Page 169 of Nothing More

He shook his head, refocused. “He told me about what happened the night I killed the Butcher. I handed the body over to him and the crew in the van – but he shouldn’t have been there. He didn’t do dumps. Andrei wanted him to that night, though. He said to take the body down to the docks, and hand it over to some men in a van in exchange for a bag of cash.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t know, then. But he knows who has the body – or part of it – now. The Butcher’s son.”

“His son? And who is that?”

Another head shake. “We don’t know his name.”

We. A terrifying word, in this instance.

“Apparently, he fell off the grid back in Moscow, and ended up here, somehow. He mailed the other ear, and another finger, to Misha. I think he sent the ring along to you, because he knew you’d recognize it.”

The thought sent a cold shudder down her back. She held steady and said, “And you believe him?” When he frowned: “That Misha didn’t cut that ear off himself and bring it out so you’d think you were in this together?”

He frowned, thoughtful rather than angry. “He’s not that way. Misha is ruthless, and he doesn’t mind any kind of violence – but he’s not the sort to play games. He’s direct.

“But if the Butcher’s son is like his father, then he enjoys playing with his food.” He made a face. “Or just his victims. Maybe he eats parts of them, I don’t know.

“But Misha was there – I killed the Butcher, and Misha had his body, after. We were both high-ranking in the bratva. If someone wanted to hurt Andrei – his power, at least – it makes sense they would go after us. Or.” He shrugged. “It’s revenge, for his father.”

“Yes,” Raven said. “Both are possible. But you’re not bratva anymore, and you haven’t been for some time. Hurting you would hurt the Dogs, not Kozlov, which makes personal revenge the likeliest explanation…or, there’s no Butcher’s son at all.”

His frown hardened, its corners sharpening. “You think Misha’s trying to trap me,” he said, grimly.

“Darling, I think you have to operate under the assumption that he is, for safety’s sake.”

He didn’t like that, she could tell. Glanced toward the window and tongued at his lip ring in an absent way. Raven waited – she’d said what she needed to; hammering the point home over and over would accomplish nothing – and he finally glanced back at her and said, “I know not to trust him.” He sounded as though he was trying to convince himself, half wistful.

He'd been a child when he joined the bratva, Misha his only port in the storm. That was a kind of trust that was hard to break, even if he knew better.

“I’m being careful,” he continued. “He says–” He hesitated; toyed with the ring he wore to cover the little bratva tat on his middle finger. It brought to mind the smooth coolness of the metal against her most sensitive skin, the way it felt cold up inside her, before it warmed to her body temperature. “He says the bratva has its sights set on the Dogs. He didn’t like them being involved with Abacus – and that was before he got in the country – but he agrees that the slight against the bratva can’t go unpunished.”

She lifted her brows, inviting him to draw the obvious conclusion.

He scowled. “We called a truce. The club and the bratva aren’t a part of it right now. We’re just trying to find and eliminate this bastard. Then we go back to our regular lives.”

It broke her heart that he believed that was possible – that he believed Misha would keep his word, and honor the truce.

“You think I’m stupid,” he muttered.

“No. But I think you need to tell Maverick what’s going on. I think you ought to let the club help you.”

He shook his head. “They’ll turn it into some kind of circus shitshow, just like with Abacus. Ian, and your brothers, and Pongo’s old lady, and the fucking Alpines…That’s too much. The more complicated this gets, the more dangerous it is, and the longer it takes. The more people get pulled into it. It has to be us: me and Misha. We’ll handle it, and then we can move on, like it never happened.”

Raven wanted to pace the room. Wanted to shout at him, and rail against the idiocy of it all. Wanted to get on the phone with all of her brothers, have them conference in Ghost, tell him to send as many of his hammer-wielding monsters as he could.

But they were talking now as lovers. As partners. As two people who’d professed their love for one another. This conversation couldn’t leave this room.

She said, “I really want that to be true.”

He hadn’t expected her to say that; had been all bowed up, ready to argue some more, and so his face went slack with surprise. He sat up straighter, and his hands relaxed on his thighs.

“I don’t like the sound of it,” she said. “And God knows I don’t trust Misha to honor his word…but I trust you.” She managed a wobbly smile. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He stared at her a long moment, his blinks slow, his long lashes fluttery and pretty when he wasn’t scowling. “No.” Then he stood, and crossed to her in three quick strides; took her face in his hands. “No,” he repeated, gaze tracking over her face, drinking her in. “Youcan, but. Like this.” His kiss tasted like relief, and happiness, and she swallowed her own fear.

For the moment, at least.

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