Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
I hesitate, my fingers hovering over the worn leather cover. This ledger is a gateway to the criminal empire my father once controlled. I’ve kept it hidden, a reminder of the man I swore I would never become.
With a sigh that feels like surrender, I remove it from the safe and carry it to my desk. Sitting down, I flip open the cover, the musty scent of old paper invading my nose.
Names, numbers, and coded messages fill the pages, a network of power and corruption laid bare.
But I’m only interested in one.
The Ghost.
A notorious hitman and enforcer in the Russian underworld. Known for his brutal methods and unwavering loyalty, he’s feared across Europe. Or was. He disappeared from my radar years ago.
When he was active, he ran a covert network of ex-spies and assassins who specialized in tracking and eliminating targets in high-risk operations.
No one knew his identity, not even my father.
I trace a finger over the inked entry, a potential ally, a necessary evil. He’s probably dead.
Unbuttoning the collar of my shirt, I dial the number.
“Who is this?” a voice answers in heavy Russian. “How did you get this number?”
“I’m Montgomery Strakh, son of—”
“I know who you are. The Wolf is all grown up.”
My childhood nickname.
I’m not surprised he knows it. He worked for my father and knows everything about me.
“I have a job for you,” I say in Russian.
“I’m retired.”
“Name your price. Money is no object.”
“Money is always an object, boy. But for you, I’ll require something more. A favor.”
“What kind of favor?” My mouth dries.
“I’ll call on you in the future, and you’ll grant me whatever I need, whenever I need it.”
Ice forms in my lungs.
This is the cost of the path I’m choosing. A debt to a man like The Ghost. A chain that could bind me forever.
But for Frankie, I’ll do anything.
“Agreed.”
“Good. What is the job?”
47
Monty
—
The following week limps by, the days blurring into a relentless, torturous cadence.
I sent the dismembered eyes to my forensics team in New York, and they confirmed a match.
Sirena Fisher.
After hearing the news, Kody and Leo haven’t left Frankie’s side.
Until this afternoon.
The weight of their responsibilities pulled them back to Sitka. Kody’s distillery requires constant attention. He’s needed there more than he’s needed here.
Same with Leo. With his seaplane base taking shape, crucial decisions are hitting him at a breakneck pace.
But those aren’t the only reasons they’re gone tonight.
They’re following up on leads, re-interviewing witnesses from the night Sirena disappeared, and interrogating people on our suspect list.
They’re hunting.
When I told them I was going with them, they stared at me like I was speaking Russian. Then an argument ensued about who would stay with Frankie.
From everything I read in her journal, they had similar arguments in the hills each time they journeyed from the cabin.
But since they both have business to tend to in Sitka, it was an argument I couldn’t win.
So here I am.
Frankie curls beside me on the couch, her body a fragile ribbon of warmth against the constant chill of danger.
As she sleeps, my mind races, a torrent of crashing and colliding thoughts.
After everything she’s been through, who would do this? Who would go to such lengths to terrorize her?
Who knew about the flight logs in my father’s cellar? Someone from my past? Denver’s past?
Denver’s heart, Doyle’s hand, Sirena’s eyes—it’s a message. A gruesome, violent message. But from whom?
And who will be next?
The questions torment me, each one a blade carving into my sanity.
I haven’t heard from The Ghost since I contacted him. And I won’t. Not until the stalker is identified and exterminated.
The wait is another level of hell.
Only Frankie, Leo, and Kody know that I made that call. I told them in a hushed conversation in my office, away from guards and household staff, and reiterated the importance of discretion. I trust no one else with that information.
Even with The Ghost involved, I continue to work with Wilson, scour every piece of evidence, and pore over Pushkin’s poems with an analytical microscope, looking for hidden meanings.
I won’t give up.
Frankie stirs, her hand reaching for mine. She whimpers, caught in the throes of a dream, and I tighten my grip.
“Hey.” I bring her fingers to my mouth, kissing them. “You’re safe.”
Her lashes flutter as she wakes, and she looks up at me with a raw, unguarded expression of love. I want to haul her to my bed—our bed—and remind her why we used to make love morning, noon, and night.
At this point, I would settle for one of the three.
When I’m not thinking about the stalker, I think about my marriage.
The issue with us isn’t that she doesn’t love me. The issue is that she loves two other men.
My brothers.
They should never leave her alone with me. My hunger for her is dangerous.
I ache to taste her on my lips. I crave her hands on my body. I want to call out her name when I enter her with a fervor I haven’t felt in over a year. I long to look her in the eyes, pausing to savor the unwavering love and desire we share.