Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Sergei
First week of the new year, Bogdan dropped a report on my desk.
"Viktor's three spots in Brooklyn have been cleaned out," he said, tone flat as always. "Karlov himself left New York two days ago. Miami. Our guys are on him."
I flipped through the report, page by page.
Numbers, locations, times—every detail clean and clear.
Viktor's operation was being stripped from the edges, like peeling an onion, layer by layer.
He wouldn't be oblivious, but he didn't have the capacity to hit back yet—exactly what I wanted.
Not a kill shot. Watching his territory disappear piece by piece while he could do nothing about it.
"Dmitri?"
"Still in New York. Less contact with Viktor lately," Bogdan said. "But he met with someone from Moscow. Name's Ivanovich Lebedev. Not family. Independent arms broker."
I ran the name through my head.
"Lebedev," I repeated. "What's he doing in New York?"
"Business on the surface. But Dmitri met with him twice. Both times, no third party present."
"Keep eyes on him. Any movement from Lebedev, I want to know immediately."
"Understood."
Bogdan closed the report but didn't leave right away.
"Something else?"
"Boss," he said, his tone shifting—less business, more careful. "Miss Collins has been in the apartment almost two weeks now."
I looked up at him.
"Porter says she never complains," Bogdan continued. "But she stands by the window for a long time. Every day."
Two weeks since Christmas.
Ella never complained to me once. But I knew—for someone used to being out and about, these two weeks couldn't have been easy.
I could tell from the smiles that were fading from her face.
"I'll consider it," I said.
He nodded and left.
I knocked on Ella's bedroom door at eleven in the morning.
The door cracked open. She was crouched on the floor, arms around Misha, the two of them locked in some kind of silent conversation—she stared at Misha, Misha stared back, then she tilted her head to the side. Misha tilted his head the same way.
She didn't notice me.
I stood in the doorway. Watched for about five seconds.
"Want to go out?" I said.
She looked up. Her eyes lit up instantly.
Then she cleared her throat, trying to play it cool as she stood.
"Where?"
"Central Park," I said. "Bring Misha."
She glanced down at Misha. Misha gazed back with maximum innocence.
"I need to change," she said. "Give me ten minutes."
"Take twenty."
She'd already turned and headed back in. Didn't hear my second half, or heard it and didn't care, because she was already tearing through her closet—fast, loud.
Misha sat by the door, looked up at me, tail sweeping twice.
"Don't look at me," I said. "Women need time to get ready. Be patient, Misha."
Misha yawned and rested her head on his paws.
Eighteen minutes later, she came out.
Cream-colored sweater, beige wide-leg pants, and a light camel scarf around her neck. Brown boots, low heels, stable—the kind chosen with practicality in mind. Her hair was pulled back, a few strands falling by her face. Two small gold earrings caught the winter light with restrained glints.
She walked out, stopped in front of me, and tugged the scarf up a bit.
"Good?" she asked.
I pulled my gaze from her face.
"Let's go."
Central Park in winter had a texture completely different from other seasons.
Summer was hot, dense, suffocatingly green. Spring was tender, pale, everything just beginning. But winter was bare-boned—branches stripped, lines sharp, sky leaking through the gaps, gray-blue, vast, like some rare kind of quiet you didn't find in the city.
Ella walked beside me, hands shoved in her coat pockets, occasionally glancing down at Misha. Misha ran ahead, circling us, darting into bushes and bursting back out, trampling the snow into chaos.
"What's she doing?" Ella said, watching Misha. "Stomping snow?"
"Exploring her territory," I said. "Golden retriever instinct. Wherever she goes, she has to stomp the place, confirm it's hers."
"Then she's stomped a lot of places," she said. "All of Central Park is hers now."
"When I was a kid," I said, "she stomped all of Moscow's East District."
She turned to look at me, surprise in her eyes, and something else.
"You grew up in Moscow?"
"Yeah," I said. "Didn't come to New York until I was eighteen."
"Why New York?"
I slipped my hands into my coat pockets, eyes on the path ahead.
"Family arrangement," I said. "Came to take over operations here."
She didn't push further. Just hummed and turned her attention back to Misha.
It was a habit of hers, I'd noticed—whenever the conversation touched a boundary, she felt it, then gently steered away. Not avoidance. More like consideration. Leaving me space.
We rounded a bend. An open field lay ahead, snow intact, no footprints. Misha had already charged in, rolled in the snow, then scrambled up, covered head to tail, looking absurdly proud.
Ella stopped at the field's edge, watching her. She laughed.
