Page 26 of Emerald Malice

She wears the tragedy well, all things considered.

“I can keep digging into her background,” Shura continues, pulling away from the curb. “She certainly fits Nikolai’s usual profile—lonely, isolated, no family.”

“What would be her motivation?”

He shrugs. “Money. Just like everyone else. Look at that dump she lives in—she obviously needs it.”

“For now, she’s a dead end. I’m more interested in the kid Nikolai sent to spy on me.”

“He’s being held in the Moir brownstone.”

It’s late to keep working, but I need the distraction. There’s no fucking chance I’ll be able to sleep tonight, anyway. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Shura changes course and, thirty minutes later, we’re pulling into a quiet part of the Upper West Side. It’s not the type of place anyone would expect to be hiding secrets and hostages, which is exactly why we use it.

Shura drives into an underground garage. The door closes behind us, trapping every last sound echoing between the walls. I step out of the vehicle and through a door that leads deeper into the basement.

At the bottom of the stairs, Anatoly is snoring softly. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, his head dangling off the back of a plastic chair.

He’s facing another chair. This one holds a scrawny teenage boy with a mess of dark brown hair and roving blue eyes that seek me out the moment I walk into the room. He’s got a purple bruise snaking up his jaw and dry blood caked around his nose.

Blyat’. He’s a child.

I kick Anatoly awake and he comes to with a huffed snort. “Boss,” he mutters, lumbering to his feet and vacating his chair.

I dismiss him with a nod and drag the chair over to the boy. Swinging it around, I straddle it. “Do you have a name, boy?”

He glowers. “I’m not a boy.”

I snort. “My Aunt Olga has more facial hair than you.” His clothes are ripped in places, revealing just how skinny and malnourished he is. I see ribs through the tears of his shirt, like a beaten street dog. “This will be a lot easier if you cooperate.”

“I’m no snitch.”

“Admirable,” I concede with a nod. “But ultimately, stupid. Especially if you’re loyal to scum like Nikolai Rostov.” Rostov’s name gets the desired reaction; the boy flinches and looks away guiltily. “He’s not coming for you, you know. He has probably already forgotten you exist.”

The words I said to Natalia—my words—echo in my head again and it takes everything I have not to grimace. I’ve already forgotten you exist.

“I’m not waiting to be rescued,” the boy hisses. “I can take care of myself.”

“You’re certainly doing a great job of that right now.”

Another dark scowl. Somehow, it just makes him look younger. “Go ahead and kill me then. I’m not afraid to die.”

“Smart. Being afraid of death is a waste of time.” I get to my feet and kick the chair away. “But pain… Now, pain is something else entirely.”

His blue eyes teeter up towards me. There’s a tremble in his jaw. And then… “Do your worst.”

I have to give it to the kid: he’s got a pair of balls on him.

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes.” The word comes out sharp and loathing. “Andrey Kuznetsov. I’ve heard enough to know I don’t like you.”

“Have you now? I’m curious. What have you heard about me?”

The boy’s mouth clamps shut as though he’s just realized he’s said too much. He stares at the stone floor silently.

“Go on,” I coax. “You won’t hurt my feelings.”

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