Page 1 of The Rook’s Obsession

NICK

I’ve been chasing a ghost for four months.

The cobblestones are slick under my heavy-soled boots as I make my way back to the hotel. I have to turn my collar up against the persistent drizzle. The cold kind that seeps into everything. Into my bones by now, with my breath fogging in front of my face with every step I take. Prague in October is about as welcoming as a knife in the back. Fitting, considering the mission I’m on.

Not to mention how goddamn frustrated I am.

Another day, another dead end. Another conversation with someone who either knows nothing, or knows everything but won’t say a damn word because that’s how it works in this world. You don’t talk about the Russos. You don’t talk about the people who work for them. You definitely don’t talk about a woman with black hair and green eyes who, depending on who you ask, may or may not exist.

But she does exist. I know she does, because Gabriel Russo told Liam she was still alive. Gabriel doesn’t hand out information like that unless it serves him. And it wouldn’t serve him for us to find out he was jerking us around—if he knows nothing else, I would hope he’d know that by now. You don’t take down a guy like Donovan Blackwell unless you know what you’re doing. Unless you’re dangerous.

But we did, because we are. Message sent.

Even still, I’m at the point where I have to wonder if there’s something else at play here. No, I didn’t think I would fly to Europe and find her within a few days, or even a week, or a month. But she’s like sand slipping through my fingers faster the tighter I clench my fist. Opening my hands and letting it slip out the rest of the way would be so damn easy. I could go home. I could go back to what used to be my life, not all that long ago.

But that would mean closing the door on Laura, and that’s something I can’t do. Won’t do.

Just thinking her name does something to me. I don’t have time to think about her right now. Not out here, not while I scan every shadow and every doorway out of habit. The habit didn’t develop during this mission—no, I was still a kid when I first understood the world is full of people who want to hurt you.

The hotel’s nothing special. Mid-range, far enough from tourist traps that nobody asks questions of a guy with little luggage and a fake passport. They don’t care that the stay is indefinite, so long as I don’t make trouble. The woman at the front desk barely looks up when I pass, not that I’m complaining. I’m not in the mood for small talk. I’m not in the mood for anything but a hot shower, a drink, and as much sleep as I can grab before I start again in the morning.

Instead of taking the elevator, I jog up the stairs. An old habit. Elevators are boxes. You can’t fight in a box. You sure as hell can’t run. The stairwell reeks of cigarettes and floor cleaner, but I’ve smelled worse.

My room is at the end of the hall. I pull out the key card, slide it through, and push the door open with my shoulder. I reach for the light switch with my free hand.

The ugly overhead light flips on.

And everything in my head goes dead silent. My heart stops and so does everything else in the world. At least that’s what it feels like.

Because I’m not alone.

She’s standing at the window. Black hair, cut to her shoulders. A sharp jaw. The kind of posture that means she’s been trained to move fast, hit hard. Dark, fitted jacket. Black pants. Boots made for running… or kicking someone’s teeth in.

Her green eyes are locked on mine, and there’s nothing behind them. No warmth. No recognition. Nothing.

All she has for me is a Beretta, and it’s aimed straight at my chest.

My heart starts beating again, slamming against my ribcage once. Twice. Then it settles into something cold and steady, because that’s what years of working with Liam will do to a person. Panic is a luxury I can’t afford. Not even now, standing in the same room as someone I spent twelve years believing was dead.

For months, I’ve been caught between wanting to believe and wondering if this has all been a waste of time. I can admit that now, if only to myself. Part of me was afraid to believe, genuinely afraid, because of what it meant—opening myself up to hope. And hope can be more deadly than a gun.

Which she has now, and I can’t pretend otherwise.

Slowly, I raise my hands, palms out. The door swings shut behind me with a soft click. In the silence, it might as well be a gunshot.

She assesses me with a quick look. “Give me one reason not to kill you.”

The sound of her voice damn near takes my legs out from under me. Jesus Christ, her voice. Lower than I remember. Husky. No hint of the softness that used to make me ache in a completely different way.

But it’s her voice. Twelve years later, standing in a cheap hotel in Prague with a gun pointed at my chest, and I would know that voice anywhere.

I have to be careful. More careful than I’ve been in these past four months, maybe in my entire life. The woman in front of me might sound like the girl I lost, but she isn’t. She’s holding that gun like it’s part of her. Her finger rests on the trigger with an easy confidence that tells me she’s pulled it before. Many times, even. There isn’t so much as a tremor in her hand or hesitation in her gaze.

She came here ready to put a bullet in me, and if I give her a reason to, she will.

So I won’t give her a reason. “I know you, Laura.”

Something shifts in her expression. I’m not lucky enough for it to be recognition. More like confusion that quickly turns to suspicion. “My name is Ivy.”