Page 92 of Brutal Vows

At the Istanbul airport, a hub in the center of so many simmering tempers, the baggage security is extra, and we both slump in our seats in relief once we’re on the airplane to Saint Peterburg without any drama.

“Told you it wouldn’t be a problem. Ben is good.” His connections are not to be scoffed at, either.

She nods, saying nothing. Traveling like this is a drag, hurry up and wait, more wait, more hurry, connections, luggage checks, security scans which never allow us to relax, but Milana’s cabin bag doesn’t attract any attention. A gun passing blindly through all of them. Fuck. What is Chertnikov up to, creating weapons like these?

And then wanting to use the Petrovs’ logistics infrastructure to move…what exactly? It can’t be more guns, not to the States where we have plenty, but my gut revolts at all the possibilities, knowing every day is an opportunity to enhance the technology he has, improve on this prototype that’s made to slip through the cracks. I pray we won’t need to use it, but who the fuck knows what we’re really stepping into here.

When we’re finally in Saint Petersburg, and even Milana has entered her home ground without raising an eyebrow at passport control, we both heave a sigh of relief. We get the keys to the rental car, find it in the parking lot, and I put our suitcases in the back. I take a minute to extract the things we need now that we are in Russia: bullets, gloves, scarves, and hats. A gust of wind cuts through the parking lot like an icy slap in the face.

“Fuck, it’s cold out there,” I say with a shudder as I settle in the passenger seat. It’s dark out, the days short as we inch toward December.

“Yep. These winters are the reason why everybody fails to invade Russia.” Milana is in the driver’s seat since she knows her way around the city and insisted on driving.

For a long while, we just sit, breathe, recalibrate. I’m squeezing the envelope with the wad of cash for the guns and satellite phone Benedict arranged. Milana’s clutching the steering wheel, but I can still see her hands trembling slightly.

It’s the release of twenty-four hours of traveling, knowing we’ve crossed some serious hurdles and lines we may never come back from. Knowing we’re heading toward a hurricane that could swing in any direction.

The whole day, I’ve been thinking of my fuckup this morning while we were still in bed. How I let my fear translate into harsh words I didn’t mean. At the time, I needed the detachment, but I have no excuse for those words. There’s no easy way to make it right, not until we’ve taken Zoe and left the country and are safely on our way back to Boston.

I drag in a deep breath. I can’t head into this night without clearing the air. “I know she isn’t mine, Milana, but I promise I will protect her with my life. If only one of us makes it out of here with the baby, I hope for all of our sakes, for Annushka’s sake, that it’s you.”

She doesn’t say anything, but swipes at her face. It could be hair. It could be tears. I reach out for her and squeeze her hand. This time, she grips my hand back.

“I know you’ll protect her with your life, Luca. And her name is Zoe. Let’s not fuck this up right out of the gate.”

“Okay.” Zoe. Zoe Scalera. My daughter. Who I had with a woman who doesn’t exist.

I let go of her hand to reach for her cabin bag I tossed on the backseat. The black hatchback is inconspicuous and not the type of vehicle you’d like to get into a car chase with. We booked it with the idea of blending in, a cheap Chinese model which seems to be the go-to in Russia nowadays. It has almost no luggage space in the trunk. I pull the bag into my lap and unzip it. Within seconds, I have the gun in my hands. I load it with the bullets I extracted from my suitcase earlier and slip it into the door pocket.

“Where’s the ‘real gun’ pickup?” she asks as she turns on the ignition.

I turn on the two smart phones with SIM cards we arranged via one of Benedict’s connections before we left the States. Having Russian SIMs and local phones is the only way to make sure nothing here can be traced back to Il Consiglio. “I’ll put the local map app on.”

I connect a phone to the car’s system, and with a final exhale, Milana shifts the car into gear.

We exit the airport and head onto the highway, where she takes the exit as the map indicates. Soon, we’re in a small industrial area that gives me hives. These are the type of places, with dark back alleys and limited lighting, where shit goes down. I shudder as I call Benedict.

“We’re here.”

“Great.”

“Your man’s good? We’re on our way. Two minutes.”

“Solid as any fucking Russian I know. Watch your back.”

We ring off, no time for pleasantries. Now I’ve turned our phones on, he’ll be keeping track of our every move, my online man. There are other cars on the road, but looking at the map, we’re heading toward a dead end.

“Drive past first. I want to take a look.”

I hate that she’s in the driver’s seat. We didn’t even practice any driving skills before we headed out. If I were on a motorbike, I’d have zero qualms, but this situation leaves her exposed.

She does as I say, and we pass the warehouse where the meeting point is. There is a lone car parked under the one dim streetlight, a man smoking casually as he leans against his vehicle. Puffer jacket on, hood with fur rim up to protect against the cold. I watch him follow us with his eyes, making sure not to turn my head to indicate that I’m tracking his movements too, in case he can see my silhouette.

Fuck. What I wouldn’t give for a motorcycle and the freedom it would give me. “Stop the car here and make a U-turn,” I say, once we’re well clear of him. “I’ll walk back and do the deal, and then you pick me up. If shit goes down, don’t stop, you get the fuck out of here, understand?”

“Okay,” she breathes, hands white-knuckled as she grips the steering wheel.

I wind the scarf around my neck and pull up the hood of my winter jacket to hide as much of my face as possible. I take the gun, pop the door, and shove it in my jeans’ ass pocket. It’s fucking cold as I head back down the road, colder than I anticipated. Apparently, we’re in for the first winter snow within the next few hours. We flew in just in time, now the weather is turning. I don’t plan to be here for it.