Page 36 of Ivory Ashes

I pivot and toss back over my shoulder, “Make yourselves at home.”

Dante doesn’t hear. He’s too busy asking his mom if he gets to wear a crown now that he’s a prince.

I walk straight to my office for five minutes of peace, but Raoul is waiting outside the door for me. No peace to be found here today, it seems.

“Not now,” I tell him as I turn the key. “I need five fucking minutes to myself before you and Anatoly jump on me.”

“Anatoly is in the dungeon.”

“Because he’s smart enough to send you to do his dirty work,” I surmise. “If he wants to know more about Viviana, he’s going to have to wait.”

Anatoly is going to lose his mind when he realizes he was right. He’s unbearable enough as it is. The last thing he needs is a reason to gloat.

“Mikhail, this isn’t about Viviana.”

His tone is solemn enough that I turn to face him. “Then what is it about?”

He takes a breath before he says, “It’s about Trofim.”

13

MIKHAIL

As I follow Raoul down to the dungeon, I don’t ask the question burning through my mind: Where is Trofim?

I can’t. I don’t have the energy for half-baked theories and possibilities. As a leader, they aren’t useful.

Questioning whether Trofim and Viviana showing back up on the same day after almost six years of radio silence is connected in any way isn’t helpful.

Wondering whether the mother of my child is in cahoots with the ex-fiancé I saved her from is a waste of energy.

So I shove the thoughts deep down inside and descend the stairs into the dungeon.

In reality, it’s a glorified basement. Despite everything I said to Dante, I don’t really think I’m a king who lives in a castle. But when you hold prisoners in your basement, calling it “the dungeon” is the natural next step. What can you do?

Raoul unlocks a second door at the bottom of the staircase and lets me into the first soundproof interrogation room. A middle-aged man with a paunch is tied to a metal chair in the middle of the floor. His hands are bound behind his back.

Definitely not Trofim.

“I told you everything I know,” the man whines through a thick Russian accent. His bottom lip is split and blood dribbles down his chin.

Anatoly wraps a length of tape around his bloody knuckles as he paces the concrete floor. “I wish I could believe you, but you’ve said that already. Twice now. And each time, a little knockaround shook some things loose.”

The man is trembling. “I swear, I don’t have anything else! I’m out of the game. It’s why I moved here. Whoever you think I’m going to tell, I’m not. I don’t have any more connections.”

“Lucky you,” Anatoly muses. “If you did, I might have to kill you. As it is, you only managed to run your mouth to a few old drunks at the bar.”

“Run his mouth about what?” I ask.

Anatoly turns to me, a wide grin on his face. “I hear congratulations are?—”

“What did he run his mouth about?” I repeat with a warning glare for my brother.

He closes his mouth, but the amusement is hard to miss. After a few seconds of silence, Anatoly kicks the shaking man’s chair. “Well, my pakhan asked you a question. Tell him what you ran your mouth about.”

“I didn’t run my mouth!” the man starts. “Some men at the bar started asking questions about my work. I’m retired now. I haven’t practiced in four years. But I told them about my work as a coroner. People find it interesting. They have questions! These guys, they, they, they wanted to know if I’d ever cremated anyone they would know and I remember a case from a few years ago. There was a guy who?—”

Suddenly, Anatoly’s fist connects with the man’s jaw. His head snaps to the side, blood spraying out of his mouth.

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