Page 100 of Royal Deception
I switch over to another station, this one showing the police escorting Volkov away in handcuffs, and I grin, sitting up straighter.
Flipping through the channels, I realize they’re all playing the same thing, over and over. It’s a victory for the books, but the celebratory buzz feels… off. It’s not the same without someone to share it with.
I glance over at the empty space beside me on the couch.
Clary’s been in my thoughts all day—too many things unsaid, too many questions unanswered. I thought it was enough, thiswin, but now, it feels a little hollow without her here to celebrate with me.
I rub a hand over my face and sigh, switching off the TV.
For all the progress, all the strides I’ve made, I can’t ignore the one thing that’s missing, the one thing I want more than anything. Her.
I’m still sitting there, staring at the blank screen of the TV, when the door swings open with a thud. Lucky steps in, his face a storm cloud, jaw tight, eyes dark.
For a second, I think maybe he’s here to celebrate. I mean, we just took down one of the biggest threats to our family, to our whole operation. But the second I see him, I know something’s off.
His steps are heavy as he crosses the room, and I can practically feel the tension rolling off him.
“Lucky?” I ask, sitting up a little straighter. “What’s up? We did it, man. Anatoly’s locked away for good.”
But Lucky doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at me, his eyes unreadable.
My stomach twists. “What’s going on? Why the long face?”
Finally, he speaks, his voice low and grave.
“I have to talk to you about Clary.”
42
CLARY
Though everything in me is screaming to call Rory and let him know what’s going on, some stubborn part of me insists that I can handle this on my own.
So I call an Uber to take me across town to the address we found for the man behind Callie’s stalking.
Dmitry Petrov.
The sky seems to turn dark, a forecast storm on the horizon threatening to break as I arrive at the address we found.
I don’t know what I’m expecting when I arrive, but the sight of the rundown apartment complex makes my stomach knot. The building is tall, gray, and weathered, its windows grimy, its exterior littered with old cigarette butts and empty beer bottles. It looks like the kind of place people go when they don’t want to be found.
I tell myself that it’s just a coincidence. It has to be.
Making my way through the building, I keep my head down and try to listen in, to discern the type of people who might live here.
A few discrete inquiries get me the answers I’m looking for, and it turns my blood to ice.
This place is crawling with Russian gangsters. It’s popular with many of the lower-level thugs and criminals in Anatoly’s gang, and if I’m right, Ana’s stalker might be one of them.
Her stalking might be connected to the Russians.
My heart pounds in my chest, my fingers tightening around my phone. Every instinct is screaming at me to turn around, to leave before I do something reckless.
But I need to know.
So I head up the creaky, dimly lit stairwell, my breathing shallow as I find the apartment number that belongs to Dmitry Petrov.
I knock.
