Page 111 of Captive Ruin

“Answers.” I pull one of the chairs from the table, spin it around, and sit. Cross my legs and my arms, and look at him expectantly.

“We do need to talk,” he agrees, his tone flat.

I tense. I know that voice. It’s the one he uses before he threatens someone—or kills them.

“Steven Serranto was using artwork to launder money for the Volkov Bratva, a Russian mafia family,” he says without preamble. “He was a shestvorka, the lowest rank there is, but he still had enough influence to send them after you.”

His words take a moment to register, then fear rushes through me, chilling my blood. My throat closes, and it’s an effort to swallow. “The mafia? You can’t be serious.”

He lifts a hand to me. “Little Stray, come here.”

“No.” I stand up, pacing again. I need to think.

Serranto was a creepy bastard, but I thought he was all bluster, too weak to be part of some organized crime syndicate. It’s difficult to believe what Van Wyk is telling me, except he’s never lied to me—as far as I know.

Maybe it’s too much time hanging around with a man who always carries a knife and knows how to use it, but the more I think about it, the more the revelation doesn’t surprise me.

Shit. I introduced my sister to a man working for the Russian mafia.

This is all my fault.

The thought hits like a truck, blindsiding me, and my vision blurs. All this because I so catastrophically misjudged Serranto that I genuinely thought he’d be good for Lucy. How could I have been so foolish?

Everything that’s happened since that moment is my punishment. Karma, ensuring I get what I deserve.

“Those men in my apartment knew my gallery had burned,” I say bitterly. “They did it, didn’t they?” I press my hand to my forehead, swaying where I stand. “Then Serranto sent them after me.”

“Yes. They acted without knowing he was dead.”

That tracks, if Serranto instructed them after my last phone call with him. He knew when the exhibition was. He could’ve set it up in advance.

“They had Russian accents.” I have to suppress a shudder at the memory of what they said to me. “But you killed them. Does that mean it’s over?”

I know even as I ask that it isn’t. He wouldn’t be bleeding on the bed if it were.

“Rather the opposite,” he says grimly, confirming my fears. “It’s escalated.”

I look at him in horror. “You’re saying they’re going to keep coming. It’s why you’re injured, isn’t it? What about my sister?”

“I told you I have men watching your sister. She’s safe.”

My shoulders slump in relief. “Is she a prisoner too?”

“No. It’s better she doesn’t know the details.”

“And she accepted that?” I ask in disbelief. “Without a word from me?”

“I have convincing methods,” he says dryly. “On this occasion, it didn’t take that much. We told her about your gallery and Serranto’s involvement, and let her draw her own conclusions. She knows you’re somewhere secure, still under threat, and that any contact might be traced.”

I pause, considering it. I kept Serranto’s threats from her, but she already knew him well enough for Van Wyk to convince her, even as a well-informed stranger.

“What did she say?”

“I don’t know the specifics; I wasn’t there.”

I hug my arms, trying to stop myself from trembling. “Van Wyk, you can’t take on the goddamn mafia. What about—”

He holds up a hand. “We can. I’m not alone.”