Page 79 of The Russian Retribution

My heart squeezes painfully in my chest and I close my eyes, letting the tears fall.

I cared for him so much. Too much.

And it hurts.

Fuck, it hurts.

A sob tears its way out of me and I cover my mouth with my hand, opening my eyes and staring at his written words until they blur beyond recognition.

I want him to mean it. I want to believe that he was just placed in a terrible position and did what he thought was right, but that doesn’t change how much it hurts.

Yet, the temptation is too great.

In the low light, with tears streaming down my face and a sense of aching loss in my chest, I reach for my phone and dial the number scrawled at the bottom of the letter.

31

ERIK

Aweek ago, Anastasia called and hung up.

I immediately called her back, fearing Viktor got to her, but I got no response.

He’d escaped from The Black Ox only because I was severely outnumbered once we got outside, but I haven’t forgotten his threats.

I’ve called her every day since, praying she’d pick up and speak to me, but each time, it went to voicemail, and I died a little more inside. Out of all the mistakes I’ve made in my life, this is the worst. After my terrible discussion with Viktor, I tried to get into the estate to talk to her and warn her about Viktor, but I couldn’t even get close.

I’m lucky it was Ryan who caught me. Otherwise, I’d most likely be dead. So calling her was all I could do, but she never called back.

Until today.

She called and reeled off an address, then hung up on me without a word. I don’t blame her.

I know I’ve hurt her deeply.

It could be a trap. I’ve done enough to warrant Anastasia demanding my head on a pike, but I turn up anyway. I’ll face anything for one last chance to see her again.

The address Anastasia gave me is the construction site of the club the Irish destroyed nearly seven months ago during their hunt for their Captain’s killer. The place is nearly back on its feet, but dust lingers in the air as I walk over freshly placed floor tiles and around lingering scaffolding. Seven months ago, I was here to assess the damage and the risk to our finances if we chose to reconstruct.

Today, it’s my own life that needs reassessment.

Anastasia is by the bar, perched on one of the stools with two empty crystal glasses in front of her and a bottle of something pink and sparkling.

My heart skips a beat at the sight of her. Her blonde hair drapes over one shoulder, exposing the backless dip of her black dress. Knee-high boots gleam under the soft lighting above, and she taps her fingers lightly on the bar until she hears my footsteps and tenses like the snap of a board. Looking over her shoulder, she only glances at me once.

“You’re late.”

“You didn’t give me a time,” I reply cautiously as I approach her, keeping an eye on my peripheral for any guards she might have lying in wait. “You just told me to get here.”

“The urgency was implied.”

“I got here as quickly as I could.” Given her irritation, she must have been here already when she called me. “Are we alone?”

She finally looks at me with sharp eyes, and the anger in them is clear. “Why, do you think you finally have a shot at killing me?”

“Anastasia…” My stomach ties itself into knots, and the ripples are so intense that I almost double over. “It’s never been my intention to harm you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters. Her attention snaps back to the bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling wine. She pours two glasses as I sit down next to her.

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