Page 73 of Malicious Claim

I shook my head. "That's too daunting."

He narrowed his eyes.

I explained. "You could run. You could disappear. But you'd always have to look over your shoulder. And one day, the Russians would arrive. Perhaps not tomorrow, perhaps not next year. But they would arrive."

Aleksei did not flinch, but he did not object either.

And then I leaned in, a small smile creeping onto my face.

"So let's not have them looking for you."

Aleksei's brow creased.

I explained it clearly. "You're already dead."

There was a silence. And then, slowly, a smile spread across his face.

"How?"

I pulled out my phone, snapping it against my fingers. "I tell the Russians you turned out all right in the end. You had second thoughts, you saved my life. But." I kept my voice icy, "I don't accept betrayal."

Understanding flashed across his eyes.

I continued. "So I had your car rigged with a bomb. You thought you were driving to freedom, but when you turned the key in the ignition—" I snapped my fingers. "Gone."

Aleksei let out a gentle laugh. "It's convincing."

"It has to be."

The charade was prepared in hours.

A burned-out car on the outskirts of the city. A burned body behind the wheel, unidentifiable.

A grainy security camera leak: Aleksei Volkov, walking up to the car. Getting in. The engine revving—then a burst of flames.

The Russians would discover it. They'd think it.

Aleksei Morozov was dead. And far away, somewhere, a ghost was finally free.

Chapter Thirty Two

The Crete in Discrete

Stefanos awoke with a curse, his skull throbbing like a war drum. A dull pain took up residence in his limbs, his wrists burning from the restraints digging into his skin. The smell of rust and wet concrete clogged the back of his throat.

His body tightened. He was tied to a chair, ankles bound, shoulders stiff from being placed in an unnatural position. Panic twitched in his chest, but he suppressed it. No clear memory of getting here assaulted his brain.

Light footsteps echoed in the room causing him to refocus his eyes.

Don Matteo stood before him, the dim overhead light casting sharp shadows across his lined face. His expression was unreadable, but the weight of his gaze alone felt suffocating. Two men flanked him—one near a cluttered worktable, the other beside a large shredder machine, fingers idly tapping against the metal casing as if itching to switch it on.

Stefanos' chest tightened.

The Don exhaled, almost bored. "You've made a stupid mess, boy."

Stefanos swallowed, his mouth dry. "Uncle—"

The Don's hand snapped up, quieting him.