Whether it was his blatant disinterest or the fact that whatever matter had called for them both to be here in the first place was pressing, Mikhail didn’t waste any time before he sat, waving away the waitress who’d started toward him once he’d arrived.
“I have a problem only you can fix.”
“Oh?”
Uilleam could count on one hand the number of times he had ever seen the Russian in front of him look uneasy. No, that wasn’t quite the right word for it—anxious, perhaps.
It prodded at the deep-rooted part of himself that wanted to delve into a person’s secrets. Except now, he was also thinking about how best to exploit them.
“By all means,” Uilleam said with an indulging wave of his hand, even as he forced himself to make an expression as close to a smile as possible. “Regale me.”
And this wouldn’t, Uilleam knew, have to do with anything related to the Bratva. He had men for that, after all, and the Russians much preferred to handle things in-house when it came to that sort of thing.
And considering he had sent his men away so that they wouldn’t overhear their conversation, Uilleam was almost positive that whatever had brought the man here tonight was personal. Something he didn’t want even the men who reported directly to him to know …
Curious.
“My son,” he started, picking up his glass of vodka and eyeing it thoughtfully, “he doesn’t always understand the way things are done, no? Product of his generation.”
Undoubtedly, though Uilleam didn’t voice the thought aloud. It was practically a law of nature for sons to inevitably face off with the man who sired him and would, hopefully, surpass them.
He had with his own.
“I’ve been easy with him,” Mikhail continued, dragging Uilleam out of his thoughts once more. “It’s time I stop that.”
“And how, exactly, would you like me to help you with that?”
If it was merely a matter of just having the boy killed, he wasn’t very much interested. It sounded awfully boring, and he would much rather drink that time away than to go through the effort dozens of others could do.
Mikhail didn’t readily respond, finishing off his drink first before he gestured to the waitress across the room to bring him another. “This cannot reflect on me, yes?”
That much, Uilleam already knew. It was the nature of nearly every job he took on.
“Go on.”
“He doesn’t understand the way this business works. Your hands are still dirty, no matter the soil.”
“I’m sure.”
“Which is why I need him out of the picture.”
Uilleam managed to keep a straight face despite the inner reaction he had to those words.
“You’ll have me murder your son?” Uilleam asked, not in the mood to read between the lines.
For this, he wanted a straight answer.
“Dead or alive. As long as he’s gone,” he said with a wave of his hand.
“What is it with fathers and their need to ensure their heir doesn’t surpass them? Are you truly so desperate for an ego stroke?”
The corners of Mikhail’s mouth turned down, but it was the only sign of his displeasure.
“Who do you—”
“Of course,” Uilleam continued quickly, “but my fee has tripled. I expect that won’t be a problem?”
Because in the end, it wouldn’t matter even if it was. He could either pay the price or find someone half as good.
“We have a deal.”
Good.
Now the real work would begin, but as he stood from that table, he wasn’t thinking about the life he was about to take but rather Luna.
How nurses hadn’t been the answer.
The Volkov boy could prove a worthy mercenary. He just needed a little push.
The rain sounded like thunder as it hit the roof of the SUV, the pitter-patter enough of a distraction to keep him from sinking too deeply into his thoughts.
It was moments like this that reminded him just how different everything felt to him now than it had three years ago when the nights felt young, and he had all the time to conquer the world.
Now, the days were too long, and there wasn’t nearly enough work in the day to distract himself from thoughts of Karina.
Skorpion slammed his fist against the horn, dragging Uilleam from his thoughts as they jerked to a stop. Even he was different.
He wasn’t sure what it was that kept the man seated behind the wheel and driving in circles. It surely couldn’t be duty. Unlike others, he’d never had a formal contract drawn up for him.
No promises of silence and kept secrets.
In the beginning, he’d just been an employee, then soon after he’d become something of a confidante, and now ... there was no word to convey the depth of loyalty and respect he felt for him.
He never worried that Skorpion would betray his confidence.
Perhaps it was for that reason he was here instead of somewhere else enjoying better company.
“I thought the goal was to not die?” Uilleam asked, resting back farther in his seat, wishing the knot of tension at the base of his neck would ease even the slightest bit.
“Can’t blame me when people drive like shit.”
He wasn’t entirely wrong about that. “Where are we, anyway?”
“Brooklyn.”
Uilleam frowned, thinking of the drive back to his penthouse. “Why are we in Brooklyn?”
“The one place you don’t drink yourself into a coma.”
That managed to get a smirk out of him. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m quite comfortable in any situation.”
The beauty of foresight.
So long as he had an exit strategy in mind, the rest was just a matter of deciding how he would proceed.
Which was why he was willing to hold a meeting anywhere—whether it be a small hole-in-the-wall ramen shop or the presidential suite at the Ritz. Business was business.
