Where the Snow Falls (Seasons of Betrayal #2)(19)

“I expected my son to pick up the phone, Miss Gallucci, but better it be you, I suppose. What is that old saying—killing two birds with one stone, no?”

Vasily Markovic.

Fuck.

Somehow … she just had a feeling … Violet knew she’d f*cked up.

“I have nothing to say to—”

“I’m sure you don’t,” Vasily interrupted smoothly. “But better you listen for a bit, anyway.”

Violet resisted the immediate urge to slam the phone down on the receiver and then call Kaz. But only because Vasily didn't give her a choice as he started talking before she could.

“What did you think was going to happen, Violet?” the man asked.

She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and squeezed the phone a little tighter. “I don’t understand what you mean, Vas—”

“Ah, no, my dear. There’s no need for you to use my name—we’re certainly not familiar enough for that, and I have no intention of becoming familiar enough with you to allow you to use it.”

Jesus.

This man was something else.

Kaz occasionally spoke of his father’s theatrics and the man’s hostile demeanor, but Violet had never experienced it firsthand. She didn't know the man.

“Before we get off topic, I’ll ask again. What did you think would happen after you took off with my son? Did you think you would be allowed to skip off into the sunset toward a happily ever after of your own making?”

Violet opened her mouth to respond with something as equally biting as Vasily’s comments, but his sharp laughter stopped her.

“You’re young, of course,” he said quieter, “and I’m sure that reason alone will be the one and only thing to save you from the worst part of your father’s wrath once he comes looking for you. And, my dear, he will come looking for you.”

A tightening sensation curled around Violet’s chest, threatening to cut off her airways. She knew Vasily was only trying to get a reaction out of her or, worse, frighten her.

But it was working.

“At this point,” Vasily continued, his tone amused as if he were talking about his favorite sports team, “it is no longer a matter of if your father will come looking for you, but when. And you see, when he does, and when he finds you … you should seriously consider what that might mean, girl. For my son, I mean. While I care for Kazimir on some level, I’m beginning to think his cock makes all the decisions where he’s concerned, and I can’t have that. Perhaps this—your father—is the lesson he needs to learn, no matter how badly it’ll end for him. Is that what you want—his blood on your hands because you fancy yourself in love?”

Violet’s teeth clenched. “Go to hell.”

Vasily let out another dark laugh. “Do yourself the biggest favor you can, Violet, and go home to your father before he doesn’t give you a choice. Because if Alberto Gallucci can’t get you back, then I suspect he will blame me—as it’s my son you’ve chosen to spread your legs for. Now, should I have to come after you as a … an apology, of sorts … for your father, you will not like how I do so. I will be neither careful nor easy. And you will come, girl, even if you bleed the whole way.”





Well, shit.

The last thing Kaz had been expecting when Konstantin invited him to the compound to talk business was the literal wall of money he was currently staring at in disbelief, his fingers ghosting over the cellophane wrapped around it.

He had heard rumors, of course, that the Boykov family had their hands on their very own print shop—their name for the counterfeiting business they were in—but to see the reality of it … Kaz had no words.

“Yeah, I was like that the first time, too,” Konstantin said as he walked up with his hands in his pockets. “Here, I’ll give you a look.”

Waving for him to follow, Konstantin headed toward the metal steps on the other end of the room that led down to the lowest level of the warehouse where they printed the money.

There were at least two racks of printing presses, each row spitting out sheets of uncut, one-sided denominations. One looked to be printing the front side of a bill, while the other printed the back side.

“Basic printing,” Konstantin said. “Only the basics on the bill. The ink is a car-based paint—the type that gives off the metallic sheen in the sun.”

Kaz raised a single brow, curious. “Why?”

“It’s one way they spot a fake, by using conductivity and magnetic tests on a bill, not that most cashiers have that ability.” Konstantin nodded at the printers as another sheet rolled out. “Those are twenties. We’re working smaller denominations right now for an order, but we do anything from fifties to hundreds, it really just depends. Now, that paper … that’s the important shit.”

“Why’s that?”

“Ever handed over a hundred-dollar bill and the cashier brings out a pen to mark on it?”

Kaz didn't even have to think about it. “Every time I spend one.”

“Very few papers are pretreated in just the right chemicals to make the paper react properly to the ink in those markers. It took us a few tries to find the right paper that was both thin enough to be able to press two sheets together and still feel like a real bill after it was finished, but also to pass that marker test.”