Page 46 of Oathbreaker

“Misha Hroshko wants to speak with us,” Leo says without preamble. I blow out a breath, running my fingers through my hair.

On top of finding Winter, Misha has let us know that he’s still on board with getting rid of my father. It is a tentative commitment.

A commitment that has been made more complicated by the fact that no one has seen my father since that night at the Appleton Country Club.

At first glance, it should be simple for anyone to get rid of my father. He’s human, and we all die at some point. But with my father’s influence and all the dirt he holds over hundreds of the elite, they’ll do whatever they need to protect him—so they can protect themselves.

They don’t want their dirt getting out.

But what do animals do when they’re cornered? They bite. That’s where Misha comes in. As the pakhan of the Ukrainian Mafiya, the ultimate leader of the organized crime unit, Misha has thousands of soldiers and generals at his fingertips. He’s ingrained in the government. He’s just as influential as my father. But I know what he wants: He wants the leverage my father keeps hidden away in Isla Cara and access to Project Panacea.

I suspect I’ll get clarity on the latter point in a few minutes.

“Call him up, then,” I say to Leo.

Three minutes later, we’re patched through to Misha Hroshko.

“Hunter Brigham, I trust that your woman is healing from her ordeal,” he says when he answers.

I startle. Is she healing? I have no clue. On the outside, yes. But on the inside? I don’t know where she is in her brain.

“She’s getting well. Thank you,” I say, closing the topic.

“It was easy to find her, yet you needed help. I’m curious why that is?”

Leo and I exchange a look. I know that Misha Hroshko doesn’t ask a question he doesn’t already know the answer to.

“Expediency,” Leo pipes up. “With Hunter’s attention split, we needed reinforcements to bring Winter home. We’re grateful.”

“Your gratitude is noted,” he says. The line goes silent.

“Project Panacea,” he says, the words sounding interesting in his accent. “I want access by the end of the week.” His tone brooks no argument, no room for negotiation. I feel his deadly, icy seriousness over the phone line.

“Of course, Misha. We’re in your debt,” I say truthfully. “Can I know more about who we are helping?”

Misha is silent for a moment. “My wife,” he says shortly, and I startle. Who would have known that Misha Hroshko would be married? “She was diagnosed with stage IV ovarian cancer two months ago. Those fucks at Johns Hopkins and all those other trash fucking hospitals want to put her on hospice. But your treatment will cure her.”

There’s so much resolve in his voice. I know that if we fail to do this, he will kill all of us and slaughter the generations after us on principle.

Misha isn’t just a pakhan wanting control of an uncontrollable situation. He’s a man who has something to lose.

“I understand,” I say to him. Because I so, so do. “Our center is in Chevy Chase. It’s where all the trials are to be held. The FDA has been a pain in our assholes?—”

“Do not worry about them,” Misha says dismissively.

Leo stares hard at his phone. “I’m confident in our treatment, Misha. We will ensure your wife is taken care of,” he vows.

After a beat, Misha says, “Hunter, I want you and your woman to come to my home. My wife would like to meet her.”

I look at Leo and he shrugs.

“Leo, you come too. Bring your woman,” he says.

“Sure,” Leo replies with a silent, bewildered expression.

“It’d be my pleasure, Misha,” I say. I’d rather run through fire, but I’m indebted to this man.

“Very well,” Misha says. “Let’s plan on two months from now. By that time, my wife will be much improved.” And then the line goes dead. He hung up.

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