I look up, still dealing with the yellow pages from the night before, when Billie Russell walks into my office. I could’ve finished with this hours ago, but she has snuck into my thoughts more than I can count.
“I have something,” he says with a hopeful, overeager smile. “Something I think you’ll want to hear.”
“Is it worth bargaining for your redemption?”
He freezes mid-step, the color draining from his face. Despair. Fear. Fright. All in one expression. It makes me laugh.
“I’m kidding,” I say, though my tone doesn’t change. “Sit.”
“Th-thank you,” he stammers, quickly dropping into the chair opposite me.
I close the document and set it aside, folding my arms across my chest. “It’d better be good,” I warn, voice cool. “Because if it’s not, I’ll make your life very miserable, very fast. Go ahead.” I motion lazily. “Make your case.”
Billie swallows, nods, then leans forward like he’s got something sacred to share. “I found out from a source, someone who used to work at the offshore bank where we moved the money, that Marco Ricci hasn’t left the country.”
I say nothing.
“In fact,” he continues, eyes flicking toward the door like someone might be listening, “he’s in the city. Desperately trying to find a way out.”
It’s not exactly news. I suspected as much. But now I’ve got more than theory to work with. Still, I don’t show it.
Instead, I shrug. “And how do I know you’re not lying to me, Russell?”
He blinks. “I—what?”
“See—” I lean back in my chair. “Here’s what I think. You’re holding out. You’ve got something else buried, and you think throwing me this juicy lead will distract me from the stink coming off whatever else you’re hiding.”
“No.” He shakes his head quickly, his voice rising with desperation. “No, I swear. I’m not hiding anything. That’s everything I’ve got.”
I stare at him for a long, silent moment. Then I lean forward, elbows resting on the desk, voice low. “Then you won’t mind if I test you, will you?”
He swallows hard. “Test…?”
“You said a source, right? Former offshore bank employee?”
He nods slowly.
“Name. Give it to me.”
His mouth opens and closes. He glances toward the window like salvation might be out there, drifting in on the breeze. When he looks back, my face is the only warning he’ll get before my mercy runs out.
“I…I can’t give you that,” he says at last. “He’d be killed. Probably by Ricci’s people.”
I smile coldly. “If you’re lying to me, you’ll be killed. Definitely by me.”
He flinches.
“Think carefully, Billie,” I say, already reaching for my phone. Once he gives me a name, I’ll need Leo on it immediately. If there’s any chance the source could be in danger, I need my best man to extract him.
“I swear I’m not lying,” Billie pleads. My hand stills on my phone as I watch him tremble. The stink of shame and regret hangs over him like a perpetual cloud. “I can get you proof—real proof—by tomorrow. Just give me a few hours.”
Clicking my tongue, I pick up my phone regardless. “Then you won’t mind me bringing in someone else?”
Russell pales again. “Who? Why?”
“To see if you’re telling the truth,” I reply. “He’s going to track down your source independently. If you’re right, you live. If you’re wrong, he’ll put your teeth in a ziplock bag and send them to your children.”
“Fine!” He jumps to his feet. “I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything. But you should know he has no idea where Marco is. I told him it’d be better to confess if he did, and he swore he didn’t. Marco Ricci didn’t tell anyone about his plan. Maybe…” He scratches his head. “Maybe his daughter knows? He has a daughter!”
And she’s under my roof.
But if everything points back to Isabella, then she must know how to find him. I should’ve been working on that instead of granting her request to babysit her while she slept.
“Then again…” Bille sighs. “I don’t know if she’ll be that useful. He once said that he didn’t trust her and had second thoughts about giving her everything he worked for. According to him, she might turn out to be weaker than her—”
“That’s enough.” My voice cuts through his rambling.
“Yes, sir.” He nods promptly.
I rise slightly in my chair, just enough to lean forward, eyes locked on him. “You should be worried about yourself, Russell,” I say, letting the words sink in like a knife. “You betrayed my father. As far as I’m concerned, you might as well have put the bullet in him yourself.”
