance.
“Boss, wait. Fire department's en route.”
I tear free hard enough to make him stumble. “My family is in there.”
I don't wait for a response. The moment I cross the threshold, smoke swallows me whole.
Heat slams into me with brutal force, heavy with the acrid scent of burning wood, melted plastic, and chemicals.
The shelter's fire alarms scream overhead, their shrill warning nearly drowned out by shattering glass and the hungry roar of flames somewhere deeper inside the building.
I know this place. I’ve walked these hallways dozens of times with Ivy.
I know where Winston's old kennel sits. I know where Maggie keeps treats in her desk drawer because she insists every visitor deserves a snack, including me.
I know the reading corner in the cat room where Ivy curls up with frightened kittens.
None of it looks the same now.
Smoke hangs thick throughout the front offices, turning familiar rooms into something unrecognizable. Orange light dances across walls blackened by soot while water from the sprinkler system drips steadily from the ceiling.
“Boss!”
I turn toward the sound as one of my security men staggers down the corridor toward me. Soot streaks his face, and blood runs from a cut near his hairline. He doubles over in a violent coughing fit before forcing himself upright again.
“Where is she?” I demand.
He drags in a ragged breath. “They got most of the animals out,” he says hoarsely. “Maggie and Jules went back for the isolation room.”
“When?”
“Maybe ten minutes ago.”
Ten minutes inside a burning building is an eternity. Rage and fear collide inside me as I move deeper into the shelter. Maggie has already proven more than once that she’ll run toward danger if someone she loves is trapped.
“Boss!” Luka catches up with me near the reception desk. “Firefighters are here.”