Page 50 of Resurrection

“Your favorite Donaghey brother.”

“Ah, you fucker. You survived? I heard Lorcan put a cap in your ass and you died.”

I grit my teeth and wish I was there to put a cap in Hagen’s ass. He’s such a useless, arrogant fool.

“You’re in Russia? Ah, the homeland. Good choice.” His voice is full of mockery. “Where exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter. I need money.” I rub my forehead when silence descends the line.

“Sean Kovatz has taken over your empire. Call him. How are you going to pay me back if you’re not in charge?”

“You think I don’t have cash stashed places? I gotta secure transportation, and then I can get my hands on it.” I also don’t have Sean’s number. The FBI is probably tracing those transactions, waiting for me to reach out.

A car lock beeps in the background, followed by a door slam.

“I can’t get you money. Even if I wanted to, I can’t. Whatever went down between you and Lorcan in the warehouse has cops crawling across our organizations. I can’t believe you killed your brother. Never thought the two of you would come to blows like that.”

“Should be a lesson to you, Hagen, or a warning.”

Did Lorcan die? There’s a tightness in my chest at the thought. I don’t let the idea stick. Carys would have told me if Kimi and Lorcan were dead. She didn’t. She asked if I was going after them. It’s more likely the FBI have him hidden somewhere, poised to testify if they ever find me.

“I value my life above all,” I say. “Don’t think I can’t get to you. Someone will give me funding, and when they do, you’re on my shit list.”

“Hold up. Hold up.” The car starts. “I can’t get you money. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you. The Kuznetsof family—Russian mafia in Volgograd. Tell them I sent you.”

Kuznetsof. Valeriya’s family. Christ. I hate when the world is too fucking small.

“Address?” I grab the pen and a pad of paper next to the phone in the room.

Hagen scrambles in his car for a minute and then rattles off an address. “Just don’t—”

I hang up before he can get anything else out. The number of fucks I give about what Hagen wants or doesn’t want is at less than zero. Ripping off the top sheet from the pad, I hurry down the stairs back to the front desk.

Demid Kuznetsof’s house is on the outskirts of the city. A regular American property transplanted into Russia—two-story, two-car garage, gray brick—but the lot is huge. A brief pang of longing for my mansion in Boston, for the life I led a few short weeks ago, surges through me. Begging at people’s doors isn’t my style. But the money I paid the cab to get here ate into the funds Carys left me. This negotiation needs to work.

My gun is tucked into the back of my pants as I ring the doorbell. One of the burly men from yesterday opens the door a crack, and I realize the front entrance is reinforced. He eyes me up and down.

He says something in Russian.

Here’s hoping he speaks English too. “I’m looking for Demid.”

“He know you’re coming?” His switch to English is effortless and almost without an accent.

“Not unless he’s psychic.” Or Hagen called him. Also possible. But no point in name-dropping to security.

“Wait here.”

I’m not sure where else he thinks I’d fucking wait, but I don’t say anything before he closes the door in my face. I should move to Russia to show Demid and these other two-bit hacks how to run a decent mafia empire. He didn’t even search me.

A minute later, the door swings wider, and the guy is back, but behind him is Demid. “Hagen called me.” When he steps around his security, his smile fades. “I recognize you.”

“Yes.”

“You work with Carys.”

I purse my lips. “Yes.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re coming to me for money?” His eyes narrow.

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