The heat in my chest flares—sharp, unexpected. Not just anger. Something else. And it has nothing to do with my father.
It’s her. Isabella.
“The only reason you’re breathing right now is because you’re useful. That could change tomorrow. Hell, it could change in an hour.”
He swallows hard, hands twitching at his sides.
“So instead of dabbling in theories and airing out the dead man’s opinions,” I continue, “how about you focus on giving me something worth hearing?”
Billie nods, small and pathetic. “Understood.”
“Good. Now get the fuck out.” He doesn’t hesitate, turning and shuffling out while trying not to trip over his feet.
I lean back again as my jaw grinds and my heel taps sharply on the ground. It’s Isabella. There’s no mistaking the source of my annoyance at Billie’s rambling.
But there’s more. She was supposed to be bait. While I had no intention of giving her back, she was supposed to be fucking bait. If she was disposable to him, he won’t be coming to save her.
Phase one of my plan has failed.
She’ll be disappointed. That the father she so championed, unable to believe him capable of committing a crime like murder, has abandoned her. It will certainly make things easier for me.
I imagine the look on Isabella’s face when I tell her that her father had no plans of handing over anything to her. She was simply a tool he used to push his ambitions. Her marriage would’ve been the seal—a union between the two families would’ve made him almost unstoppable.
Well, not almost. But he’d have gotten some form of protection against my wrath, making it a bit harder to touch him.
Perhaps it’ll be easier to break her now. When she sees that she has no one else to turn to and realizes she’s at my mercy, she’ll be more complacent. If nothing else, I’ll have a better idea of who Marco Ricci might be working with to flee the country.
In the meantime, there’s something else I need to do.
Picking up my phone, I make a call. “Can you make some time for me?” I listen to the person at the other end for a while, nodding at intervals. “Okay. I’ll see you at eight.”
“Heading home?” Leo accosts me as I step out of my office.
“No,” I say, walking past him.
He spins, catching up with me in a couple of steps. “No? Do you have other obligations I’m not aware of?”
“Yes, Leonardo. I do. And you were away for the entire day, so I could say the same about you,” I say sarcastically. Not that I care what he uses his time for, but I’d rather not tell him the details of my plan until I can put a pin in it.
Leo steps in front of me before I can reach the elevator, arms casually spread like he’s trying not to look like a barrier. “This is merely an observation, but I’d like to point out you haven’t gone home in two days.” He keeps his voice light. “Are you avoiding her?”
“Isabella,” I say flatly. “You can say her name.”
He gives me a knowing look, and for a second, I consider walking right through him. It’d be impossible, but I’d still like to try.
“So I was right.” He folds his arms. “Avoidance isn’t your style, Roman. You usually face things head-on. Handle it. Control it. Destroy it. So…what gives?”
“Misplaced curiosity doesn’t suit you, Leonardo.” I use his full name again, but my tone is short this time, telling him not to push the subject.
He nods solemnly as his hands fall and he steps to the side. “My apologies. I overstepped.”
Even before the response leaves his lips, I already feel shitty. “I—” I start apologizing, but the words refuse to come out. Because it’s unlike me…taking back my words, breaking my rules, and showing affection for a woman who should mean nothing to me.
I sigh inwardly as I silently press the button, stepping into the elevator as the doors open. I turn, and there’s a look on Leo’s face. It’s concern but also something else.
The first time I saw it was at the morgue when I went there to identify my father.
Sympathy.
Fucking hell. It made me feel weak then. Vulnerable too. I look away as I press the button for the first floor, shutting him out of sight.
I don’t need his sympathy. What I want is Marco Ricci and everybody else who betrayed my father. Everything else is secondary.
“Boris Glazastov,” I say as the heavyset man stops me in front of Glazastov’s office. “Tell him it’s Roman Volkov.”
He reaches for the walkie-talkie attached to his gear, mumbling something. Then he stares me down—an intimidation tactic I let slide. I’m here to negotiate, not cause trouble.
