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Prologue
Los Angeles
February 2022
It rained pitchforks and hammer handles that night.
The torrent was almost blinding, blurring my surroundings. Trees danced violently, their leaves and branches masquerading as shadows with every flash of light and rumble of thunder. Above, purple lightning tore across the pitch-black skies, and below, it was hellish. With rainy gusts of wind kicking up tiny stones, sticks, and any other trash from the asphalt, I could barely see anything.
But I liked it. I liked everything—the harsh sound of the downpour battering against the roofs and ground, the blurred view of the wrought-iron gate behind me, and the slight shine of golden lampposts breaking through the deluge as they wound up the curve of the driveway, In the air hung a strong smell of rain and earth and, of course, victory.
The rain was good. With its help, I was surely going to get the biggest break in my career.
I’d already pictured it: greeting everyone on my path and smiling on my way to the sergeant’s office to officially tell him I was able to do what no one else could—gather enough evidence to tear down the kingpin of the Russian mob and his little organization.
He'd be so proud.
I’dbe so proud.
And my father would’ve been so damn proud…if only he could be here to witness it.
The number of men standing guard outside, adorned with black raincoats and umbrellas, was insane. It was like the more it rained, the more need arose to secure the area.
A smile touched my lips.
They were already too late. I had infiltrated, climbed over the big fence—surprisingly not wrapped with electric barbed wires—and crawled right under their noses.
Resuming stealth mode, standing in the blind spots away from the CCTV ranges, I cinched my raincoat tighter, scrambled, and crouched close to the tall hedges leading to a lit patio behind the mansion. Moving to the back was a lot easier than I’d expected.
The pool and security lights were still on, exposing me. I pushed further back, intentionally seeping into the hedges to avoid being spotted by one of the cameras or the lights. From my angle, I had a perfect view of the interior through the screen doors.
I peered at the sky with wet lashes, and water streamed down my face. The rain wasn’t letting up anytime soon—which was a good thing but could pose some hindrance. If there was any time to do this, it was now.
I sucked in a deep breath, sniffing a bit of water into my nostrils. Then, I lunged forward, took the big leap of faith, dashed past the uncovered pool, around the soaked lounge chairs, and stopped by the screen doors.
With a deep breath and my heart in my mouth, I curled my fingers around the handle and pushed.
It moved.
I might’ve done a little dance of joy if my brain wasn’t wired differently.
Suddenly, my entrance seemed slightly suspicious. I’d easily slipped into the compound, and now, the back door was unlocked.
For a man with, undoubtedly, a long list of adversaries, I’d assumed he’d tick thecautiousbox. It could be one of two things: Given his age, dementia was slowly setting in, or something was fishy.
Gingerly, I stepped inside and slid the doors shut behind me, muffling the sound of pouring rain outside. I shuffled forward, didn’t bother to peel off the dripping raincoat, and, in turn, got water all over his expensive carpet.
I didn’t care. A part of me wished the rain ruined more than just the carpets. I’d told myself that a mobster like Boris Yezhov did not deserve sympathy.
The man swam in money, possessing illegally obtained wealth and influence. That was why I was here: to unravel the threads of his corruption and shatter the chains of fear he’d bound our city in. Justice had to be served, and I was more than willing to be the waitress.
The house was warm. The scent of hot bread, foreign stew, and something else I couldn’t place a finger on wafted in the air—like a tingle, a tension,a warning.
I side-stepped, walking around the big house with my back pressed tightly against the wall. My raincoat left wet trails. It probably wasn’t professional, but I felt a bit daring.
All the lights were on, and there were no maids or bodyguards in plain sight. From somewhere, a faint sound of rich orchestral music could be heard. I recognized it instantly. It was classical music, composed by an old Russian composer, Rachmaninoff, one of the best of his time.
My steps picked up, tracing and trailing until I reached the source. Rachmaninoff’s fingers on the piano were louder now, sifting through the door left ajar. And so were the angry voices of the men inside what had to be my target’s study, judging by the largely structured shelves on each corner and the center desk carved from the finest of woods.
