Page 192 of Dance of Deception

Like confirming that the man in the shitty suit she met that daywas, in fact, an FBI agent.

Apparently Arkadi wasn’t just a monster. He was a businessman, too.

He’d been selling underworld secrets to the Feds for years—feeding them intel on the mafia, the Bratva, even The Black Court. It turns out he was telling the truth when he told me he’d been hired as security at a couple of our trials. So he’d seen things he shouldn’t have. Andthatmeant, eventually, he had leverage.

But then he died…or, you know,“died”.

And when everyone, including the FBI and Vera, thought he was dead, that steady flow of cash from the Bureau dried up.

Vera wanted it back.

She didn’t care about morality, loyalty, or justice. She just cared about money.

So she picked up where Arkadi left off: she reached back out to Arkadi’s old FBI contact, offering her services. But she didn’t have anything to sell. Not really. She tried to sell some old, outdated information about a couple of mafia families to Arkadi’s old handler—like the thumb drive The Stag saw her exchange. But it wasn’t going to bring in any real money.

That’s where Lyra came in.

Vera began texting Lyra, pretending to be Arkadi, playing on her fear and paranoia. She needed information. She didn’t actually know shit about the Black Court or what it was. She just knew the FBI was interested, and that my name was associated with it somehow. But she needed something, anything, to hand overto the Feds to get herself on the payroll. And she had no qualms about using her own daughter to get it.

But that still leaves ones loose end.

It wasn’t Vera, because she truly thought he’d died. But someonehelped Arkadi escape.Someonehelped him fake his own death. And that someone—the prison medical examiner, the one who signed his death certificate before himself later turning up dead—was on theNikolayevpayroll.

And I wouldvery muchlike to know why.

Which brings me to the present as I creep closer to my prey, my grip tightening around the knife at my hip.

Ahead of me, Kir exhales heavily, shaking his head as he nears his car.

"Would it kill you to approach a man in a normal fashion just once?” he mutters. “A handshake? A hello?"

I step from the shadows, my eyes locked onto his.

"I think we can assume that your would-be career as a forest ranger has been permanently shelved," he quips dryly.

I don't dignify that with a response.

"You have my congratulations for killing that piece of shit," Kir says smoothly. "And my thanks for saving Lyra."

"I didn’t save her for you," I growl.

Kir’s smirk widens. " I wouldn’t imagine you would. But you have my thanks nonetheless." He studies me carefully. "May I ask what this dramatic visit is regarding?"

I cross the distance between us, stopping a foot away. "The prison medical examiner," I say flatly. "He was on your payroll."

“Of course he was.”

He doesn’t even bother denying it.

"Did you help that motherfucker escape?" I bite out.

Kir sighs through his nose, meticulously adjusting the sleeves of his jacket. "I have many people like that on my payroll. Surely that isn’t surprising to you. And you may recall,” he mutters, “that I helped put that monsterinprison."

"You also helped put a target on Lyra’s back," I snap.

Kir’s lip curls slightly, his gaze turning to ice.

"I did what needed to be done," he says, voice calm. "Just as you did. But I was not a part of that motherfucker escaping prison."

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