Page 212 of Heart of Frost and Scars

Frankie makes a strangled sound.

Nausea surges, and saliva fills my mouth as the image of Wolfson’s blue eyes flash in my mind. Eyes that match my own.

I must’ve said his name, because she grips my arm, shaking her head, her voice a whisper of horror. “Sirena.”

Sirena had blue eyes, too.

“There’s a note.” Oliver nods at the box.

Everything inside me recoils. I can’t stomach another photo of my dead son.

Steeling my spine, I reach for it and read the handwritten words aloud. “But whom to love? To trust and treasure? Who won’t betray us in the end? And who’ll be kind enough to measure our words and deeds as we intend? This is for us, Frankie. It’s all for you and me.”

“Pushkin?” She hugs her waist, looking so scared and alone.

“Yeah.” I remove the gloves and wrap her in my arms, meeting Oliver’s cryptic gaze across the room.

Sometimes direct action is more effective than lawful action.

“No more police.” I square my shoulders. “We’re doing this the Strakh way.”

46

Monty

—

That night, I sit at my desk, the walls in my office closing in on me. Shelves and drawers overflow with paperwork, the detritus of a life spent in pursuit of power and control.

A life deliberately crafted to separate me from my father’s crimes, to ensure I would never follow in his blood-soaked footsteps.

I followed my own path. University. Business degrees. Building a global consulting firm from the ground up. I’ve ensured every contract, deal, and interaction was aboveboard.

My reputation as the wealthiest man in Alaska rests on the foundation of lawful conduct and ethical business practices.

Yet none of it will protect the woman I love.

Frankie’s face flashes in my mind—her wild red hair, green eyes that puncture my soul, and a heart of liquid fucking magic. She has so much love in her. The purest form of love in existence.

I can’t rely on the slow gears of justice to save her. I must act decisively and ruthlessly.

Turning to my father’s legacy goes against everything I’ve worked for, everything I believe in. Yet, as body parts continue to show up, I have no choice. I must tap into the very darkness I’ve spent my life avoiding.

Drawing a deep breath, I stand and walk to the hidden safe behind the Ivan Aivazovsky painting. My hands are steady as I input the combination.

The safe opens with a soft click, revealing a small black ledger, the one I took from my childhood home after my parents’ deaths.

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.

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