Page 11 of Deceitful Bond

But I had no intention of hiding in my mansion behind a fifteen-foot gate.

Blood has been spilled, and the situation demands action.

First, I’ll tie up the loose end of Paige Reyes, and then I’ll put all of the Karamazovs in the ground—including Igor. It’s what my father would’ve done, and that’s the only thing that cold-hearted bastard got right. He should’ve done it decades ago when he and Igor were still coming up together.

But he didn’t, so now it is up to me to finish what he started.

I park in front of an apartment building that’s not quite gentrified. A shabby structure trying its best to look trendy. It’s exactly where I would picture someone named Paige Reyes living.

I check the rearview and Dmitri’s Rover is no longer behind me, but I know he’s around. Someone else is also around. A black jeep with blacked-out windows is parked at the opposite side of the busy street, and it’s not one of ours. It’s far enough away to watch me but not close enough to be an immediate threat.

They look like they’ve been waiting for a while.

I slip my phone into my suit pocket and grab the camera. The men in the black jeep make no movement, even as one of them locks eyes with me.

Odd.

A dumbfounded blonde walks out the front door of the building, saving me the trouble of breaking in.

The building is a walkup, exactly like what I expected it to be. I take the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor and find apartment 4D at the end of the hallway by the fire exit. Placing my hand on my gun, I check the exit stairwell. Empty.

I button my jacket, ignoring the dull throb in my shoulder, and knock on her door. Nothing. I try again and get the same response. Sighing, I give the door a single hard kick and it flies open. The apartment is small: just a living room, a kitchen, and a short hallway that ends in a bedroom. The living room windows have a decent view of the street. Books and old coffee cups cover the top of a coffee table in front of a lumpy couch with too many throw pillows. I glance down to see if there’s a cat. There is none.

I walk into the kitchen and place the broken camera on the only table in the whole place. The oak cabinets are old and missing handles, but the scuffed stainless-steel appliances look newer. Paige must have been telling the truth when she said she needed to work.

Shame.

I turn to leave, and that’s when a photo on the refrigerator catches my eye.

It’s a young Paige. Her hairstyle hasn’t changed much since she was a kid. Long and straight with streaks of blonde. She smiles at the camera, standing next to an older man with thinning hair who looks similar enough to be her father. She’s holding a small girl’s hand. But it’s not the content of the photo that catches my attention.

The house in the background. I’veseenit somewhere before. But there’s something else: the other half of the photo is torn off, but I can see tattooed fingers gripping the man’s shoulder. I peel the photo off the fridge and study it.

The man is smiling, but something about his smile leaves me feeling uneasy. My eyes keep getting drawn to the tattooed fingers on his shoulder. Everything about this photo looks familiar, as if I’ve been there. But how? I only met Paige yesterday.

I continue looking at the A-frame house in the background. Maybe there’s more to Little Ms. Lucky than her innocent eyes and impeccable nursing skills.

I flick my thumbnail against the rough edge, when I hear something from the front door. I slip the photo in my pocket and spin around, gun at the ready. From the kitchen archway, Paige stares at the gun. Then at me.

Her gaze meets mine and she screams.

I quickly close the distance, grab her, and cover her mouth with my hand. “Don’t scream.” When my hand lowers, she says nothing. “I’m not here to hurt you.” I ease my hold. “I came to thank you. And return your camera.”

Breathing heavily, she gawks at the plastic pieces of what used to be her camera on the table. She shakes me off and picks the camera up. A broken piece falls off, strikes the table once, and then flies across the floor.

Her expression of fear morphs into dejection. “It’s broken.”

“I will replace it.”

“Why are you here?” She crosses her arms. “Tell me the truth. How did you find me?”

“I came to thank you, Paige, for saving my life.”

“And my second question?” She steps past me across the room.

I stalk after her. “Your camera had a business card. It wasn’t hard tracking you down.”

From the living room window, I see the unknown jeep’s doors open. Three men leap out. I see the tattoos on their hands and necks. Definitely not ours. I can tell by the tattoos on their hands and neck that they’re Karamazov Bratva soldiers. From the way they’re holding their jackets, it’s also obvious that they’re armed.

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