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“Long story. The short version is Gio got hit, not seriously, so I used my shirt as a makeshift bandage.”

“Oh, no! Is he going to be okay?”

“I sure hope so.”

I glanced over at Tito and saw a bright-red spot on his white shirt. “Oh, my God. Are you shot, too, Tito?”

He looked down patting his chest. “Oh, this? It’s not blood. Tomato sauce. The hazard of conducting a gunfight while hiding in a pantry.”

I sighed in relief. “Is anyone else hurt? Beau? Xavier?”

“Everyone is fine, as far as I know,” Slash said. “We’re about to sort it all out. What about the first lady? Is she okay?”

“Unknown,” Hands replied.

Shouting came from below, and I could make out someone yelling instructions. “Put your weapons down and hands in the air. Now. No one move.”

“About time.” Slash gave me one more kiss before he removed the rifle draped around him and put it on the floor. He laid his handgun down and raised his arms, still on his knees, linking them behind his head. After a moment, Hands and Tito did the same.

I didn’t stop applying pressure to Agent Glass’s wound.

Only after the counterassault team swarmed the second floor, cuffed the guys, and the medics were called did I finally move away from Agent Glass. Thankfully, no one cuffed me, but I was assigned a team member who didn’t take his eyes off me.

It wasn’t until my escort took me by the elbow and gestured for me to head downstairs that I looked at the bloody strip of material I still held in my hands.

It was a piece of my wedding dress.

EIGHTEEN

Boris Plotnikov

Moscow, Russia

The biggest risk in life is not taking any risk.

That was Boris’s favorite quote, and he quoted it often—to himself and to those who were considering investing in projects he considered worthwhile. History had shown again and again that fortune favored the brave. Boris was a brave man, and he knew taking calculated risks was the only way to power and fortune.

But mostly fortune. Because fortune was, by far, the most important of the two.

Boris didn’t want power, not really. He didn’t give a damn about people, politics, world hegemony, or nationalism. But he needed power to protect his money, so he’d take it. As annoying as it was, you couldn’t be successful without managing both.

He knew a lot about managing money, although it hadn’t started out that way. He’d been born poor in Moscow to an absent father, an alcoholic mother, and two older brothers who could have cared less if he lived or died. At six years old, he started stealing to abate the hunger. At first it was a loaf of bread or an apple. He had a talent for thieving, with his long fingers, quick hands, and an ordinary look. No one would give him a second look on the streets. But he was anything but ordinary. He was extraordinarily clever and had learned by watching others like himself until he was not only proficient, but better. Soon he graduated from lifting food to stealing watches, wallets, and jewelry. Figuring out where to sell them and to whom took him another step into the system, but he lived in the Soviet Union where the black market thrived. The irony of the black market was that capitalism—the supposed enemy of communism—had turned out to be his ticket out of the miserable life he’d been born into. The so-called communists spouted equality, but no one was fooled, especially not the masses. There were exclusive stores, restaurants, and houses for those in the Politburo who lived and moved in the top echelons of society. Those at the top turned a blind eye to the black market, allowing it to exist and thrive, because it placated the masses. If they could control the masses, there was no threat to their power or fortunes.

Fascinating.

Boris wanted a piece of it. Abigpiece. Money had given him food, clothes, and a way to leave behind the family he didn’t want or need. It had given him a future. It hadn’t taken him long at all to understand the role of money in the world.

Those who had money had options, and he wanted options.

He quickly worked his way up to burglary, electronics, fancy jewelry, eventually art and high-end cars. By the time he was twenty years old, he was making a decent and steady income, finding ways to increase his fortune every year. Then, in an incredible stroke of luck, the so-called communism took a nosedive, the Berlin Wall fell, and perestroika—the restructuring of the political and economic system—reigned. Boris was able to quickly gobble up former government property and commercialize what were once Soviet businesses.

He built vast enterprises, invested more and more of his money, and most importantly, squirreled his profits in offshore accounts. His wealth grew until he was courted by the powerful and found himself in the most exclusive circles of the country. He funded those who would serve his needs, financially and strategically. It wasn’t long until he owned several influential politicians at the highest echelons and could instruct them to do what he needed, legally or illegally, to better benefit his businesses.

Because life, for Boris, was all about money.

Before long, Boris was identified in the press as a Russian oligarch, which amused and pleased him to no end. He had brought himself up from poverty to the dizziest heights of money and influence. He didn’t care how or what he’d done to make it happen. Once, at a social function, one snobbish investor had told Boris he hadn’t built his wealth from creating something new or innovative, but from stealing from others. That man hadn’t lived another week. Boris found it became much easier after that to convince others to agree with his perspective.

Yet despite his vast wealth, Boris wasn’t an easily satisfied man. So, when the internet exploded, he’d been on the front lines to exploit it to his favor. He’d been an older guy taking on the younger man’s world of IT and computers, but he had the money, and he could afford to hire the best tech heads to guide him. He’d taken significant risk by investing huge sums of money in technology while continuing to illegally blackmail or steal for what he wanted, until he finally made the most lucrative business decision of all—ransomware.