Page 30 of The Russian Retribution

“And the more I know, the more avenues I can cover.”

“If you can only protect me by receiving very specific information,” Anastasia says as she stands abruptly, “then maybe you’re just not very good at your job.” She folds up thepaper and slides it into an envelope, then steps away from her desk and hands it to me. “Make sure Cormac gets this. Or do you need to know the contents in order to deliver it?”

The ice lacing her tone sends a shiver down my spine. Before I can reply, she strides out of the room and I’m left in silence.

Any other situation and I’d think she’s just being a raging bitch, the regular ice princess everyone else sees. But I see deeper. She’s nervous. Every time we go out, I see it in her eyes. I’d even go as far as to suspect that she’s scared, but I don’t know why, and that irritates me.

Anastasia retires for the night, and I head out to deliver her letter to Cormac. The sudden deal between her and Cormac seemed like a good thing until Viktor caught wind of it. In his eyes, such an alliance is useless, and it lets everyone know that we’re incapable of taking care of ourselves. I disagree. The Russians and the Irish have been at odds for as long as anyone can remember, and this might be the first time words have been exchanged without accusation.

It can only be a good thing.

Then again, Viktor’s been on my ass about the lack of proof regarding Sergey’s death, and I don’t quite have the heart to tell him yet that he’s wrong.

Anastasia didn’t kill her father.

I don’t know who did it, but I’m convinced of her innocence. Each attempt on her life leads me to believe something else is going on, but I can’t quite see what it is. There’s a connection I haven’t been able to decipher quite yet.

The trip to the Irish takes me a couple of hours, and when I return, Anastasia has retired to bed. The estate is quiet while I do my nightly check-in with all the patrols and ensure that everything is locked up tight and secure.

Then I should head to bed, but something makes me hesitate at the bottom of the stairs.

I need some answers.

Something to appease Viktor and my own mind. It’s in Anastasia’s best interests, really, and it’s my job to act in those interests. With my heart in my mouth, I leave the staircase and head down to Anastasia’s office. The door is locked. Hardly a problem. By the time I unlock it and slip inside, my heart is beating more frantically than usual and tension pulls tight across my shoulders.

If there are any answers, they’ll be here.

I start in the filing cabinets and cupboards, skimming through every file and document that I can reach. Nothing jumps out at me, though I’m not sure what I even want to find. Unexpected proof that she killed her father? Some strange connection to the Cartel?

Or nothing at all?

As the minutes trickle by, I grow more desperate in my search. If I find nothing, then I remain in the dark and I have nothing to calm Viktor and his ever-increasing desperation to avenge his friend. It’s loyalty I admire and share to an extent. Despite the terrible things that have happened under this family, it saved me.

Viktor saved me.

He gave me a chance at life and the strength to get revenge on the people who harmed my sister if I ever crossed paths with them. Money in my pocket and a roof over my head are a fair price to pay to turn a blind eye to everything else. The alternative is being dead in the gutter by twenty-one. So, the pull to help Viktor remains strong within my heart, even as everything I learn about Anastasia hints that Viktor is looking in the wrong place.

But if I can prove this, then there’s a chance I can get them to work together to hunt down thePakhan’skiller. Then I’m certain the threats against Anastasia’s life will be quelled. There’s a connection there, I’m sure of it.

The filing cabinets tell me nothing I don’t already know.

Something makes me hesitate when I approach Anastasia’s desk. This is her space. Her fluffy pink pen sits in a cup holder next to her monitor, exploding with sparkles as the screensaver hides all information from me. An empty glass with a red lipstick stain sits on a dark coaster, and the keyboard badly hides an old nail polish stain.

This is her desk, and touching anything feels like an invasion of privacy that I can’t take back.

It’s for her own good.

Taking a deep breath, I rummage through her drawers and am met with the same lack of information as before.

Until I come across a small black leather book tucked at the back of the bottom drawer. Gold ink swirls across the cover in an intricate pattern that’s rather garish to look at. Resting back in the chair, I flip open the book.

The handwriting isn’t Anastasia’s. It’s too scrawly for that. Given the slight yellowing of the pages and the first handful of dates in the left column, this must have belonged to Sergey. There are countless numbers, money amounts, and then names that are somewhat illegible in the beginning. Dates going all the way back to the fifties. Each amount is scratched off. As I flick further into the book, it’s not until halfway through that the names become clearer and haven’t been scratched off.

What is this?

Gambling?

No, Sergey wasn’t a gambling man. At least not in the strictest sense.

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