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Gavriil has one arm around her, possessive and easy. He looks at her like she’s his. Like she belongs to him.
Another picture—Gavriil kissing her forehead.
Another—him lifting her effortlessly from the couch.
And the last one—he lays her on the bed like she’s fragile. Precious. Then he walks to the window, pulling the blinds closed.
My pulse slams like a war drum.
Heat floods my chest, behind my ribs, down my arms. I want to crush something. Smash the phone in my hand. Fly back to Vegas and put Gavriil through a wall.
But I don’t move.
Being so fixated on Tara Craft wasn’t part of the plan.
Tara was never supposed to matter. She was supposed to be someone I strung along to get her out of Irina’s way.
But the second I touched her, that plan dissolved like ash in my hands.
I don’t allow myself to look at the pictures again. Instead I pocket the phone and head for the truck. The coastal road cuts through the frozen cliffs. Wind howls off the Black Sea, slicing through the quiet.
Konstantin’s information clatters around in my head like loose rounds in a mag.
Tara. The photo. The puzzle box. Her father, Leonid Zorin?
I throw the truck into gear and turn onto the long, dusty road that leads to Zorin Farm.
If Tara is tied to Leonid Zorin or the Morozovs, this changes a few things. My brow furrows as I wander about Carla Craft. Now that I think of it, I have heard Carla Craft and Irina speaking Russian during a previous visit to Irina. I had even commented on how well Carla spoke Russian, as if it were her mother tongue. Now I’m thinking maybe it was!
As I pull up in front of the Zorin farm, more questions pile into my mind.
The large iron gates with a keypad loom in front of me. I press the buzzer, and a voice answers.
“Da?”
“I’m here to see Mrs. Zorin. I’m Ruslan Dragunov, the village elder,” I say.
The gates open, and an armed guard dressed in black tactical clothes steps out. I don’t like the look of the rifle in his hand as he walks forward and sticks his head by my window. I open it, noticing the red dragon logo on his flak-jacket—D-Fire private security. General Morozov’s private security firm who stole theirlogo from another disbanded elite force from a few generations ago.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Dragunov,” the guard greets me. “I need to check your car.”
I nod, and he does a sweep while another comes out with a mirror and checks beneath the car. “What is all this about?”
“Just trying to keep Mrs. Zorin safe,” the guard tells me, then orders the gate to be opened, and I’m let through.
I park in front of a wide farmhouse with slate-blue shutters and the kind of porch that should look welcoming. It doesn’t—not with guards carrying tactical rifles standing watch on it.
Which makes me wonder what the fuck is going on here. Are the guards soldiers, protectors, or perhaps prison wardens? One of the guards steps out from the side, waving me toward the front door.
“Mr. Dragunov, please follow me.” The man's eyes are sharp and alert.
Inside the farmhouse smells like aged wood, lemon oil, and antiseptic. It’s simple and neat, with a cozy fire crackling in the living room, which I’m ushered into.
“Wait here,” I’m told before the man leaves the room.
I glance around. The floors are wooden and covered with well-worn rugs. The furniture is antique, but I’m willing to guess it has sat in this room for generations. For all its lived-in feel, something is missing—there are no pictures on the walls or family photos.
But something catches my eye on the mantle above the fireplace. I move closer. It’s a wooden puzzle box that resembles the picture Konstantin sent me—the one Tara had. I pull out my phone and find the image as I hear someone approaching. I snap a picture of it and shove my phone into my pocket just in time.