Page 38 of Desperate Crimes (Mergers & Acquisitions #6)

I t’s been seven weeks, six days, and thirteen hours since Nico left.

Not that I’m counting.

Okay—I am.

I’ve been counting every moment like a prisoner etching marks into stone.

Every night without him feels like a season.

Every hour without his voice grates against my bones.

In the beginning, he called often.

Short check-ins, midnight whispers, a single growled “mine” before the signal would cut out.

Once, we managed a glitchy video call.

I saw his face— tired, scruffed, shadowed by harsh overhead lights —but his eyes were still that impossible shade of glacial blue, still full of heat just for me.

He blew me a kiss.

But now?

Nothing.

Three days. No word. No call. Not even a “Still alive. Don’t panic.”

And I am panicking.

The house he built for me feels too big without him in it.

Every room echoes with him.

With his scent, his voice, the ghost of his laughter when I get sassy, the way he growls my name like a promise and a curse in one breath.

I’ve been doing my best to keep my mind busy.

My thoughts organized.

My heart tethered.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more seriously about my future.

What I want to do. Who I want to be—outside of being his.

Not instead of. Just more.

And then, like fate throwing me a bone, his Aunt Maria called.

Maria Batiste, married to his Uncle Luc, is an avid reader and art collector. She’s also sweet and lovely, an absolute goddess of a woman.

Anyway, she needed help finding a specific sculpture from an obscure but brilliant artist upstate.

Someone I actually knew from an old gallery internship.

It was like a puzzle.

Like chasing a ghost.

I tracked down the artist.

Got the name of the private collector who purchased the piece.

Negotiated a viewing. Brokered the deal. Arranged the delivery.

When the money hit my account, I cried.

Not because I needed it, but because I earned it.

And it felt amazing.

Today, I’m curled up in Nico’s— my —library, scrolling through a digital archive of recently acquired art pieces from regional galleries, already halfway down the rabbit hole of another lead.

My little notebook is open beside me, scrawled with names, dates, clues.

It’s late summer now, but still warm enough to warrant air conditioning.

The sun is starting to dip outside, casting long amber shadows through the tall windows.

And then the phone rings.

Not my cell.

The private line.

The one only family or security uses.

I frown. Glance at the screen.

It’s my father’s name.

Adrik Volkov.

My chest tightens. Something sharp and cold slides through my veins.

I answer on the third ring.

“Dad?”

His voice is steady. Too steady.

“Dochka?” he says, calling me a pet name for daughter in Russian before he continues, “I have some news.”

I sit up, the notebook sliding off my lap.

My throat closes. My stomach drops.

“What kind of news?” My voice is barely audible.

He exhales, slow and carefully.

“Something’s happened overseas. We are still getting details.”

“Nico.” I breathe his name.

No. It can’t be.

The world stutters.

I clutch the edge of the desk with one hand. “What do you mean, something happened?”

“His plane landed or went down. Somewhere in an old rebel corridor. Just outside the Tawi province.”

I don’t understand the words.

I know what they mean, I just can’t seem to process them.

They slide across my brain like oil on glass.

“There was an explosion. Possibly a device. We’re still confirming. But we know he survived the blast.”

He survived.

My knees buckle, and I sink to the floor, my back hitting the bookcase.

“But?” I whisper.

There’s always a but. And my stomach clenches as my father exhales.

“They took him, Dochka.”

“Took him? Who?”

“Militia. Guerrilla soldiers. They boarded the wreckage before backup could arrive. They took Nico and a few of his men. No one’s heard anything since. We think it’s ransom, but these groups, they don’t always follow rules.”

My entire body is trembling. My vision blurs. I can’t breathe.

No. No. This can’t be real.

Nico is invincible.

He’s mine.

He’s not allowed to disappear. He’s not allowed to get hurt.

That’s not part of our story.

“He’s alive,” Dad says again, firmer now. “I need you to hold on to that. We are doing everything. I’ve got people on the ground. So does his father. You’re not alone in this.”

But I am alone.

Because I didn’t just marry a man.

I married a Viper.

I press a hand to my mouth to hold in the scream.

My body curls around itself on the cold hardwood. The phone slips from my hand.

I can still hear my father’s voice on speaker, distant now. “Leanna? Dochka, are you?—”

But all I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears and Nico’s voice from three weeks ago, growling through the static.

“I’m coming back to you. Always.”

Oh God.

Please.

Please keep him alive.

Please bring him back to me.