Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107079 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 535(@200wpm)___ 428(@250wpm)___ 357(@300wpm)
“I don’t know,” admitted Gennadiy. “Let’s worry about keeping you alive first. Who’s trying to kill you? It isn’t the Italians. It isn’t the Irish. Who else were you investigating?”
I shook my head tiredly. I’d been wondering the same thing, but, “I was only investigating you. And before this case and while I was off it, the Italians and the Irish. That’s it.”
“There must be someone else. An old murder investigation, a cold case?”
“No, no one.”
“There must be!”
I shook my head again and opened my mouth to tell him there wasn’t. But then I froze because...there was one other person. It didn’t make any sense...unless I’d been horribly, terrifyingly wrong about them.
“Have you ever heard the name Viktor Grushin?” I asked slowly.
Gennadiy’s face fell. Then he climbed off the bed and strode over to his closet. “Get dressed,” he told me. “We need to talk to Mikhail.”
37
ALISON
I hurried back to my room—wrapped in a towel because I couldn’t face putting my soaking clothes back on again—and pulled on a bra and panties. I stood looking for a moment at all the beautiful dresses Gennadiy had bought for me, then looked down at my ruined leg. I was feeling better, but...no, I wasn’t there yet. I grabbed a fresh pair of black jeans instead, a vest top, and a thin, deep blue sweater because the temperature had dropped, and ran for the door. When I opened it, Milena, the maid, was standing there. “Mr. Aristov said you had some wet clothes?”
She was already carrying Gennadiy’s soaking wet suit and shirt. I thanked her and gratefully handed her my dripping jeans. “There’s a blouse, too, but the buttons are, um...ripped off.” I passed her it, flushing.
Milena didn’t so much as raise a perfectly made-up eyebrow. “I’ll get it replaced,” she assured me, curtsied, and scurried off. I watched her go, blinking. This whole servants thing was going to take some getting used to.
Downstairs, Gennadiy told me that he’d called Mikhail and the rest of his family, and they were on their way. While we waited, his chef fed us steaming bowls of home-cooked tomato soup and toasted cheese sandwiches that were absolutely amazing, the bread crunchy and salty with butter, and the centers molten and dripping with strings of tangy cheese.
Bronwyn—Radimir’s wife—arrived first because she’d come straight from her bookstore, and I grabbed the chance to get to know her a little. She was American, too, and she and Radimir had only been together a matter of months, so she wasn’t used to the lifestyle, either. In fact, it was harder for her because she’d been a civilian with no contact with organized crime at all before Radimir had walked into her bookstore. “Aren’t you...scared?” I asked her in the hallway.
“Of him?” she asked. “Never. For him? All the time. But...the Bratva’s part of who he is. I figured I could fight it, maybe lose him to it...Or I could become part of it and be there for him when he needs me.” She gave me a brave smile. “It’s working...so far.” Then her smile faltered. “What happens next...we’re working on that.”
What happens next. Children? Was she wondering whether to bring kids into Radimir’s world? I tried to figure out how to ask, but, at that moment, we heard the other Aristovs arrive.
We hurried back into the dining room as Valentin walked in, silent and brooding, his eyes everywhere. Then Radimir, icily cold...until he spied Bronwyn and pulled her to him, taking both her hands in his and smiling at her with childlike joy. And finally, Mikhail arrived, surrounded by his dogs. For once, he wasn’t smiling. “Gennadiy said something about Viktor Grushin,” he told me. “Start talking.”
We all sat, and I slowly laid out what I’d learned: that Viktor Grushin was a former spy turned anti-Bratva cop, that he’d successfully smashed the gangs in Moscow and then faked his own death. I pulled out my phone and showed them the photo I’d taken of his new, fake identity.
“He’s alive?!” Mikhail shook his head, visibly shaken. His dogs butted their furry heads against him to comfort him, and he absently stroked them. “I never thought…” He muttered something in Russian, and Gennadiy stood and brought him a glass of vodka, which he drained in one gulp. He sighed, staring at the floor while the rest of us exchanged shocked looks.
When Mikhail finally raised his eyes again, his expression was hard, his voice cracked and bitter. “Viktor Grushin,” he told me, “is not what you think.”
We all leaned in to listen.
“You said he was a spy,” said Mikhail, “and he was. But not some heroic James Bond. His specialty was overthrowing governments in the Middle East and Africa. Assassinating leaders, rigging elections, poisoning opponents. He stoked rebellions, started wars...people starved and died, just so our government could have another puppet leader. Grushin would do anything to complete his mission. When he finally came home, some idiot in the government thought it would be a good idea to put him to work dealing with us, with the Bratva. But they didn’t understand the sort of man he is.”