20. Yarik
CHAPTER TWENTY
YARIK
A s luck would have it, I was handling business when Kirill made his grand return.
And by “handling business,” I meant that I was trying to persuade a reluctant buyer from America when the door clicked open, and in walked my father with Kirill at his side.
I froze.
There really was no other way to describe the mortifying way my bones stiffened in surprise or how every intelligent thought fell right out of my head before disappearing into thin air like smoke.
What was he doing here?
And why was he hiding in my father’s shadow?
Like a lovesick knob, I thrust all questions aside to soak in my best friend’s familiar gait striding deeper into the room. I almost jumped to my feet. Fuck, did I want to—anything to close the distance between us faster—but the stiff, almost aloof expression on Kirill’s face held me back. Patience. Breathe. Not wanting to come across like an overeager puppy, I dug my fingers into the wooden armrests of the fifteenth-century chair I sat on, determined to maintain some modicum of self-control.
Outwardly, at least.
On the inside, I was a right bloody mess.
Any second now, he was going to look my way. He probably wouldn’t smile because his smiles were rare, precious things, but his gaze would warm, and that . . . that would be enough, just to know that he was as excited to see me as I was to see him.
Nine months.
He’d been gone nine months .
Anticipation kicked my pulse into a full-fledged sprint. Against the backdrop of pale green wallpaper, Kirill looked as if he’d just come from a funeral. Black suit. Black shirt. Black shoes. His midnight-black eyes skimmed right past me to land on Robert Murray, seemingly clocking the Irish mobster’s reluctance in just one glance.
I felt the brush-off like a hot brand on my skin.
Heat rose to my cheeks—a flush that I couldn’t hide, not with my complexion. And still, I didn’t look away because, apparently, I was a glutton for punishment.
Kiryusha, please. Just ? —
It was like I didn’t even exist.
Instead, he studied Murray as he would a bug trapped under a jar while I tried, and failed, to wrench my gaze away before I got caught staring. The last nine months had left their mark on him. His hair was shorter than I remembered it being, the silky strands slicked back to reveal sharp cheekbones and an even sharper jawline. He was paler, too, his normally warm olive skin appearing almost sallow in the late afternoon light, like he’d been abandoned somewhere without sun.
Russia could do that to a person .
Take all that warmth and turn it into ice.
And it was ice that I felt creeping into my bones the longer I waited for Kirill to acknowledge my presence. Seconds bled into seconds. My heartbeat thundered in my ears while my palms turned clammy. Surreptitiously, I ran them along the length of my thighs and hoped no one noticed. Then, just when I thought Kirill might finally glance my way, he turned from the Irishman to stare straight ahead, unblinking, like all the brainless twats Father insisted on hiring as his personal bodyguards.
My jaw almost fell open.
What happened to you? hovered on the tip of my tongue. Blink twice if you’ve been drugged.
Something brushed my elbow.
Too focused on Kirill, I lurched to the left, startled, only to realize too late that it was my father drawing to a stop beside me. “Please, carry on,” he said almost pleasantly—right before he dropped a hand onto my shoulder and squeezed, hard. “Don’t stop on our account.”
He stood too close. I could smell the cloying scent of his cologne. I could—I could feel his expectation even as threads of nervous energy had me flexing my fingers where they rested on my thighs. Why not take one of the empty seats? There were plenty of them scattered all over the room. Better yet, why hadn’t Beck or Eren let me know that the doors to this meeting were about to be blown wide open, and the one man we universally hated ushered inside? Never mind the fact that Kirill was here , in London, and he hadn’t said a word to me about it.
Kirill, who still wouldn’t look at me.
The situation was so fucked, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry .
As it was, it took every bit of self-awareness I possessed to wipe the lingering shock from Father’s arrival off my face. Only then did I turn my attention back to Robert Murray. Galway-born but currently based out of Chicago, he’d crossed the Atlantic just to have this conversation with me in person. I couldn’t risk cocking it all up now, especially not with Father literally breathing down my neck.
Inhaling slowly, I pressed my fingertips into my thighs for three solid seconds and then exhaled, letting it all go—the anxiety that had sat heavy in my gut all morning, the emotional rush over seeing Kirill for the first time in months. I couldn’t waste time dwelling on any of it, not when I only had one chance to get this right.
Snagging the decanter of Irish whiskey off the table, I made a show of pouring two fingers worth into a crystal tumbler. The shift in position shook off my father’s hold, and I released another tight breath from the clutch of my lungs. When I finally pushed the drink in Murray’s direction, his lips curled upward with appreciation.
