“Yes,” I gasp. “I’ll stay dead,” I say.
He still doesn’t let go of me.
My mother draws herself up. “Viktor.”
“I’ll stay dead!” I repeat.
He releases me and shoves me away from him. My mother catches me, and even though her face is a mask of soothing, I note the trembling in her hands.
Tears burn my eyes and throat. Unwilling to cower and hide, I turn back to the window, my gaze glued to Maxim. Ravil and Oleg haul him to his feet and hold him up as a ring of police officers surround them.
Maxim. Gospodi, I’m dying for him. If I were in his shoes thinking he’d been blown up, my heart would be torn in pieces.
And in the darkness of all that, creeps a tiny sliver of light.
He did care.
My mother was wrong about him.
He was down there on his knees over losing me.
If I could somehow get out of here and get to him, I could end that pain.
But what if Viktor’s right? What if Ravil retaliates against my mother for scheming to take the money away from them? But I could beg for her life. I could make them see. If I went back, they’d still have the money.
Except my stomach goes queasy at all the uncertainties there. Would I even be welcome back after my mother staged this coup and apparently the one in Moscow against Vladimir? Would they have to kill her now to settle scores on both continents?
My eyes burn, but I blink the tears back. I’m an actress, and it’s never been more important that I hide my emotions.
My mother gathers herself and comes over to me, clasping my arms and smiling into my face like I didn’t just get assaulted by her boyfriend. “This is the perfect arrangement, Sasha. You will see. As soon as I get control of the money, we can live the rest of our lives on a beach in the Canary Islands. All that money, ours.”
Dream on, Mama. I fear she’s just lying to herself now. She must realize how tenuous her hold on Viktor is. How dangerous he might turn out to be. How screwed we are. But she’s set this plan in motion, and there’s no going back on it.
For any of us.
“You won’t ever have to answer to that man who hates you again,” she promises.
That man who hates you.
Yes, I believed Maxim hated me. The day my father died I was sure of it. But not anymore. He’d dropped his grudge even before I gave my virginity to him. He’d let me play brat—flying to L.A. and making him chase me—and he hadn’t even been angry. His punishment had been delicious. He’d brought me a wedding ring and played nice with my friends.
He bought me a car.
Helped me find my way in the theatre scene.
Took me out and shared his friends with me.
All I’d done was make his life difficult and let him fold me over the hood of my car for hot sex.
If I make it out of this alive, I’m going to be the most grateful wife a man could ever have.
But it’s a big if.
And I’m not about to use the skills my mother modeled on another man. I owe Maxim that much. If I get myself out of this, it won’t be using my femininity as a weapon.
It will have to be my brains.
Maxim
I can hardly see, hardly think with the pounding behind my eyes. It feels like the center of my head will split open.
My chest already has. I left my organs—my fucking heart—out on that sidewalk in front of the parking lot.
“Who killed her,” I rage back at the penthouse.
Dima’s working like a maniac, his head down, his fingers flying over keys. I’m about an inch from severing his head from his shoulders over this. His fucking program was supposed to keep her safe. Alert us to anyone coming into the country.
“I’m analyzing everyone who came in before the program was in place,” Dima says quickly, shoulders hunched. Nikolai stands behind him looking at the screen as well. Possibly to protect his twin from me when I lose my shit.
“There.” Nikolai points at the screen. “What about that one? One male entering San Francisco from Moscow two weeks ago.”
Dima shrugs and taps away at the keyboard, fingers flying even faster.
“Can you get scans of passenger’s passports?”
“I’d have to hack a database. That will take time.”
“I want a name now!” I thunder.
Sasha will be avenged. Blood will be spilled. By tonight, if I have my way.
“Hack in on the Russian side,” Nikolai advises in a low voice. “Haven’t you been in there before?”
Dima bobs his head and taps away some more. Ten minutes later, Nikolai shouts, “There! I know him.”
“Who is it?” I demand.
“Alexei Preobrazhensky,” Dima reads. “Lived in Moscow. In the same building as Galina and Sasha. Must’ve been a guard?”