Page 117 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

So, I do. I type the words “Osip Vaknin” into the expensive smartphone that Gavril bought for me and watch as Google spits out results: pictures of the two Vaknin brothers, handsome and smiling at galas and events, articles detailing different controversies they twisted their way out of.

But nothing about him dying.

I type in “Osip Vaknin death.” Still nothing.

I look up at Walsh, who’s smiling reasonably at me, although his gaze quickly moves over my shoulder. “Well, I’ll be. Dang, do I love Denny’s.”

Sure enough, bustling her way over with our plates already is our waitress, all tangerine-lipped smiles.

I raise a brow at him. “That’s it?”

Walsh just winks at me. “Now, let’s not let business talk ruin a perfectly fine meal.”

And so, weird as it is, we sit there and eat. Turns out, I have way more of an appetite than I expected, probably because I haven’t eaten in hours and basically walked across half the city. I gobble it all down: every last bite of maple syrupy, blueberry goodness.

Walsh eats his meal too, with periodic pleased “mmms” and grins. It’s only when he’s swallowed the last piece of toast crust, and wiped both sides of his mouth with a napkin, that he says, “Now, where were we?

I’m quick to answer. “Gavril’s brother is alive and horrible. But still, that doesn’t mean …”

“Ah, yes.” Still, he’s oozing that Walsh smile that’s starting to get on my nerves. “Yes, I see where you’re coming from. So Gavril didn’t kill his sadistic brother—that doesn’t make him awful, fine. And all this coming from me is just smoke and mirrors. I have too much to gain for turning you against him. But I have a friend nearby who’s been wanting a chance to talk to you, too. Do you think that’d be okay?”

Once again, I’m struck by how easy this is, how simple Walsh makes it. Like slipping into a gooey vat of chocolatey lava. Like if you refused you’d be a first-rate asshole.

“Fine,” I grit.

“I won’t even be here.” He strikes a smile, gesturing outside. “I’ll take a walk and get some fresh air.” He sidles out of the seat. “He’s all set to arrive in just a minute or so. I’ll be taking my leave now. Thanks for sharing such a delicious breakfast with me.”

He walks out, whistling a jaunty little tune. Sixty seconds later, the door rings again, and another man enters. When I see who it is, my heart sinks low in my chest so much that I straighten upright so I don’t slump. I almost don’t want to meet his eye or return his nod.

It’s a police detective.

Of course—what else did I expect? You don’t deal in guns and violence and gangs without the police getting some idea of it. No matter how much of a ‘businessman’ and smooth operator Gavril thinks he is, no way do you cause destruction and earn money on that scale and stay under the radar.

And now, lucky me, here I am, inches from a man who wants nothing more than to see my husband behind bars.

You don’t have to tell him anything,a shrill voice warns me.

But as he sits down and takes out a file folder, it hits me. This cop isn’t here to get evidence from me—he’s here to show me something. Maybe even show me exactly what I wanted: concrete, hard evidence of what Gavril’s done. What Gavril is.

“Ma’am, my name is James Dryden. I’m with the Toronto PD,” he says. “Major Crimes Division, specifically.”

I don’t say anything. Not yet.

There’s something familiar about this man. He’s stocky, not quite handsome, with features that don’t sit right on his face. I know I’ve never seen this man before in my life—and yet, I have.

Then again, a lot of my homeless days were like that: a hungry blur of faces, events. Maybe this guy was one of them? Hopefully, one of the decent ones.

Anyway, the guy, Dryden, doesn’t seem to give two shits about me saying much. It’s his show now.

He’s already placing the first picture on the table. One look and I twist away in revulsion.

“Sorry.” He does sound apologetic. “Just wanted to get your attention. This was one of Gavril’s retaliatory efforts. Not sure he intended his men to kill so many kids, but that’s how it went down at the preschool they hit.”

Preschool? Christ, no, that’s not Gavril.

Officer Dryden is still talking, easy as can be. “Not sure you can make out on the wall there, written in blood, the ‘V.’”

No, he wouldn’t do that. Even he is not that evil.

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