Any other time, Uilleam would have been sure it was the alcohol inside him that had him seeing things, but after a long day and a terribly sober evening, he had nothing to blame.
Some things—impossible things never failed to surprise him.
What were the odds?
Just there, across the street, he saw a very familiar face staring down at a blonde standing next to him. Their hands were tucked together, and it didn’t matter that a crowd of people moved around them—they were in their own world.
Except Uilleam was quite certain that the woman Mishca Volkov was supposed to be dating had dark hair, and there was certainly no reason for the prints of the Volkov Bratva to be in this party of the city.
Even at his distance, Uilleam was also certain the boy he’d been tasked with having set up had a tattoo along his forearm.
It seemed, to his surprise, the Volkov prince had a twin.
Was there nowhere in the city he could retreat without sparking memories of her?
Would he always see her reflected in the glass-front stores or in every back seat of a passing taxi?
Did he really want to know a life when he wouldn’t?
The day his father died, he hadn’t felt a thing other than passing resentment. No ... that wasn’t quite right. He’d felt some measure of sympathy for his mother who’d had to watch him die, but other than that, he hadn’t been moved one way or the other by Alexander’s passing.
And for a while, he’d thought that he was immune to it. Alexander’s hadn’t been the only funeral he’d ever attended, and he hadn’t cried about those either.
Yet not a day went by that he didn’t feel her loss and the way he hadn’t truly got to appreciate her while she was living.
That was the worst thought of them all.
“Heading home, Mr. Runehart,” Frank, his newest driver—because he wasn’t a bastard enough to force Skorpion to suffer alongside him.
“Just drive,” he told him, still not sure where he wanted to go, only knew that the idea of sitting alo
ne wouldn’t do him any good.
That had been the way of it for longer than he would have liked.
If he wasn’t working, he was … doing this? Mourning just didn’t feel like the right word to encompass everything he was feeling.
Most days, it felt as if he was dying a thousand deaths.
Closing his eyes, he tried to find a hole in his mind he could climb into—one that didn’t involve the urge to tap into his darker thoughts in a bid not to feel like hell.
He’d found something of a reprieve because by the time the truck slowed, and he opened his eyes once more. His heart was no longer racing, and the panic he’d been in came simmering down.
He glanced at his driver through the rearview mirror who merely shrugged. “It’s a good place.”
Uzumaki’s Ramen Shop.
He wasn’t particularly caring of what he ate as of late, and sometimes places like this were just what he needed. The simple things.
Despite how small the space was, Uilleam was still led to a table that, while toward the back of the room, still had an optimal view of the street out front as well as the mounted television on the wall.
The few other patrons inside the small noodle shop were more focused on their own meals rather than on him.
No one glanced up at him when they thought he wasn’t looking.
He was all but invisible.
And with that thought came a peace he hadn’t known he needed.
He hadn’t realized how much he had craved the simplicity of anonymity. It didn’t matter where he went or what time of day, it was inevitable to run into someone that knew him or of him.
When the matronly woman came over to take his order, he handed her back the small menu and said, “Chef’s preference.”
From the knot that formed between her brows, she didn’t quite understand what he was asking for, prompting him to repeat the request in Japanese.
Her relief as she responded in kind brought a smile to his face, easing some of the tension in his shoulders.
She nodded before stepping away very quickly to head into the back.
He hadn’t been sitting there very long when she came back with a steaming bowl of ramen topped with bean sprouts, chicken, and a special house-made red sauce before leaving only to come back with little side dishes to go along with it.
And with each bite he took, he felt a little bit better—a little more human.
Unfortunately, Uilleam hadn’t been eating long when the door opened and closed, a soft bell chiming at the entry.
For a moment, Uilleam didn’t look up—didn’t care to—but his moment of peace had to come to an end whether he liked it or not.
And once his companion stood and quickly moved out of the way, it was back to his reality.
He turned in time to see Z weaving past the tables closest to him before he joined him at the table, resting his overcoat in the chair next to him.
“Imagine my surprise,” Uilleam said as he sat back, folding his arms across his chest, “at finding you here.”
“GPS tracking works wonders.”
He couldn’t begin to explain how much that annoyed him. “As exasperating as I find your presence here, I’m more curious why you sought me out.”
Zachariah settled more comfortably in his chair, his gaze drifting up to the television momentarily before focusing back on him. “I hear you’re making arrangements with the Russians.”
“Who isn’t making deals with the Russians?” Uilleam asked blandly.
“The only one I care about is yours.”
“Why is that?”
Zachariah sighed, reminding him so much of Alexander. “Must you be like this always?”
“I’ve been known to be, yes.”
“Uilleam.”
“Can one even consider what I’m doing a true deal? After all, no one is dying in this one, are they?”
“It isn’t enough that your collecting mercenaries, you’re taking it upon yourself to create them as well?”
“Good help is so very hard to find.” Because it was clear his uncle knew more about his plans than he should have. “Should I even ask who told you, or should I wager a guess?”
