Olena’s eyes drift to my belly, then back to my face. “You look healthy.”
“Thanks.”
“And foolish.”
“Also, thanks.”
She takes a long drag on the cigarette, then flicks the ash to the side. “He’s not here.”
“I gathered.”
“He doesn’t want to be found.”
“I don’t care.”
That catches her off guard. Just for a second. She does a double-take. “You’re ballsy,” she says finally. “I’ll give you that.”
“Where is he, Olena?”
“Even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because he made me swear I wouldn’t.”
I deflate, shoulders sagging, and fight the pressure building between my eyes. Crying on the street, in front of a woman who is basically an assassin, and doesn’t want me anywhere near her boss, would not be a good move.
“So, he’s really done with me then.” The cab’s brake lights go off, and the car inches forward a bit. The driver has finally noticed me talking to a tall, impassive, bald woman standing in the shadows.Nowhe’s nervous. I move to turn away, then pause. “Can you just tell me if he’s okay?”
Olena looks at me for a long time.
“No,” she says quietly. “But he’s alive. And he’s trying.”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. Behind her, the streetlight flickers on.
“I just need to talk to him,” I whisper. “Please.”
She takes one last drag, then crushes the cigarette beneath her heel.
“If he wants to find you,” she says, turning away, “he will.”
Then she disappears into the dark.
And I’m left standing on the steps of an empty house, more certain than ever of one thing—I’m not done fighting.
Chapter 28
Konstantin
When the call comes I’m in the study, blinds drawn against the night, watching the soft flicker of security footage on the corner monitor. Audrey’s apartment has been quiet for hours. Lev’s men confirm she hasn’t left. Her building is locked down tighter than a vault.
It’s after midnight and my private line buzzes. The name flashing on the screen surprises me; we haven’t spoken since I took down the coup meant to take him out.
“Da.”
“Konstantin,” Giuseppe’s smooth voice slithers down the line, lightly accented. With the last few months behind us, the emotions that surface catch me off guard; for the first time ever his voice sparks a sense of calm in me. Sartorre has become, oddly, a kind of father-figure. Not that that would stop him from killing me someday. “I thought you might want to know… your girl just walked into my front door.”
For a second, I don’t speak.
