Page 66 of Shattered Cradle (Makarova Bratva Duet)

“Then you’re ready. If you need me for anything, call.”

I guide her down the stairs, her fingers clutching my elbow, then put her into the backseat of the tinted Mercedes SUV out front. Demyan comes up to me.

“Take care of her, Dem,” I murmur. It’s a question as much as an order.

“Aye-aye, boss.” His words are joking, but his tone is as somber as it’s ever been. He knows what’s at stake now.

I watch as they drive off. I stand in place, even once the gates have closed on them. Until I feel her materialize behind me.

“Another visit?” I ask without turning around. “Do you miss me that much?”

Jennifer gives me a half-hearted smile. “This time, I have a reason to visit.”

I pivot slowly to look at her. She’s wearing dark jeans and a black fitted t-shirt with long sleeves. Her hair is tied back, her makeup minimal.

“I take it you’re not going to the funeral.”

“I’ll pay tribute another way,” she says. “With my work.”

“You found something?” I ask. My body pings with the thrill of closing in on the kill.

She nods. “I have a name and an address. The girl’s father works in a bar downtown. I have to warn you, though—they don’t want to talk.”

“I can be persuasive.”

I flex my hands in anticipation of what is to come. “Gavin!” I call over my shoulder. My guard’s head appears from the security booth at the entrance.

“Yes, Don Makarova?”

“Get me a car. Nothing flashy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thirty seconds later, a nondescript sedan screeches to a halt in front of me. Gavin hops out and holds open the door for me to climb into the driver’s seat. Jennifer walks around to get in on the other side.

She punches the address into the navigator while I drive. “Her name is Lana Perego,” she explains as I rip through the gates and down the road. “Thirteen years old.”

“Have you seen her?”

“No,” she says. “Her mother slammed the door on my face and told me never to come back.”

“Guess your charm is exclusively for men, huh?”

She rolls her eyes and jabs her middle finger at me. I chuckle and we lapse into silence.

We drive like that for a while. Jennifer is sitting back in her seat, elbow resting on the window, but I can tell she’s nervous. Her fingers drum against the center console like she’s trying to tap out a message in Morse code.

“Are you nervous about this meeting?” I finally ask. “Or about the funeral?”

She stiffens. “I’m never nervous.”

“Don’t lie to me, Jennifer.”

She rolls her eyes again, but an uncharacteristic blush heats her cheeks. “Okay, fine. The latter. Is it completely ridiculous that I feel as though I should be there?”

“Yes.”

“Gee, don’t sugar coat it for me.”

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