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No jackets.

No shirts.

No boots on the floor.

The shelves were bare, not a single thing out of place, because he’d never put anything there. He’d been sleeping here for over a week, but this room looked like no one had occupied it as if he never expected to stay. As if he’d been waiting for the moment someone told him he didn’t belong.

And the worst part? He’d been right.

My jaw clenched so hard pain shot up into my temples. I grabbed the closet doorframe to steady myself, breath coming rough and uneven—not panic, not quite—but something colder and deeper.

“He never unpacked,” I muttered to myself.

Because he knew. He knew he’d be pushed out the second he took up too much space. The second he wanted too much. The second someone decided he wasn’t welcome.

He knew, and he’d still come.

The thought made my stomach sour. I understood more about Yuriy and what drove him than before. He was a man fighting like hell back home to remain as the head of the Orlov family. And the one place where he should have been able to relax, with his brother, proved to be another place where he felt like he didn’t belong.

Fuck. I couldn’t let him leave this way. Not after everything we’d done. Not after everything we’d said, and certainly not after everything he meant to me. Even if I wasn’t ready to say it aloud.

23

STAS

Of all the places in Kansas City, Malik had chosen a fucking skating rink to meet. A giant Christmas-themed one too. Lights were strung across the rafters, a towering pine was draped in ribbon and gold ornaments, and kids screamed as they slipped across the ice like chaotic penguins.

Carols blasted through the speakers, and artificial snow drifted from vents overhead. A cheerful winter wonderland, and a perfect place to discuss the Mafia.

I stood off to the side near the rental counter, pretending I belonged there while every instinct begged for a dark alley. The cold bit through my jacket, and my breath fogged the air. Families bustled around me, laughing. The whole scene should be contagious, and still, I kept looking at my phone.

Five missed calls to Yuriy, three texts, and no reply.

He was avoiding me, disappearing without a trace. I knew better than anyone he could be a ghost when he didn’t want to be found. He’d left the house without a word to anyone. No note. No explanation. No trail.

It shouldn’t have mattered this much, but it did. Zasha might have hurt him, but he had to know I cared, dammit. Why was he avoiding me?

“Mr. Zhukovsky.”

Malik’s voice carried a wary edge to it. He walked to me, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, hood up. He looked older, softer around the eyes, but there was still a spark of the boyevik—enforcer—he once was.

“Malik, civilian life suits you.”

“Then why am I being pulled back into this?” He nodded with a frown toward the ice. “Walk with me. Easier to blend.”

I followed him along the outer railing where people glided by, some gracefully, some looking like they were seconds from shattering every bone in their bodies. Did Yuriy skate? For some reason, I had a feeling he would be graceful on ice.

Malik lowered his voice. “You didn’t come here to watch kids fall on their asses. Tell me what you need.”

“The men who attacked Yuriy and me. Who do they belong to?”

His expression darkened. “The Mancini crew.”

I clenched my jaw. The Italians. Just as I’d feared, but at least this time I was certain of the enemy’s identity.

“I thought the police dismantled them with Mancini in prison. Tell me about who is in charge.”

“Victor Mancini’s nephew took over last year.” Malik leaned his arms on the railing. “He’s building the family back up—territory grabs, strong-arming small businesses, extortion. He’s making noise, but the truth is Victor is still pulling his strings from prison.”