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“But what?”
“What if there’s real evidence of a murder? Oneyoucommitted? If someone like Officer Clark gets his hands on solid evidence, what do you think will happen?”
I bent my neck to the side, studying her intently. Serious eyes, full lips, jaw set….
This was no random hypothesis or a ploy to scare me. She wasn’t joking. And it upset me. Made me wonder what she knew and how much.
I’d killed many; that much was true. But not once had I left any shred of evidence behind. So, what was she talking about?
“What are you saying?”
In silence, she produced a hardcopy photograph from one of her pockets and slid it across the table.
After one glimpse of it, my eyes snapped back to hers.
What the fuck?
I didn’t make a sound, move, or even blink. But I didn’t have to.
This Enola Holmes of a woman wore a knowing grin, reeling in the triumph that she’d caught me red-handed and had me right where she wanted me.
The photograph stared at me from the table, although I looked away. My gaze didn’t have to linger. Even in the dark, I’d make out the ex-Pahkan’s face anywhere. Those dead, soulless eyes, silver hair, and sketchy scars trailing from his left eye down to his chin.
Because he was my uncle.
The same one I’d put two bullets in two years ago.
The late Boris Yezhov.
Shit.
I’d made sure no one knew about it. No one except Arlo and Niko. So, how the fuck did this woman find out?
She mimicked my sitting position, leaning back on her chair with crossed legs and arms over her chest. She wore a wry smile. “At the end of the day, Mr. Yezhov, you’re not that good at erasing evidence.”
I didn’t process when words went flying out of my mouth. “You’re talking shit.”
That seemed to pull a chuckle out of her. “Oh, I am, aren’t I?” She withdrew the photograph and tucked it back into her pocket. “You don’t believe that I have solid evidence showing thatyoumurdered your uncle?”
My eyes went hard.
I didn’t answer.
“If I release it to the public, two things will happen.” She held up two fingers and pushed them down as she spoke. “One, your people are going to flip when they find out. There’ll be an inner turmoil amongst them, and it’ll cause chaos. Loyal followers of your late uncle will rise against you, won’t they? To overthrow you. Or kill you, maybe. Two, you will finally face the wrath of the law. A life sentence or a minimum of twenty years in prison, and nothing less.”
Silence settled for a few minutes before she smacked her lips.
“But I haven’t told anyone about it. Not my supervisors, not anyone.”
“Why not?”
My sharp retort wiped all hints of her amusement away. She dropped her leg and gripped the table's edge like she wanted to claw it.
The detective in her came out. Therealone. The one without the unnecessary laughter or talks about beef stroganoff and live videos. The no-nonsense, smart-ass, I-mean-business Detective Freya Fox stared back at me.
“When you meet your friend, Mr. Arlo Kenzov, you will give him an immediate order to wrap up the Bratva operations in LA, and you will move back to Russia. You have ten days. You think you’re so untouchable, don’t you? But I can tell you, Mr. Yezhov, you’re not invincible. All you have to do is give me a chance to prove that your armor is, in fact, destructible. If you don’t adhere, I will hand over the evidence to my supervisors, and trust me, no power on or beyond the Earth will save you from what’s coming.”
Silence reigned between us.