“The Emerald Isle, eh?” With a chuff of glee, he shook his head as if he couldn’t even believe the value of the amber-gold currently cradled in the palm of his hand. “Heard the last one of these sold at an auction in Nashville for two-point-eight-mill.”
“It did.”
“To you?”
“No.”
Murray blinked in surprise. “You’re telling me all that noise about it being the last of its kind was a scam?”
“Not a scam.” Carefully, I set the triple-distilled, single-malt whiskey aside. The glass clinked against the marble tabletop. “Scarcity sells. It’s just business. ”
He looked from me to the decanter and then back to me again. A streak of boldness flickered in his dark brown eyes. “How many bottles do you have?”
I only smiled.
“That many, yeah?” Another shake of his head, this time accompanied by a playful chuckle. It didn’t sit right. That good attitude of his felt slippery at best, dodgy at worst. Even though I hated the idea of doing business with someone I didn’t trust, I’d learned over the years that in the shadowy depths of the criminal underworld, everyone hid behind a mask. Murray’s just happened to piss me off more than most. “So,” he said, “where were we?”
“You were telling me why you weren’t interested in our product.”
With a flinch he couldn’t quite cover up, he darted a quick glance at Kirill.
I had to close my hands into fists under the table to keep from doing the same.
“Ah. Right.” He sipped his whiskey, clearly buying time before having to provide an answer in front of one of the most dangerous arms dealers in the world. The same man who owned, funded, and profited billions off the product Robert Murray was now tiptoeing around. He hadn’t been this indecisive when we’d talked on the phone last week. “Thing is, you see”—he offered a strained laugh—“my boss isn’t sure how he feels about . . .”
“About what?”
“About what it is that you’re selling.”
Beside me, Father shifted his weight.
I didn’t have to look at him to sense his mounting displeasure. It rippled across the room in an all-consuming wave that made me want to curl into a ball, if only to withstand the storm .
Pathetic.
Shame crawled up my throat as I tamped down every instinct that told me to run. The truth was that I was almost nineteen years old, and Petr Volkov still scared me. I could hide that fear behind reckless, devil-may-care behavior, and I could bury it, deep, when the situation called for it, but facts were facts: my father’s moods were volatile, and I bore the scars as living proof.
Desperate as I was to run, I couldn’t, not from Robert Murray.
This was my chance to prove that I wasn’t stupid, no matter what Father or his peers thought of me. I’d been the one to see an opportunity present itself after hearing rumors that Murray’s boss, Connor O’Brien, was thinking about breaking ties with his current distributor. Considering O’Brien’s stronghold on all of Chicago, despite frequent attempts from the Italians to dislodge him from his throne, I figured there was room to maneuver us into a mutually beneficial partnership. I also knew my father was keen to start operations in the States as early as next year—even though I only had that information because I’d overheard him discussing possible timelines with Artem, who still operated as his councilor. Either way, I couldn’t let this chance slip right through my fingers. Too much was resting on my shoulders.
After a steadying breath, I shored up my resolve and pulled on a mask of my own.
The one of the ruthless mafia prince.
“Spell it out for me,” I murmured. “What exactly does Mr. O’Brien have a problem with?”
Murray’s lips twitched uneasily. “You traffic ghost guns.”
Fuck, my father hated that term.
I didn’t dare look over at him.
Beneath the table, my nails bit into my palms hard enough to draw blood. “I’m not sure that I see the issue. They aren’t serialized, but some might argue that’s better for everyone involved. Less chance of authorities realizing you’ve gotten your hands dirty if things go tits up.”
“It’s not that I . . .” He cleared his throat. “My boss feels like this isn’t how it’s done.”
“How what isn’t done?”
“Business.”
“Because?”
Stiffly, he replied, “There’s no honor in it.”
“But there’s honor in spilling the blood of innocents? The wives of your enemies? Their children? What’s your definition of honor, Mr. Murray? I’m curious.”
It was, I realized a second too late, the complete wrong approach.
Robert Murray’s features twisted with so much dislike, not even a three-million-dollar bottle of whiskey could bring this deal back from the dead. It was one thing to push for a business arrangement and another thing entirely to offend someone’s sense of morality. Even the worst of humanity had their own code of conduct, and I’d just bludgeoned Murray’s to pieces.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck—
“Would you like my personal opinion, Mr. Murray?” Father’s hand returned to my shoulder, which he yanked on so hard, I let out a low grunt as my spine collided with the chair’s tall backrest. Then he dug in his nails, like claws, pinning me in place. “I find it curious that you’ve come here alone.”
