Page 153 of Immaculate Deception (Romanoff Bratva)

“Just like we used to,” Gennady says with a smile. “Like the good old days.”

We scale the wall quickly and drop down into a patch of shadows on the other side. The lights through the downstairs window are dark, which seems like a good sign.

When no security alarms blare and no guards come racing around the corner with weapons, we approach the building.

There’s a door at the back. I stand watch as Gennady picks the lock. He makes quick work of it. Within a minute, the door is open.

And just like that, we’re inside.

The downstairs level is dark, but there’s enough ambient light from the street to make our way around.

“He’s probably asleep,” Gennady says, voice barely above a whisper. “From what I heard, he doesn’t live with anyone. Still, be on guard.”

I gesture that we should split up, each taking a different floor. Gennady agrees silently and slips up to the second floor.

The room is strangely decorated. Not at all what I would’ve guessed. Richly embroidered black pillows sit on a jewel-tone velvet sofa. Fluffy throw blankets drape over the arms of upholstered chairs. Useless knickknacks like antique alarm clocks and cloth-bound books are stacked on the fireplace mantle and end tables.

It looks like something out of a design magazine. Not the home of a cold-blooded killer.

My gun is at the ready. I walk softly, moving heel-to-toe the way I was trained.

It’s been years since I’ve been on a mission like this, but the training never leaves you. My body knows how to move. How to aim. How to kill.

Every cell in me is on high alert. At any sudden creak, I pivot towards the noise, gun-first, ready to fire.

But nothing moves in the night.

Nothing but us.

I clear room after room. Just off of the kitchen is a hallway with a bathroom, a closet, and, further down, a set of double doors.

I turn the doorknob carefully, push the right door open, angling myself behind the other door, and enter gun-first.

It’s a library with built-in wooden shelves stuffed with books on every wall. LED lighting inside the shelves illuminates the spines even when the overhead light is off.

In the middle of the room is another velvet sectional, huge and L-shaped. Straight ahead beyond it is a massive fireplace.

And above that is a huge oil painting. I recognize that face from our brief crossing of paths in the park in Chicago, the night I chose to save Arya.

It’s the Butcher. His eyes are dark and glistening. Dripping with violence.

But that’s not where I’m focused.

Because there’s another person in the painting. A woman clutching to his arm. She’s blond, petite, and she looks a lot like…

No. Thatisher.

Brigitte Arnaud is painted in rough-hewn oil strokes. But it’s unmistakably her. That blond hair. That sneer.

I’ll never forget it.

Her face is seared in my mind. I’ll never forget her. Not after what she did to Arya. And my son.

Then my eye tracks down the painting to see what she’s holding.

And my gun drops.

The infant in her arms is my son.

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