Page 5

YULIAN

I scour the whole building looking for Mia. My lungs burn as I run from floor to floor, kicking in every door, roaring her name in every corridor.

By the time I make it back downstairs, Maks and Nikita jog up to me. “She’s not at the party,” Nikita gasps. “Not in any of the bathrooms, either.”

“She might have gone home,” Maks floats. “I’ll send men to check the Hamptons residence?—”

“No,” I spit. “I’ve got this.”

Brad’s gelled curls are far too easy to spot. I make my way to the center of the gazebo, where he’s telling some shitty joke to a rapt audience of wannabe investors and bootlickers.

“And then the guy says?—”

“Where the hell is she?”

The laughter stops. A dozen pairs of alarmed eyes settle over me, confusion and discomfort clear on every face.

“How the hell should I know?” Brad scoffs, sounding equal parts annoyed and concerned. Not for her—never for her—but for himself .

So be it. I’ll give him something to worry about.

Before anyone can step in, I grab his collar and slam him into the nearest wall.

“Hey! What the fuck, man?!”

“I’m only going to ask one more time: Where. Is. She? ”

“How dare you— argh! ”

I pull him back, slam him harder against the concrete. White dust comes raining down from the shitty plaster job, causing him to cough violently.

“You can tell me now,” I hiss, low enough for only him to hear, “or you can tell me once I’m done breaking every bone in your worthless body. Choice is yours.”

His face goes deathly pale. “I-I thought we were allies now. Partners.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.”

“But—”

“I’m going to count to three. One. ”

“W-wait?—”

“ Two. ”

“I d-didn’t?—”

“ Thr— ”

“I DIDN’T SEE HER!” His voice goes horribly shrill as he screams. “I swear, I haven’t seen her for over an hour!”

“Don’t you fucking lie to me, Bradley Baldwin. I have ways of making you talk.”

There’s a wide circle around us now. Brad’s allies are clutching their pearls at my violence, but not a single one steps up to help.

My father used to say there’s one sure way to measure a man’s life after he’s gone: not the zeroes on his bank account or the length of his obituary, but the number of friends carrying his coffin.

Judging from today, no one’s ever going to be carrying Brad’s.

He seems to realize it the same moment I do: how utterly alone he is. How few real friends he’s made. The second he knows nobody’s coming to save him, all his bravado bleeds away.

“It’s the truth,” he whimpers, white-lipped and trembling. “That bitch just— She fucking up and ditched me here. Crazy, huh?”

His word choice makes my fists tighten. The more time I spend with this man, the more I realize just how unworthy he is of Mia.

“Yeah,” I spit, sarcastic. “Real crazy.”

I let him down. He exhales, relief written all over his face. “Glad we sorted th?—”

Then I punch him in the fucking nose.

The crowd gasps. The whispering grows louder, a buzz like a beehive. Some delicate socialite lets out a scream and faints.

Bradley Baldwin hits the ground with a thud, face-first, his nose cracking on the fake Portuguese tiles.

Satisfaction spreads through me, but it’s brief, surface-level. Not at all like I imagined finally punching Brad would feel.

Because, if he really had nothing to do with Mia’s disappearance today, that leaves only one option.

“Maks,” I bark as I stride away from the scene, “how long ago was that picture taken?”

“Before the Baldwins arrived.”

I whirl around and jab a finger in his face. “Mia’s not a fucking Baldwin,” I snarl. “Don’t you ever call her that again.”

“Noted. Nevertheless,” Maks says with a shrug, “he was already here before Brad’s car pulled up. Like we were.”

He was here. He was waiting.

“Show me that picture again.”

Maksim does.

It’s just a face in the crowd. The quality’s not even that good. Realistically speaking, it could be anyone.

But it’s not. I know, in my gut, that it’s not.

Because I’d know that scar anywhere. A quick horizontal slash, and then a long, jagged downward cut. The letter T—for traitor.

The only question is: How can he be here?

“No way.” Nikita snatches Maks’s phone away and stares at the picture even harder. “That can’t be— I mean, for fuck’s sake, he’s dead!”

He should be. By all rights, the motherfucker in this picture should be lying at the bottom of the Hudson, eaten through by the fish and the water. I remember the weight of the rocks as I tied them to his ankles, the ugly twist of his voice as he demanded mercy of me. Like he had any right to.

“You don’t understand,” I’d growled into his ear just before kicking him off the pier. “This is mercy.”

“Yulian. Talk to us.” That’s not what Nikita means, and I know it. Her eyes are shiny and pleading, a look I’ve rarely ever seen on her face. Talk to me. Tell me the truth. “You did kill him, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then—?”

“I didn’t kill him hard enough.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!” Nikita shoves Maksim’s phone back at him and plants her feet in my way. “How could he have survived? How can he be back?”

“I’m afraid that hardly matters now,” Maksim says. “He’s here. That’s undeniable. The question is, what the hell are we going to do about it?”

My knuckles pop. “If he has Mia?—”

“We have to find her.” Nikita’s face hardens with resolve. “Right now.”

“But he could be anywhere,” Maksim objects.

I think back to the man I killed twenty years ago. The man I thought I’d buried. The man who knew me better than anyone, better than everyone, who used his knowledge to take everything from me.

What would he do next?

Where would he go next?

“Bring the car around,” I command. “Now.”

Maksim obeys without question. At his side, Nikita rushes straight to the parking lot with him.

It’s a wild, desperate reach. A hail Mary—nothing more. But it’s all I’ve fucking got.

And I’ll be damned if I ever let that mudak take her from me, too.

He’s taken enough already.