Wary brown eyes darted right then left, probably taking note of the men who stood like silent sentinels around the perimeter of the room. Anton, I knew, never let me out of his sight. Murray rolled one shoulder in a too-casual shrug. “I don’t travel with bodyguards.”
“No travel companions?” Father asked.
“Don’t feel necessary. It’s a quick trip.”
“Kirill, if you will. Please.”
Unable to move, all I could do was watch my best friend step forward. In his hand was a shiny new mobile, the exact make and model that I had tucked into the front pocket of my trousers. He’d cut his hair, grown pale from the lack of sun, ignored me as if I didn’t even exist, but this . . . this felt like the cruelest change of all. Maybe it was stupid to think that the phone I’d given him would last forever, but he’d always seemed to treasure it, choosing to forego upgrades just to keep his old, imperfect one.
Did it finally break?
Or had he tossed it away, as ready to be done with it as he seemed to be with me?
Without even realizing it, I’d leaned forward as if I could knock the device out of his hand, but Father tightened his grip, jerking me back into place like I was nothing but a wayward child.
My nostrils flared.
Fuck him and fuck this?—
Kirill planted one hand on the back of the Irishman’s chair and set the phone down on the table in front of him with the other. He didn’t pull away, just caged Robert Murray in, so that the man’s only chance at escape was to his right. Then again, that wouldn’t get him anywhere, either, not with Anton and the other guards holding their positions .
I went perfectly still.
Something . . . something wasn’t right.
Bending forward until they were cheek to cheek, Kirill turned his head just enough that his lips nearly grazed the man’s ear. When he spoke, his voice was a low, dark rumble, barely loud enough to be heard over the surge of adrenaline whistling in my ears: “Press play.”
All color leeched from Murray’s face.
“I don’t—I don’t think that’s necessary,” he stuttered awkwardly, but Kirill wasn’t having it. The hand that he’d left on the chair clamped down on the man’s nape, forcing his head at a severely sharp angle so the only thing in Murray’s vision had to be the phone laid out on the table before him.
“Go on, then,” my best friend murmured. “We’re waiting.”
For a second, nothing happened.
And then with visibly shaking fingers, Robert Murray did as he was told. There wasn’t any sound, so I couldn’t tell what exactly played out on the phone, but I watched his features carefully, tracking each emotion as they rolled swiftly from one to the next. Dread. Terror. Regret. Murray flattened one hand on the table as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Kirill kept his voice low, conversational. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure?”
Murray’s throat clicked with an audible swallow. “Yes.”
“Let’s see if this refreshes your memory.” Without removing his hand from the Irishman’s nape, Kirill used his other to swipe to the next picture or video. He didn’t wait for Murray, just tapped the screen and let the evidence speak for itself.
There was sound this time.
Two male voices echoed down the length of a hallway. While their words were muddled, thanks to them speaking over each other, I could hear the distinct squeal of rubber soles against tiled floor like they were in a rush, maybe even sprinting down the hall. Before the video could play any longer, Kirill said, “Pause it.”
With misery etched into the drawn lines of his face, Murray obeyed.
“Cormac Kelly. Sean Lynch.” Kirill paused for a heartbeat. “Still don’t know them?”
“No,” Murray whispered.
Kirill hummed noncommittedly, and then he hit play.
Hell was watching your loved one murdered right there in front of you, but Hell was also watching a loved one turn into a stranger before your very eyes. As Cormac Kelly and Sean Lynch begged for their lives, I watched my best friend become someone utterly unrecognizable.
“I commend you for the effort,” he said over the screams of dying men, “really, I do. Spreading rumors that your boss was on the outs with your distributor? Offering to come all the way to London, only to change your mind once you got here? Solid plan. Quality acting. You almost had it, Mr. Murray. Problem is, we have eyes all over the UK.”
Robert closed his own eyes in defeat.
“We knew the minute you all touched down in Heathrow,” Kirill uttered softly. “We knew when you went your separate ways, when you stayed in the accommodations Yaroslav here was kind enough to book for you, and even when Mr. Kelly and Mr. Lynch went and found their own place. We knew the minute you told Mr. O’Brien that your accomplices had found a way into our warehouse, and we knew, although they didn’t, that it was a trap.”