"She's playing in the snow," she said. "God, she's actually playing in the snow."
"Yeah," I said. "Every winter. Sees snow, loses her mind."
"Have you ever taken pictures of her?" She'd already pulled out her phone. "This scene—it's perfect."
She raised the phone, aimed at Misha, and adjusted the angle. The shutter clicked several times in quick succession.
Misha heard the sound, turned her head, sat there in the snow—totally serious, like she knew she was being photographed and struck a deliberate pose.
"Perfect," Ella said, looking at the screen. "Absolutely perfect."
She turned the phone to show me—Misha sitting upright in the snow, golden fur stark against the white, those amber eyes staring straight at the camera, utterly solemn, like a little old lady.
I looked at the photo. "Send it to me."
She hesitated, then looked up at me, a hint of uncertainty, like she was confirming I was serious.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
She ducked her head, snorted softly, and forwarded the photo. My phone buzzed. I pulled it out, glanced at it, saved it to my album, and put the phone away.
She snuck a glance at me from the side. Said nothing. But the corner of her mouth never went down.
Near the west exit of the park, Ella's steps slowed.
I followed her gaze—a food cart parked by the road, silver body, handwritten sign hanging on top, messy lettering. CRêPES & HOT DRINKS. A few people were already in line. Steam rose from the griddle, spreading in the cold air. You could smell the butter heating from several steps away.
"Want one?" I said.
She turned to look at me, a little uncertain. "You eat these?"
"Why wouldn't I?"
She looked me over, like she was evaluating the feasibility of "Sergei Volkov standing in line at a street cart," then her mouth twitched. "Okay. Let's go."
Misha followed us over, sat down beside the line, and began eyeing that griddle with professional intensity. The crêpe batter spread across the pan with a wooden spreader, edges starting to bubble, butter smell thickening.
Behind the cart was a middle-aged guy, wool hat on, hands practiced. The spreader circled the pan, the crêpe flipped—smooth as water.
He saw Ella and grinned. "What flavor?"
Ella studied the chalkboard menu, stood on her toes, squinted, and read every word from top to bottom.
"Strawberry cream," she said, then turned to me. "You?"
"Hazelnut chocolate."
The guy was already working.
Ella stood waiting, hands in her pockets, breath misting white, then looked down at Misha. "Not for you," she told him. "Crêpes aren't good for dogs."
Misha tilted her head, expression radiating "I'm just looking, don't get the wrong idea" innocence.
"She's lying," I said. "She's plotting how to steal it."
"I know," she said. "That's why I'm making it clear upfront."
The crêpes were done, handed over in paper holders. The strawberry cream one was folded in thirds, cream spilling slightly from the edges, strawberry slices arranged on top, bright red. The hazelnut chocolate was darker, sauce drizzled generously, rich cocoa scent.
Ella took hers, bit into it, and her eyes brightened. "Good," she said, genuine surprise in her tone. "Way better than I expected."
"New York street food," I said. "Usually doesn't disappoint."
She took another bite. Cream smudged her lip. She licked it with her tongue, didn't get it all. A bit remained.
I didn't say anything.
There were a few benches nearby. Not many people in winter. Snow had been swept off, seats dry. Ella walked over, sat on one. I sat beside her. Misha immediately came over, circled our feet twice, then lay down, resting her head on Ella's boot.
Wind blew from the direction of the lake, shaking loose a few bits of lingering snow from the branches. They drifted in the air for a moment and landed on Ella's shoulder. She didn't notice, kept eating her crêpe.
I brushed the snow off.
She noticed then and looked up at me. "Snow?"
"Yeah."
She tilted her head back and looked up. Bare branches, a few clumps of snow hanging on. The wind passed, and more flakes fell. She blinked. One landed on her lashes. She paused, brushed it off with the back of her hand.
"Sergei," she said suddenly, gaze dropping back to her crêpe. "When you were in Moscow, what was winter like?"
The question came out of nowhere, but she was like that sometimes—thoughts jumping fast, and if she didn't catch one, she just said it.
"Colder than here," I said. "New York winters are gentle."
"I mean," she pressed her lips together, "when you were a kid. What did you do in winter?"
I shifted the hazelnut crêpe in my hand, looked at the lake ahead, thin ice forming on the surface.
"Played hockey," I said. "Streets froze over. We'd play outside. Brooms for sticks, tree branches for goalposts."
She listened, eyes brightening a little. "You played hockey?"
"Used to," I said. "Probably rusty now."
"Did you like it?"
I thought for a moment. "Yeah. Liked it back then."