Page 84 of Cruel Love

“Now?”

“He’s a busy guy.”

I nod. “All right.”

I turn to Lucy and she waves a hand.

“Go,” she says. “I’ll be fine here.”

I hesitate, not wanting to leave her alone but I quickly realize that she’s made up her mind. She crosses her arms and digs her left foot in, making her right hip pop to the side. That’s Lucy Vaughn.

Attitude incarnate.

“I’ll be back,” I tell her, meaning every word.

She says nothing as I join Fox in the hall. I close the door and pause, wondering if I should check if it locks from the other side or not before leaving.

“She’s right,” Fox says, tilting his head at my concern. “She’ll be fine. You both will be.”

“Excuse me for not sharing the same confidence, Fox.”

“Come on…” he says, pushing off the wall. “When was the last time I put you directly in harm’s way?”

“Austrian train job comes to mind.”

I walk around him as he nods in agreement.

* * *

Luka Lutrova.

I’ve heard the name. The Zappias used to talk about him as if he were some kind of boogeyman. According to them, the Lutrova brothers were maniacal phantoms who ran into Chicago with the sole purpose of bringing hell and damnation on the poor, innocent Zappia clan. It was all bullshit, obviously. There’s no such thing as an innocent Zappia.

Still, I never thought that one day I’d be sitting in Luka’s office asking him for help.

He’s different than I pictured. He’s youthful and spry but his calloused hands tell a story like mine. I was much younger than him when I was recruited into Snake Eyes but he’s no doubt already lived and seen more than I have. He was raised in the Russian mob.

I keep my eyes forward, relying on my instincts to get a feel for the room. Fox sits in the chair beside me, looking more relaxed than he did the entire flight out here. Luka’s wife, Sofia, lingers silently behind us by the door.

And then, there’s Luka behind a large wooden desk, looking over at me with sharp distrust.

I sit tall, showing respect, but I stay beneath his eye-line. I speak slowly and calmly, just as I used to when I worked for Antony Zappia. It doesn’t matter what family you’re talking to. Mafia is mafia. You don’t disrespect the leader. Especially not in his own house.

“Marilyn Black,” Luka says her name, nearly growling every syllable of it. “This is the Boss’ name?” he asks.

Fox nods. “If our hacker is right… and he usually is.”

Luka twists slightly in his chair and it squeaks beneath his weight. “M. Black,” he mutters at the window. “Your master file lists an M. Black as the agent who killed my grandfather.”

“There are many of them,” I say. “Mercer, Myra.”

“They’re too young,” Fox points out. “Viktor was killed in the 80s. It had to have been Marilyn.”

“Or another one we don’t know about.”

“Either way,” Luka says, “blood leaves a trail. It’s a start. Do you have any leads?” he asks Fox.

“We know of one place she’s known to hide out,” he answers. “A house just outside of Paris. We have people looking into it now.”

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