19. Roman
ROMAN
Istand in the center of a cavernous warehouse, flanked by Lev on one side and two of my men on the other, watching the opposition spread across the concrete floor like a stain. They’re late. Fifteen minutes late, to be precise. Fifteen minutes might as well be fifteen hours.
Punctuality is respect. Lateness is a statement.
The man across from me is named Kozlov. He’s short and thick, with a face that looks like it’s been smashed and reconstructed more than once.
He’s been running guns through the south side for the better part of a decade, and tonight we’re supposed to be finalizing an arrangement that brings his distribution network under my umbrella.
Supposed to be, but something feels wrong.
I can’t put my finger on what exactly. The warehouse is the same one we agreed on. Kozlov’s men are present in the numbers we expected. The merchandise is there, stacked in wooden crates along the far wall and waiting to be inspected.
I’ve felt this before, in Siberia where every meeting was a potential ambush and every handshake could be your last. I learned to trust my instincts there, and I haven’t gotten it wrong once.
I glance at Lev. He’s watching Kozlov with those flat, assessing eyes of his, taking in details that most people would miss. Lev catches my eye and gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
He feels it too.
“Roman.” Kozlov spreads his hands, a gesture of false camaraderie. “I apologize for the delay. Traffic was a nightmare.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“You seem tense.” Kozlov takes a step closer, his men shifting with him. “Is everything alright?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I let my gaze drift around the warehouse. The light catches on something metallic near the back entrance. Something that looks a lot like the barrel of a rifle.
My jaw tightens. “We’re done here,” I say.
Kozlov’s smile falters. “What? We haven’t even?—”
“I said we’re done.” I turn to leave, my hand already reaching for the gun at my side. “Lev, we’re going.”
“Roman, wait.” Kozlov steps forward, his hand reaching out like he’s going to grab my arm.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Lev moves faster than I’ve ever seen him move, inserting himself between me and Kozlov with his hand pressed flat against the other man’s chest. His voice is low and dangerous when he speaks.
“I’d reconsider that move if I were you.”
The warehouse goes quiet. Kozlov’s men shift, and my own men respond in kind. The tension in the air is thick enough to cut.
Then my phone vibrates in my pocket. I ignore it at first. Whatever it is, it can wait. Getting out of this warehouse alive is my priority.
Except it vibrates again, and again. I realize belatedly it’s a coded alert from the penthouse’s security system.
My blood runs cold. I pull the phone from my pocket and glance at the screen. The message is brief, just three words that make my heart stop.
MOTION. VERA’S ROOM.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and turn to Lev. “Change of plans,” I say. “We’re returning home.”
Lev doesn’t question it. He steps back from Kozlov, his hand still resting on his weapon, and falls into step beside me as I head for the door.
Kozlov calls after me, his voice sharp with frustration. “Roman, we had a deal!”
“The deal’s off.” I don’t turn around. “You tried to set me up, Kozlov. Be grateful I’m walking out instead of putting a bullet in your head.”
I push through the door and into the night air, Lev close behind me. The car is waiting where we left it, Artyom behind the wheel and engine running.
“Go,” I say, throwing myself into the back seat. “The penthouse. Now.”
Artyom doesn’t ask questions. He just drives.
Lev’s face is grim. “What is it?”
“Security alert. There’s motion in Vera’s room.”
Lev’s expression tightens. “So she’s probably just pacing or something.”
“The alert doesn’t trigger that way. It only triggers if it detects more than one person, or somebody is trying to break in.”
The city blurs past the windows as Artyom weaves through traffic. I watch the buildings slide by and feel something cold and heavy settle in my chest.
This is my fault. I thought the security detail would be enough, but I shouldn’t have been so stupid. I was wrong to assume I could just leave her alone.
The sun is setting by the time we reach the city proper, painting the skyline in shades of orange and red. It looks like blood against the glass, and I can’t help but think it’s an appropriate backdrop for what I’m about to do.
Artyom pulls up in front of the building and I’m out of the car before it’s fully stopped, moving toward the entrance with Lev at my heels.
The lobby is empty. The security desk is unmanned. Where’s the doorman?
I take the stairs two at a time, my hand on my gun. No point waiting for the elevator. The penthouse door is unlocked when I reach it, swinging open at my touch like it’s been waiting for me.
