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I will fight this until I die because Flagstaffisdeath. I’m not the muscle anymore. I’m the ruler. I’m the decision maker. I’m the negotiator. These can all be done from anywhere in the world, even right here in Los Angeles. And the people who care about my presence understand that Kostya is as good as I am. “You will do,” I tell him.
That’s enough. It has to be.
Because what will happen if Ana does realize it’s me she needs to be with? What if she and Artom sneak out in the middle of the night and board a bus to LA to return to me? What if she finds this building and makes it all the way here, but I’m not here to open the elevator for them?
Kostya’s anger and frustration is palpable. We’re going to stalemate yet again on this. Except there’s never really a stalemate. He’s my most trusted adviser, but he’s an adviser.
He opens his mouth, closes it when my phone starts to vibrate. He retrieves it and tosses it back in time for me to answer it.
No time for greeting, just Janson’s voice, loud enough for us all to hear in the silent room.
“There’s been another attack. The shop here. Two guards were executed, the shop completely ransacked. And the cops have already gotten there. They’ve taken the bodies.”
Fucking dammit.
“It’s the IRA. And Vasily? We haven’t... fuck, we haven’t been able to contact your sister.”
Chapter 17
Ana
“Where is she?”
The voice carries all the way from the foyer on the opposite side of the gigantic house and on through to the kitchen, where I’ve spent the morning baking bread with Artom. Well, not necessarily with him. He got bored with it after about the third run of dough. But he’s been hanging out with me, coloring and telling me stories that are at least half true. Not that each story has a fifty percent chance of being true; I just realize soon in that he doesn’t have a great memory and is quick to embellish.
Or I hope so, at least. There’s no way I battled a cockroach the size of a chihuahua with a can of hairspray and lived to tell the tale. I may not know a lot about myself, but I know I don’t do bugs.
I’m making cinnamon rolls now, which Artom assures me is a favorite of mine. As I slice through the rolled dough, I get thisfeeling that it’s Artom’s favorite, and it’s his favorite because they’re not made often at home. And as much as I’m sure plenty of chefs stop at McDonald’s on the way home, I like cooking on my day off.
I’m pretty sure I hate making them.
I’m ready to throw the whole log in the trash when I hear that scream.Where is she.Irrationally, I wonder if there’s a gun stashed somewhere in the kitchen. There’s a nice big fence around the house, but having gone from the Consummate facility with its barbed wire and entire platoon to Vasily’s apartment in the sky to this house that’s nice and big but just a house, I don’t feel nearly as safe.
I wonder if I felt that way before. Growing up in this house, did I know there were safer places? Was I worried that my family’s business would put me at risk? Was I scared when I escaped to Florida? Did I know it was a risk, or was I completely blindsided when I was suddenly nabbed by traffickers?
I don’t even know if I’ve ever shot a gun. The way I felt with them in my hand in Vasily’s office wasn’t natural. I don’t think I have, and I need to learn as soon as I can. If Artom and I weren’t in danger before, we’re in danger now.
Because of Vasily.
He told me he loved me.
I’m working through the mantra I’ve been chanting to myself all day, reminding myself that Vasily lied, all he does is lie, and he raped me and filmed it for the entire world to see, when a woman with olive skin, bouncy chestnut waves, and a navy power suit storms in on heels that make clacking sounds all the way down the hallway. For a second, I’m startled, having no idea who she is and worrying about an attack for completely different reasons, like she’s here on official business and she’s here to throw me in jail.
I take a step in front of Artom, who’s happily scribbling away at the kitchen counter. I don’t know how Child Protective Services works, and I will stab this lady with my bench knife— which is more of an unhandled spatula than a viable weapon— if she thinks she’s going to take Artom away from me.
She slides right into the kitchen island as she says, “Holy shit, you are here.”
I reach behind myself to keep Artom there, so of course he immediately pops out from behind me.
Another scurrying sound approaches from the hallway the woman just appeared from. It’s louder but not nearly so sharp, more of a cacophony of rubber thwacking. The woman spins around, screeches, “Will you please pretend to not be heathens for two seconds of your life?” and spins back to me, this time rushing forward with her arms outstretched.
Two little kids, both slightly smaller than Artom, one a girl in a nightgown that’s gotten snagged in her underwear and the other a boy in swim shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, as identical as a boy and a girl can be and undeniably the woman’s kids, surge past her.
“Auntie Lacey!” the little girl squeaks as the little boy gives a war cry of,“Pool party!”They both throw their arms around my legs, hugging me as tightly as a fresh pair of jeggings.
I look back up to the woman, and my brain suddenly matches her face to the photos taken ten, fifteen, twenty years ago, but some things never change.
“Camilla?”