Ultimate Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 4)(16)

“Sacha?” Justin patted her back where his hand rested.

Torn between wanting his aid and not wanting to reveal she’d spoken about the organization to “an outsider”, especially because she knew Anton would be reporting this interaction to his superiors in the next few minutes, Sacha erred on the side of caution and protected her friend rather than lean on him.

“Anton was saying the weather back home has been similar but with more snow.” She looked away from the goon’s approval to see the police officer was watching their exchange. He came forward. But rather than ask her if everything was okay, he put his hand out to Anton, who shook it and offered him a thank you in English. Any badge number she might have taken note of was hidden under his coat.

“No worries, man,” the officer said. “I’ll let the other boys know about the security detail. We’re good here. ’Night.” He nodded at Sacha and Justin before walking away.

Instinctively, she went to raise her hand, but Anton clicked his tongue to get her attention.

“As I said, outsiders are not welcome in our business. There is no need to cause a scene that will end in disappointment for you. You must know he is ours. As are many others.” He didn’t speak in a threatening tone, just matter-of-factly enough to have her stop Justin when he went to follow after the officer.

“We are good, Justin,” she said, forcing a smile.

“Say goodbye to your friend now and go inside,” Anton continued. “From what I gathered, Alek should be along in the morning.”

A combination of affront and fear roared through her, making her stomach twist into painful knots. Who was this minion to tell her what to do?

And what did she do? Nothing. She stood on the sidewalk outside her home and experienced helplessness in its most basic form. Her beautiful secret was still only hers, but the rest of her life was already an open book. How long before that changed? Twelve measly hours? Twelve imprisoned hours?

As she flashed a shaky smile at Justin and pulled him along toward the front door, she couldn’t help but think if she’d needed a blatant and timely reminder of who she was dealing with, she’d just gotten one.



♦ ♦ ♦



As Dmitri pulled the Maybach to the curb in front of a small tavern in the Flatiron District, Vasily Tarasov looked out at the damp sidewalk covered in dirty snow and slush. New York was so messy in the winter. Back home, winter was white. Here it was wet.

“Since we’re only a few blocks away, I’m going to stay at the apartment tonight,” Alek said as they got out, referring to the place he and Sacha had shared.

As cold air flew up Vasily’s pants legs, he nodded. “I had a feeling you might say that.” Which was why the unit that had been sitting empty for over a year was currently crawling with sweepers. The men would check for planted explosives or anything that could cause injury or death. It was second nature to regularly go through the routine with their cars, homes, and businesses. Around the clock, the sweepers’ only job was to search and deem safe.

Vasily hoped their clean track record would remain, but wasn’t optimistic. Especially now.

They went through the door of the pub that Dmitri held open, and in the next few minutes, were sitting with a young Russian couple. It didn’t take long for Vasily to relax and lose himself in one of the perks this life offered, one he truly enjoyed; helping those not able to help themselves. He would never consider himself a do-gooder, not in any form. These cases were more about him and his connections bypassing a broken system. Sure, it was illegal. Funnily enough that didn’t bother him.

After a few minutes speaking with the young man, who was in his early thirties, about how he and his wife were settling in after the big move from Yekaterinburg, Vasily turned to the woman. She was younger, probably Eva’s age, and appeared shit-scared.

“Would you rather we spoke Russian?” he asked.

Her eyes darted around the group before she answered in Russian, which gave him a big clue. “Whatever you are most comfortable doing.”

He smiled in appreciation for the show of respect. “Since we are discussing yours and your husband’s new life, I would say you should be involved. That would make the choice yours. If you are as comfortable and fluent in English as your husband, we’ll continue. If you are not, you should admit that, and we will accommodate you.”

Her face went red. “My English is not as good as my husband’s.” The confession obviously embarrassed her. That reminded him of Sacha’s never-ending resolve to get the difficult language right.

“My woman was in your shoes not long ago,” Alek cut in, his tone kind. “She’s come a long way. It will be easier for you now that you’re submerged in it. Sacha used to watch cartoons.”