Page 51 of Wicked Embers

It’s safe to assume this Greek prick thinks I have these items or know where they are. The same thing the Greek bastard, identifying as the Greek Monarch, that attacked one of my trucks this afternoon wanted.

With that in mind it’s safe to assume that this Greek prick is under the impression that I have or know where these things are. The man must be under the false assumption Mark is one of my men and I’ve hidden him and the items they want.

I can’t even ask Mark to elaborate on what the fuck is going on as he’s in a medically induced coma due to the severity of the knife wound to his stomach.

I take another swallow of the vodka to cool the rising heat from the anger and frustration burning in my gut. He wasn’t kidding about the shit storm coming—it’s already hit, and I have a sinking suspicion that it’s been hovering ominously for a while.

My fingers tighten around the glass as I glance at the notepad on my desk, the scrawled notes about the attacks on my shipments and warehouses of the past few months staring back at me. Questions run through my mind: Why haven’t they attempted to make contact or threats? None of the stolen products have resurfaced, and none of our suppliers or customers have been approached.

What are they waiting for? Or are they hoping to cripple my businesses and then swoop in when they think I’m at my weakest—like a corporate fucking take over.

What is in those journals and what is the gold key? Does it unlock the journals or a box that holds the journals? Markhad vaguely mentioned something about an attic and Sabrina, though I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. My hand stills mid-way to my lips as a memory flashes through my head.

One of the boxes from Leigh’s apartment had been marked, memories of mom-attic box 3. In it I had found some jewelry, a few items of clothing, a photo album that I barely skimmed through, and a leather bound songbook that looked old.

It had seemed personal, and I presumed it belonged to Leigh’s mother. I didn’t look any deeper into it other than the front pages. I put it in Leigh’s desk drawer at the estate hoping it would bring her some comfort.

Songbook! Had been Mark’s words along withattic. A cold wave of realization dawns. Could the journal they’re hunting be disguised as that songbook?

I need that songbook.

I pull out my phone and I’m about to call Dolph when I get an incoming video call—it’s my mother. About fucking time too, I’ve left her three messages today.

I answer. “Hello Mother.”

“Hello, son.” Her voice is deliberately slow with just the faintest hint of ice. I have a feeling one of her many spies in Vegas has filled her in on a few details of what’s been happening on the home front.

“How is Russia?” From the look on her face, I know this isn’t about returning my calls. My mother is furious—with me.

“Frosty as it always is at your grandfather’s house.” Her features remain composed. “I’ve just had a very interesting conversation with Carla Craft,” she drawls, and I draw in abreath. “It seems like you’ve had a busy few days. Big winnings in a poker game, break-ins, and trying to kill staff members.”

“If you’re referring to Carla’s broken leg, I swear that wasn’t me!” I pause briefly before continuing. “She did that to herself tripping over a chair in her dressing room.”

“While trying to get away from an assailant who broke in searching for something!”

“What has that got to do with me?” I shrug, giving away nothing so I can find out just how much she knows. “I was nowhere near the club.”

“So it wasn’t one of our men then?” Her shrewd eyes search mine as if she’s trying to pry the truth directly from my brain.

“No. Why would I want to break into Carla Crafts dressing room for fuck sake? I don’t have to break into it, Mother. The club belongs to my cousin, in case you’ve forgotten.” My voice oozes sarcasm before my brow furrows. “And why would you assume it was one of our men?”

“The attacker spoke to Carla in fluent Russian, indicating he knew her heritage.”

“Wait! Carla’s Russian?” I nearly choke in disbelief. “And why the fuck wouldn’t she tell Gavriil about the man speaking Russian? She didn’t have to confess to being one.”

“Because there are only a handful of people who know her heritage.” Her words hold a warning in them and it’s clear—she’s entrusting me with this secret.

“Just because the attacker spoke Russian to her doesn’t mean he knew she was from there,” I point out.

“The man told Carla that if she didn’t find him what he was looking for he’d tell some very nasty people back in Russia where she was!”

“She told Gavriil that he asked for journals and a gold key. So, from what you’ve just told me, there are now Russians and Greeks looking for those items.”

“What do you mean?” My mother’s words are stilted as she looks at me questioningly.

“One of our trucks was hit this afternoon. Only this time the driver, Daniil was left alive because the attacker, who goes by the Greek Monarch, wanted to give me a message. He wants to know where I’m hiding the gold key, journals, and Dalton.”

“Which Dalton?” My mothers face pales and theres a flash of fear in her eyes.

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