Or I’d take him down without breaking a sweat. And probably break his hands in the process.
“You can go in.” He opens the door.
I walk into a large office that looks like something out of a nineties mobster stereotype—gold lining everywhere, tiger prints, and excessive furniture. In the middle of it, Boris Glazastov sits behind his desk. Overweight. Bald. Probably with a bunch of health issues, judging by the IV line standing beside his desk. I size up the men standing on either side—the same cut as the one by the door.
“Roman Volkov,” he rasps. “To what do I owe the pleasure of entertaining the man who killed my son?”
That.
If I were the kind of man who reviewed every decision carefully and avoided taking risks, I’d have left Boris alone. After all, I did leave his son in a pool of his own blood on his wedding day.
But I know Boris sees his children as extensions of his property, not as humans. More than anything, he likes power, money, and fame.
That’s why I’m here.
I walk up to his desk and pull out a chair, ignoring the immediate defensive stance from his bodyguards. “I’m here to offer you a deal.”
Boris chortles, slapping his hand on his desk. “A deal? What makes you think I’d be interested in whatever you’re offering, Volkov? If it’d been your father, I might’ve spared him a minute, but you’re young. And reckless.” His eyes narrow and I see him reach under his desk. A gun. “What is stopping me from shooting you right here? A life for a life?”
“Your son would’ve killed me,” I say flatly.
He shrugs. “You stole his bride.”
“Bride?” My lips curl into a thin smile. “I simply took what was mine. You’re no stranger to what happens when a blood pact is broken. Marco Ricci ran away, unwilling to face the consequences of his actions. I did what I had to.”
I wait with bated breath for his response while calculating how long it’d take me to take out the men. Ten seconds, I muse, judging by the proximity. I might get shot in the shoulder if Boris Glazastov remembers how to fire a gun, but he’d be going down afterward.
“I can’t argue with you on that,” he says, lifting his hand from underneath the desk. No gun. “So you’re here because you want me to help you find him? You’re aware we were in the process of signing a contract? Both families, allies.”
I am aware.
I wouldn’t have crashed the wedding and abducted the bride otherwise. I could’ve gotten Isabella anywhere else, but I couldn’t let the wedding hold—and I had to do it while making a statement.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t need your help finding him.” Because I doubt Boris knows where Marco is. If Marco didn’t trust his own daughter, he sure as hell wouldn’t confide in Boris. The man’s loyalty is a currency that’s easily bought and easily spent.
I lean forward, eyes locked on his, my voice ironclad. “But I know Marco’s going to reach out to you. And when he does…I want you to turn him down. Shut the door in his face. Cut him off completely.”
A beat passes. Then I add, just low enough to unsettle, “Because if you don’t, Boris, I won’t have to find Marco. I’ll just come back for you.”
“I see,” he murmurs. “I do have a choice, don’t I? Between a man on a run and the son of Volkov. I was mistaken.” He grins. “You are like your father—before he became senile and weak.”
I drop my hand to my thigh so he doesn’t see the anger that forces my fingers to clench. An insult to my father’s name, dead or alive, is an insult I refuse to accept.
But I let it settle, saving it for later. There are more important things to worry about. “Keep him away, and you’ll have the Volkov unwavering alliance.”
Boris grins, yellowed teeth stained with tobacco. “I look forward to doing business with you, Roman Volkov.”
“Same here,” I murmur.
I don’t offer my hand. Just shove it into my coat pocket as I turn and walk out of his office, the last thread of tolerance unraveling with every step.
The second the door clicks shut behind me, my mind’s already moving.
Sergei.
I’ll have him put someone on Boris’s tail. I don’t trust the bastard to keep his word. He’s merely a means to an end; that’s all he is. A pawn to help sever Marco’s ties—one by one—until the traitor has no hands left to play with. No allies. No exits.
And when it’s done, Marco is buried, and the dust settles, I’ll return.
Not for business, but to collect. For what Boris said about my father, and for daring to grin while saying it.
