Claim

14

Lyon woke to silence, the hum of the hotel more vibration than sound around him. Beyond the walls of the Mandarin New York, the distant sound of city traffic far below the suite came to him a little at a time.

He went to reach for Kira, then remembered he’d left her room the night before just like always. He didn’t bother fighting the feeling of absence that lay on his chest like a boulder.

He missed her.

She was across the suite’s living room, probably asleep and dreaming in her own bedroom, and he missed her.

They’d packed in under an hour the night before and driven to the charter terminal at O’Hare to board the jet. It had been after nine when they arrived in the city, Manhattan’s skyline winking like a string of jewels against an inky moonless sky.

Kira had looked tired, so Lyon had ordered a lavish feast from room service while she showered, and they’d eaten in the suite’s living room overlooking the city. She’d looked so young sitting across from him in the thick hotel bathrobe. Protectiveness had warred with desire inside him, and he’d swept her into his arms and carried her to the giant bed in her room, where he’d made her come again and again before letting her fall into a deep sleep.

He’d considered staying, had been tempted by the softness of her body and the sweet smell of her skin, but reason had won out in the end and he’d crept quietly from her bed and returned to his own.

Now he wished he hadn’t. Which made him glad he had.

Or something like that. He wasn’t quite sure.

His feelings surrounding Kira were among the most confusing of his life. The bratva, he understood.

Business. Strategy.

But he didn’t know what to do with his love for a woman who’d started out as nothing but a pawn, become someone he loved, and ended up a woman who’d left him with words of dismissal that were seared in his soul.

No, she hadn’t ended up there.

She’d ended up here, back in his life, seemingly not unhappy to be with him.

Seemingly… affectionate toward him?

But that’s how it had been before. The question was, could he trust it this time?

He sighed and got out of bed, showered quickly, and dressed for the day. Then he crossed the living room to Kira’s door and knocked softly on its surface. When there was no answer, he opened the door a little at a time.

She was lying on her side, her hands curled under her chin. He wanted to touch her, but he was afraid to wake her.

He shut the door instead and quietly left the suite.

It was early, but the lobby was already bustling as he headed for the concierge.

The young woman behind the desk smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Antonov. How can I help you today?”

“Do you have a pen and piece of paper?”

She produced a pen and a thick piece of paper with the Mandarin’s logo at the top.

He spent a minute writing a note, then folded it and handed it to her. “Send this up to my room in a half hour with coffee and a full breakfast.”

“Would you like to review our breakfast menu?” she asked.

“No. Just send one of everything.”

He wasn’t sure what Kira would be in the mood to eat for breakfast, but he wanted her to have everything.

* * *

This time he wasn’t surprised to enter a corporate building downtown. He was beginning to see a pattern in his dealings with the Syndicate, and he had to admit that it was an interesting view into the rival organization.

He was met by another weapons-carrying receptionist with the build of a linebacker and quickly shown into the inner sanctum.

The Syndicate’s New York headquarters was busier and more upscale than the one where Lyon had met Ronan Murphy in Chicago. By the time he was shown to the office at the end of the hall, he wasn’t surprised to discover that it featured a sweeping view of the city that would have been the envy of any Fortune 500 CEO.

And that wasn’t the only difference: unlike Ronan’s desk with its single laptop, the desk at one end of the room was covered in monitors — four to be exact — plus two keyboards.

The man behind the desk didn’t bother standing. Lyon recognized him from the deep dive he’d done on Damian Cavallo on the plane to New York, owing entirely to the fact that Cavallo — surprisingly — was a trust fund baby with a financial degree from Yale who’d once been touted as an economic genius.

His parents had been well-known philanthropists in the city before their deaths, and Cavallo had inherited everything, including a historic mansion outside of Manhattan.

Of course, other than a few mentions of Cavallo’s wife, Aria, who was on the board of several garden and food accessibility charities, the trail on Cavallo had run more or less dry after he’d joined the Syndicate.

By design, no doubt.

“Thanks for seeing me,” Lyon said, approaching the desk.

Clearly, there was no need for preamble.