Thick, wretched tension consumed the room.
Murray braced his hands against the edge of the table, his pupils nothing more than tiny, black pinpricks in a pool of anxious brown.
“Phone your boss,” Kirill said.
“I don’t?—”
“Your boss, Mr. Murray. Go on.”
At some point, I’d curled my hands over the armrests of my chair. Father kept his hold on me, but I wasn’t trying to run away. I was stunned into compliance. Heart thrashing wildly, pulse beating to a rhythm that whispered only one thing: What have you done? And then louder, more frantic: Whathaveyoudonewhathaveyoudonewhathaveyoudone?
I didn’t know.
Fuck, I didn’t know, and now?—
“Murray,” a thickly accented voice came over the line, the man’s relief starkly evident in the heavy breath that shuddered across the expanse of an ocean. “Thank Christ. Have you heard from Cormac? Sean? This hairbrained idea of yours better not have gotten the lot of you into any troub?—”
“Hello, Mr. O’Brien.”
If I’d been stunned into compliance before, then Connor O’Brien was currently too stunned to speak. It took him five solid seconds to splutter back an answer: “I . . . Hello, yes. That is, am I speaking with Petr Volkov?”
Father didn’t bother with niceties. “Did you think to take advantage of my son?”
Like Murray, I felt all the blood drain from my face .
“What?” The line crackled with the sound of uncomfortable laughter. “No, of course not.”
“You are not a very good liar.” O’Brien’s laughter stilled, but before he could say anything, my father continued in his clipped, central Russian accent, “Let me present to you my dilemma—you sent your men to London to sneak into my warehouses, to either take what does not belong to them or, worse, you planned to bring home knowledge that would see me out of business while you stole everything that I have spent thirty years building. Which is it?”
O’Brien said nothing.
“Ah, the liar does not speak.” Dark amusement glittered in my father’s tone. “Do you—what do the Americans say? Do you stay silent so that you do not need to plead the fifth?”
“I don’t need to plead the fifth for anything. We’ve done nothing wrong.”
“The security footage I have says otherwise.”
“ Your security footage, I presume?” O’Brien’s voice sharpened. “I’m supposed to just believe whatever you say, yeah? I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps not. Perhaps I shall let your Robert Murray do the talking while he still can.”
“Keep your bloody fuckin’ hands off him,” O’Brien growled, “or you’ll regret it.”
“What will I regret?” The hand on my shoulder flexed. “You have tiny Chicago while I have the world.”
“Connor,” Murray piped up, beseechingly, while he grasped the whiskey I’d poured him the way a dead man clings to the last vestiges of life. Anything else he might have said died on the tip of his tongue when Kirill— my Kirill—pressed a handgun to the back of the man’s skull.
Fuck .
Wait.
“Drink up,” Kirill said, and then he—oh, fucking hell?—
Warmth splattered my chin, my neck, the corner of my mouth. The incredibly rare bottle of Emerald’s Isle tipped over from the force of the blast, the glass painted with brain matter while the trunk of Robert Murray’s body seemed to hover in place, listing slightly forward, before he went chest-down on the table with a heavy thud , his skull half-gone.
My stomach heaved.
If anything else was said to Connor O’Brien, I didn’t hear it, not over the rush of blood roaring in my ears. In the minutes that followed, life carried on in a series of snapshots. I blinked, and Father had stepped away. I blinked again, and there was Kirill, already taking care of cleanup, like this was all part of some grand master plan that I hadn’t received an invitation for. I blinked once more, and Anton was grabbing me by the elbow and dragging me out of the antique chair that had once cushioned some medieval king’s arse.
I turned to look at it, expecting to see damage, only to find that it’d been spared.
Glancing down, I found the same couldn’t be said about myself. I was covered in blood, remains, and fuck knows what else.
If I could have stripped out of my skin, I would have done so in a heartbeat.
“Yaroslav.”
At the sound of my father’s voice, I forced myself to lift my chin and search him out with my gaze. He stood by the door, somehow managing to look completely pristine while I might as well have tromped through each of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell. Caked in fresh blood, I waited, heart pounding furiously, while he slowly took me in. Only when he finished did he bother to speak: “You are an embarrassment to this family. Be grateful I don’t put you down like a dog.”
Then he gestured for Kirill to follow him out the door.
Neither of them stopped to look back at me.