“Koslova,” Stepanov answers. He’s an adequate boss. Fatherly. He made a play for me once but backed off when I shot him down. “You okay?”
“No, sir. My sister is dead, and there’s no sign of my nephew. He’s missing.”
He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry,” he says gruffly. “I know you were hoping to bring him back with you.”
Tears smart my eyes. “I should have come years ago.” I don’t know why I’m confessing this stuff to Stepanov. He’s not the touchy-feely type. Police don’t generally do emotions with each other, but the sense of grief and desperation keeps growing. The helplessness.
“The bratva did this,” I say bitterly.
“Yes,” Stepanov says. “I have heard the Chicago bratva are the worst of them.”
I digest that, a fresh surge of anger piercing my grief. “They have a building here where supposedly all Russians are welcome. I’m going there now.”
“I’ve heard of it. It’s supposed to be a fortress. If you can penetrate its defenses, much could be done to bring down this American arm of the bratva.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have contacts in America–FBI. They have been looking for someone on the inside. They might be willing to help you find your nephew if you can help them.”
“Help them, how?”
“You get in that building. Make friends.”
My phone interrupts the call to give me the next direction, and I make the required turn.
When the sound changes back to the call, Stepanov has ended the call.
It doesn’t matter, I already feel far less alone. Less desperate.
I’ll have Stepanov and the FBI behind me on this venture.
All I have to do is get myself in.
Chapter Two
Maykl
Someone’s buzzing the bell of the Kremlin front doors. Technically, not my problem. The doors are locked—it’s past business hours. It’s approaching nine at night, for fuck’s sake.
But I have the video feed running in my room because I take security at the Kremlin very seriously, and this one doesn’t look like she’s going away.
She’s holding a suitcase and is hunched against the wind. The long red woolen jacket wrapped around her doesn’t disguise how slender she appears. How lovely.
She raises her gloved hand and raps on the glass. “Pozhaluysta.” I can’t hear the word, but I see her lips form it.
Blyad’. She’s Russian.
I’m up and out of my chair in a heartbeat, palming a pistol that I tuck in the waistband of my jeans. I shove my feet in a pair of boots and get on the elevator to go down to the front doors.
I see my share of crazy shit here. I saw when that band kid tried to knock the doors down a month ago to get in. I knew he was here for Nadia, and I also knew Adrian wouldn’t approve, so I didn’t even bother answering the door.
As it turned out, Nikolai let the kid in.
I’ve had to field an aggressive visitor for that mudak, too. Before she was his girlfriend, Chelle nearly climbed me like a tree when I tried to throw her out. I guess her brother has a gambling problem that Nikolai helped her out with.
I open the door and stare at the pale beauty looking up at me. Her eyes are ice blue, and her lashes and brows a light blonde.
She takes in my tattoos and the width of my shoulders. “I am Russian,” she says in our mother tongue, ducking her head submissively. “I was told I would be welcomed here.”
Fuck.
I grunt and open the door to at least let her in from the cold. “Told by whom?” I demand in Russian.
She gives a name I don’t recognize.
“What do you need?”
She pulls off her winter cap, revealing a head of pale blonde hair that falls in layers to her shoulders. I get the feeling the submissive act is just that–an act. There’s a steely determination behind her eyes that makes me cautious.
“My name is Kira. I just arrived from Russia, and I need a place to stay.”
I consider her for a moment. Nyet. There’s something off about this.
I jerk my thumb toward the door. “So find a hotel.” I speak in English to see if she understands me.
Her pale brows draw together, but she replies in accented English. “I can’t stay here? Just for a few days until I get a job and find my bearings?” She unbuttons her coat, and I take in her slender but feminine form. She’s in pants that hug her hips and a pair of lace-up boots that give her a mildly punk look. Her sweater is asymmetrical, falling off one shoulder and molding to her perky tits.
She appears alert. In command of herself. She’s taken in the opulent lobby as well as the gun at my waist without any apparent surprise. Like she expected as much.
Her gaze travels from my face, to my chest, and down my tattooed arms. When she sees the tattoo that marks me with the sin of patricide, her lip curls slightly with what appears to be distaste. Like she knows what it means.