Page 46 of Porcelain Lies

I sip my coffee, savoring the bitter bite. My chef’s pastries sit untouched. Old habits die hard. Growing up in the Bratva, being trained for survival, makes a man suspicious of plenty.

Birds sing in the jacaranda trees. A hummingbird hovers near the flowering vines. Peaceful. Almost enough to make a man forget what he is.

The sound of footsteps on marble breaks the spell.

Sasha appears at the terrace door, hesitating. His face tells me everything before he opens his mouth. Something’s wrong.

“Speak,” I say, setting down my cup.

He approaches, jaw tight. “Problem with Fermont.”

I straighten, appetite gone. “What kind of problem?”

“He’s dead.”

The words land like a punch to the sternum. “Chto?What happened?”

Sasha shifts his weight. Not like him to show discomfort. “Plan was proceeding. Team was in position. Target returned home unexpectedly. Spotted our men. Panicked. Tried to escape.”

“And?”

“Crashed his car half a block from his house. Impact killed him instantly.”

Coffee turns to acid in my stomach. Ten years of searching. Ten years plotting the perfect revenge. And the bastard dies in a fucking car crash?

“You’re telling me he got spooked and killed himself before we could touch him?”

“Da. He took a corner too fast. Car flipped. Hit a pole.”

I slam my fist on the table. China rattles. Coffee sloshes over the rim. “He was supposed to suffer like Bobik suffers! He was supposed to live knowing what he did!”

The hummingbird darts away, startled by my outburst. Everything falls silent.

“I’m sorry, boss. It was out of our hands.”

“Out of your fucking hands?” I snarl. “Bunch of fucking incompetentpizdas!How hard could it fucking be to cripple one fucking doctor?” My voice is rising. I pull in a breath and get myself together. “Any other casualties?” The question comes out clipped, controlled.

“Wife was home. Unharmed physically. Hysterical when police arrived.”

At least there’s that. I’ve never had a taste for killing women. Not even the wife of the man who crippled my son.

I pace the length of the terrace, mind racing. Dead means complications. Dead means police investigations. Dead means questions I don’t need asked.

“Blyad!”I spit. “Clean it up. Make it look like an accident.”

“Already working on it. But...” Sasha hesitates. “She was screaming about murder when officers arrived. Several witnesses.”

Perfect. A hysterical widow crying conspiracy. Just what I need.

I pull out my phone, scrolling to a contact saved under “Maintenance.” Three rings before he answers.

“Tarasov.” Captain Mendez’s voice carries the permanent weariness of a cop on the take. “It’s early.”

“We have a situation. Tomas Fermont. Car accident on Cedar Avenue.”

A beat of silence. “I’m familiar with the case.”

“Make it clean. Accident report. Toxicology showing alcohol.”

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