Thorne Princess(30)

Two minutes later, a few police cars and a black sedan pulled in front of Ian’s front door. We gave them our statements, then our business cards. We weighed in with what we thought had happened. Who we thought could be behind this.

“Kozlov,” we kept saying. “His name is Kozlov.”

Like they didn’t know. Like they weren’t busting their asses trying to catch him this very minute. That is, if they weren’t in his pocket and under his payroll.

They sent us on our way and asked us to give them a call if we remembered anything more. Standard protocol.

During the drive back to Brat’s house, I considered telling Tom I was sorry for his loss, but then remembered he would just use it as a way to club me for not feeling as shitty as he did.

Tom was the first to break the silence. It happened when we glided onto Interstate 5 and got stuck in one of the longest traffic jams known to mankind.

“You know it’s the Russians.” His jaw ticked. He wore sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his expression, but I had a feeling he was misty-eyed.

“Logic dictates.”

“They’re ruthless,” he said animatedly.

“Most people are. But they’re also fearless. Not a good combo.”

Shortly before I’d handed in my resignation and went private, I was involved in a bloody operation against the Bratva in Los Angeles. These were tough-as-nails criminals who came here after the Soviet Union fell and muscled the Italian mafia out of Los Angeles in less than three years, leaving rivers of blood in their wake. The FBI would probably have been perfectly content with letting the two gangs kill each other off, but during my service, the Russians had gotten sloppy—power drunk—and often claimed civilian casualties.

Mistaken identities, assassinations gone wrong, gun fights in broad daylight forced us to step in. And in we stepped. Only we didn’t deal with amateurs. Soon, these people had our names, our addresses, a list of our loved ones. Tom and I, especially, were on their shit list. They knew about us from their friends in Chicago. How we worked with the Italians. Kozlov’d had a bullet with my name on it before I’d even known of his existence.

The Russians fought back. In the end, we’d managed to throw some of them in the can, but not nearly as many as we wanted to.

And not the main villain—Vasily Kozlov.

Ian Holmes had been in charge of that operation. He was no doubt a target for them. And what do you know? They’d decided his time was up.

“They’re clapping back.” Tom stroked his jawline. “Years later.”

“Technically, didn’t Holmes retire last year?” I asked. “He’d been on their case for a lot longer than we were. And they don’t exactly play nice.”

“Now, here is where it gets sticky for me.” Tom cleared his throat, shooting me an uncertain look. “You’re here, in Los Angeles. They have your name, your affiliation to Moruzzi. That makes you a target.”

I’d been trying to tell him as much back when he asked me to take the post.

“I can take care of myself,” I said flatly.

“I don’t doubt that. But then, you’d be putting Hallie at risk, too.”

He wasn’t wrong, but I also wasn’t going to let a bunch of lowlifes mess with my plans, my aspirations, my career.

“I would like to see them try to get to her.”

“I’m not kidding,” Tom said, looking gloomy as shit.

He’d really taken Ian Holmes’ death hard. I imagined he was going to call the daughter next, maybe help arrange for his service. That was the kind of man Tom was. Broken, but glued together, somehow, into something whole.

“You’re going to be putting her at risk instead of eliminating risks that could put her in danger.”

“I’m well aware, all right?” I barked, staring out the window. “If anything, it would add some spice to this job. All this woman does is shop and take pictures with her friends.”

“You can’t be serious right now.”

I was, in fact, being serious. I wasn’t going to let a bunch of assholes run my life. For starters, I had no reason to believe they knew I was in Los Angeles. For another, I left here years ago. Tom was making a mountain out of a goddamn molehill.

“All I’m saying is—”

“You wanted me here, and now I am. I’ll keep an eye out for the Bratva.”

Tom let out a short breath. “How do I tell Lisa that Ian is dead?” he asked finally. “She’s going to be devastated.”

Grief was something I had no concept of, so I kept my mouth shut for the remainder of the ride.





The rest of the day was a cluster.

As soon as Ransom came back, he kicked Lisa, Tom, and the kids out and dragged me to my room.

“You’re staying in today, Princess,” he said, no particular tone to his voice as he threw me in there without so much as an explanation.

Something had definitely gone wrong for him while he’d been out with Tom. I doubted it had anything to do with me. I’d been here all along, getting to know Tom’s family. Lisa was a cool chick for sure. She collected Toulouse-Lautrec prints and had one of the most extensive collections outside France. And she was big on sustainable, green living, just like me. We even exchanged numbers and emails. I could only imagine what kind of hell Ransom would have put me through had he suspected I was forming connections with people from his real life.