Page 8 of Inked Athena

“Sitting pretty in Chicago,” Myles informs me. “My intel suggests that he’s livid about Nova’s disappearance. This is one thing he can’t blame on you, since you were out of the country at the time.”

“Doesn’t mean he won’t try.” And if history is any indication, he will. Several times. “If anything comes up?—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll let you know immediately. I know the drill. But until then, you need somewhere to shack up.” Myles whistles as he thinks.

Suddenly, the line goes quiet.

I check to make sure we’re still connected. “Myles?”

“Still here. Just thinking.”

“Think out loud.”

“I was thinking about Castle Moorbeath.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve spared a thought for the crumbling Scottish castle I forgot I own. I bought it on a drunken whim the year after my divorce from Katerina. “The place isn’t even inhabitable. It needs millions in renovations.”

“Which makes it the perfect cover. Parts of it are livable. That old caretaker you hired still lives up there, right? There must be some running water and lights.”

“Running water and lights,” I mutter sarcastically. “All you need to run an empire.”

“People have done it with less,” he replies, unbothered. “And no one but me knows about the place. It could work.”

“Except I have a shit ton of work to do. I need to be close in case Ilya, the Andropovs, or anyone else decides to make a move. I’d also like for Nova to have access to healthcare and to be in a position where I can see my enemies coming for miles and miles.”

“That’s what I like about working for you, Sam—your expectations are so reasonable.” He lets loose a long-suffering sigh. “Lucky for you, I’m exceptional at my job. What aboutThe Sofia?”

“Now, there’s a fucking idea.”

Thanks to a deal I brokered for a fellowpakhan,Oleg Pavlov, last spring, I was handed a spare set of keys to his superyacht with an open invitation to use her whenever I needed. A floating fortress where I can keep Nova safe while maintaining my grip on my empire.

The thought of having her trapped on a boat with me for weeks makes something dark and hungry twist in my chest.

“I’m full of ‘em,” Myles brags. “I also know Oleg is in the Maldives for the next three weeks. The yacht is available and outfitted with enough bells and whistles to avoid detection from any radar or satellite. You’ll basically be sailing a luxury high risewith an invisibility cloak. It just comes down to whether you’re ready to be at sea for weeks. Maybe months.”

“Weeks,” I counter. “Just until I find somewhere more permanent to settle.”

“‘Permanent?’”

I ignore the question because, again, I don’t have an answer.

For most of my life, there’s been a firm five-, ten-, fifty-year plan. I woke up every day knowing where I wanted to be when I was old and gray and even more obscenely wealthy than I already am.

Now, for the first time in as long as I can remember, my future is blurred. It’s rippling around a Nova-sized blip, and I’m flying fucking blind.

The strange part is how it doesn’t feel strange at all.

“Nova will be ready to move in a couple days, but she has a ways to go before she’s recovered. I’m going to keep an eye on her until she’s healed, and then…”

I hoped the right answer would tumble out of my mouth, but the rest of the sentence disappears into the void like the rest of my plans.

“And then…?” Myles pushes.

And then… And then what? And then we get married? Then I knock her up as many times as she’ll let me, and we fill Castle Moorbeath with a dozen dark-haired little hellions scampering around barefoot? Children with my eyes and her smile?

Then I give up my Bratva and my empire and content myself with spending nights in the Scottish wild with my bride and our family?

Does that really sound so fucking bad?

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