“Doesn’t matter how I know,” Zachariah said as he helped himself to the other chair. “What matters now is that I do know.”
“And what exactly do you expect me to do with this information?”
“Uilleam, you continue down this right, and you’re going to create your own enemies. It’s not smart.”
Uilleam took out his wallet and removed a few hundred dollars before setting the bills on the table. “Which is what I have you for, uncle. So long as you’re their handler, they need not know who I am, or how I came to know them.”
In the end, it would be better for everyone involved.
Including himself.
16
Moving On
In the span of days, all the fear and anxiety—the hopelessness and despair—had all faded until it wasn’t so much of a chore to get up in the mornings. When the sight of the glowing sunlight outside her window didn’t feel like a taunt but rather a new beginning.
Karina was no longer the journalist, bound by the rules she’d set for herself before she left Ashworth Hall all those years ago. She was no longer sticking within the boundaries of the law, and knowing that, she also didn’t think she could possibly do what she intended on her own. She’d need help.
And not just the sort offered by Katherine’s newest. Something about Elias Harrington didn’t sit right with her—she now understood why Isla and Zoran had described him the way they did—and though he had practically jumped at the opportunity to aid her in whatever she needed, she hadn’t thought twice before declining.
She needed someone she could trust implicitly.
A person she didn’t have to worry if her secrets would fall on other ears.
“Are you absolutely sure you want to go alone?” Isla asked, eyeing her from the doorway.
“I won’t be alone,” she reminded her, thinking of the man currently waiting in one of the empty bedrooms below.
Despite having been away from the facility for more than a week now, he was still ... adjusting.
She hadn’t been foolish enough to think that once he’d been liberated, his personality would shift and he’d speak for the very first time, or at least indicate, in some way, that he was happy to no longer be there.
But he was as silent and stoic as ever, and if he could help it, he didn’t meet anyone’s gaze if he didn’t need to.
That made others wary around him, but it only made Karina sympathize with him more.
“If he wanted to harm me, I’m sure he would have done so by now.”
It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had plenty of opportunities to do so.
He could have easily snapped her neck as they’d left the facility or even escaped after they were well enough away. It wasn’t as if she were skilled in that way to stop him.
But he hadn’t. So she was choosing to believe that, though silent and watchful, this was a better alternative.
And once her work was done, and perhaps even before it, she would find a way to help him acclimate to this life instead of the one he’d always known.
“Men with the friendliest of smiles can lie straight through their teeth.”
Uilleam had certainly been good at that. “Which is why I’m not worried.”
Isla, who hadn’t liked this idea particularly when she’d voiced it, still didn’t look convinced. “How are you feeling?”
Karina finished tucking away the last of her things, giving the room a sweep with her gaze to make sure she didn't forget anything. “I’m fine.”
“Have you ... spoken with someone?”
That question gave her pause—not because it was out of the ordinary, but because she knew what Isla was hinting at.
She turned from what she was doing to better face her sister, wanting to give her, her undivided attention. Isla meant well, after
all.
“I haven’t spoken to anyone recently, but,” she emphasized as Isla opened her mouth to speak, “when I feel the need to, I will.”
“The last thing I need you doing is putting yourself in dangerous situations.”
That managed to make her laugh. “It’ll only go downhill from here.”
Katherine wasn’t alone when Karina ventured downstairs to say her goodbyes. Instead, the young girl she’d run into some time ago was seated in front of her desk, her head bowed and her fingers laced together in her lap.
Somehow, she appeared smaller than she already was.
“I’m sorry, darling. I don’t think you could possibly—Karina, hello.”
She had interrupted something important, she thought, at least from the expression on Kava’s face, but her mother didn’t look bothered in the slightest, meanwhile.
“I was on my way out,” she explained, her gaze darting to Kava a moment, wondering why she looked so upset.
In all her time here, she had been one of the few who actually treated Karina as if she were normal instead of a victim. When the other girls saw her, they always ducked their heads and scattered before she could get a word in.
But never Kava.
“I can always see you later when—”
“Oh, there’s no need. Kava doesn’t mind stepping away for a moment.”
The girl didn’t hesitate to jump to her feet and quickly dart out of the office.
“It wouldn’t have hurt to ask, Mother.”
Katherine arched a serene brow. “Didn’t I?”
An argument for another day. “Why was she in here anyway?”
Katherine sat back, folding her hands in her lap as her smile grew a touch. “Have you taken an interest in my girls?”
Sometimes, it was easy to forget that these weren’t young women who had been taken into her care, but rather girls she meant to mold and shape in her image. Most were orphans, lost to a system that had forgotten about them and left to fend for themselves on cold, barren streets.
She didn’t fault them for their reasons in seeking out this life, but for once, one of them made her curious. Kava didn’t seem very much like the others.
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