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“She works for Prescott, Hale & Mercer. Well-known, fourth generation. She’s one of their defense attorneys,” Ariadna continues. “Financial crimes. White-collar litigation. Apparently, she’s developed a reputation rather quickly.”

“What kind?”

Ariadna glances down once more. “Cold, methodical. Ruthless. She doesn’t seem to bend to threats, and it sounds like she gets more than enough of them.”

I laugh. A genuine laugh, and Ariadna flinches, the sound catching her off guard.

“What?” she asks, skepticism coloring her voice.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

Of all the women in New York...

Of all the hotels...

Of all the nights...

I’d mistaken a defense attorney for an escort. She had mistaken a Bratva boss for an informant. The absurdity of it is almost impressive.

Ariadna watches me carefully.

“I don’t like that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’ve had an idea.”

My smile fades. I tap the edge of Matilda Pierce’s photograph once.

“Mikhail needs the best defense attorney available.”

Her brows furrow.

“Prescott, Hale, & Mercer won’t knowingly represent this organization. I’m sure they only venture into the mountains to vacation, Vasily.”

“I don’t want them.”

Ariadna studies me for a moment before speaking. “You want her.”

I look down at the photograph one last time.

The woman with the star. The lawyer who had walked into the wrong suite.

The only person I’ve met in years who hadn’t bowed, flattered, or feared me.

“Find a way,” I say quietly.

One way or another, Matilda Pierce is coming back to Lake Placid.

Chapter 7

Matilda

The first thing I notice Friday morning is a man reading a newspaper outside of Prescott, Hale, & Mercer.

The second thing I notice is that he never turns a page in eight minutes. I know it’s eight minutes because that is exactly how long it takes me to get a coffee from the truck parked on the corner. I prefer it to the Starbucks in our building.

I keep walking, pass the entrance, then turn the corner and count to four before looking back. His chin is tipped up now, eyes perfectly still, but the pages still haven’t moved. There’s a distant look to his gaze, as if he’s not seeing what’s in front of him.