I burst inside, every sense on high alert. “Vera!”
The penthouse is quiet. The lights are off, and the living room curtains are drawn.
My two guards lie unconscious in the hallway. One still has his hands wrapped around his pistol, blood cooling on the floor.
I kneel to check his pulse. He’ll live.
Then Oksana emerges from the kitchen. Her face is pale, her eyes wide with fear. She looks like she’s been crying, her cheeks streaked with tears that she hasn’t bothered to wipe away.
“Roman,” she says, and her voice cracks on my name. “Thank God you’re here.”
I cross the room in three strides and grab her by the shoulders. “Where is she? Where’s Vera?”
Oksana shakes her head, her eyes filling with fresh tears. “She was taken. They came while you were gone and they took her.”
“Who?” My grip tightens on her shoulders. “Who took her?”
“Konstantin’s men.” She’s crying openly now, her words coming in gasps. “They came with your father. He told her it was time, that she had to come with them. She didn’t want to go, but they made her. They said if she didn’t, they’d?—”
“Where?” I cut her off. “Where did they take her?”
“St. Nicholas,” Oksana says suddenly.
I stare at her. “What?”
“Right before they left. Konstantin mentioned St. Nicholas.” Her face crumples. “That has to be where they’re taking her.”
Shit.
A hot surge of fury joins the dread in my gut, mixing with it until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. After I told her she was safe, that she could trust me, they still have her.
I release Oksana and turn for the door, my mind already racing ahead.
“Roman, wait.” Oksana reaches for me, but I shake her off.
“There’s no time to wait. If they’re at the church, then that’s where I need to be.”
“Let me come with you.”
“No.” I point at Lev. “Stay here. Make sure no one else gets in. I’ll handle this myself.”
Lev’s expression is grim, but he nods. “Be careful.”
I’m already out the door and down the stairs, my feet pounding against the concrete as I race toward the car. When I get there, Artyom is still behind the wheel. His eyes go wide as I throw myself into the back seat.
“St. Nicholas Church,” I say. “Now.”
The car lurches forward, tires squealing against the pavement. I pull out my phone and dial Konstantin’s number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try Anton’s number with the same result.
They’ve planned this well. They knew I’d be occupied with Kozlov, and they probably also knew the security detail.
The church appears on the horizon, its white steeple rising above the surrounding buildings like a beacon. I can see cars parked outside, and men in dark suits standing at the entrance. The whole thing has the feel of a performance.
“Artyom, keep the car running.”
He nods as I climb out. The evening air is cool against my skin, a contrast to the heat burning inside me. I move through the shadows, staying close to the buildings.
The side door of the church is unlocked. I slip inside and find myself in a narrow hallway that leads to the main sanctuary. The sound of voices reaches me, muffled by the heavy wooden doors.
I push through.
The sanctuary is lit by dozens of candles, their flames casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The pews are filled with people, though their backs are turned and I can’t tell who’s who.
With a scowl, I slip back into the hallway. My mind is a mess of possibilities, and none of them are good. Every scenario I can think of ends with Vera in Anton’s hands, and that’s not an outcome I’m willing to accept.
The hallway is narrow; walls of rough stone scrape against my shoulder as I move. There’s a door at the end, and warm light spills through the gap. I can hear movement.
I push the door open and step inside.
The room is small, barely more than a closet. Vestments hang from hooks on the wall, their gold embroidery catching the light. A wooden table holds a chalice and a cross, both polished to a shine. Standing in the center of it all, his back to me as he rifles through a drawer, is the priest.
He’s old. Older than I expected, with a face like crumpled paper and hands that tremble as he works.
He turns when he hears my footsteps. His eyes widen when they land on my face, recognition dawning slow and terrible across his features.
“Mr. Volkonsky,” he stammers. “I didn’t expect... you can’t be in here.”
I cross the room before he can finish the sentence. My hand connects with the side of his head, and the blow sends him crumpling to the floor. He goes down without a sound, his body folding in on itself as he drops.
I stand over him for a moment, watching his chest rise and fall. He’s unconscious, not dead. That’s all I need.
The organ starts in the next room, its notes swelling through the walls.