Thief (Boston Underworld #5)(78)

“Have you found anything?”

Mischa grunts a useless response from the computer. “I can’t find anything when you are constantly hovering. The answer is no. They fucked up your entire surveillance system. Everything’s been destroyed.”

I swallow two more painkillers and wash them down with vodka. It still doesn’t make sense. “How long would that take for a novice, you think?”

He snorts. “It wasn’t a novice. They knew what they were doing.”

“Nonna said they took her in a matter of minutes.”

Mischa looks up from the computer, glancing toward the hall.

“She’s not here,” I tell him. “She went to visit her sister.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“What?”

“When did Nonna leave to visit her sister?” he asks.

I try to recall, but everything has been blurry lately. “I don’t know. A while ago.”

“Around the time you killed Sergei?”

The implication makes my gut churn, but there is only one way to know for sure. I retrieve the calendar and look for the last note Nonna left with my messages. It was dated two weeks ago. The day after Sergei’s death.

I want to believe it’s a coincidence, but now that Mischa has pointed it out, I can’t.

“What she told you is physically impossible,” he says. “This would have taken them an hour to destroy, bare minimum. How can you be sure that she wasn’t working with Sergei? And the guard too? It’s difficult to know who he swayed. If he could get Katya to plant cameras in Alexei’s house, there’s no telling what else he did.”

“Fuck.” I kick the bottom of the desk and fall back into the chair. He’s right. Everything he said is right, and I was too blind to see it for myself. “If it’s true, she’ll be in the wind by now.”

Mischa shrugs. “Still couldn’t hurt to put the word out.”

My phone chimes, signaling an incoming text message from Alexei. Mischa yammers on about Nonna, but I’m not listening. My eyes are fixated on the message. I read it three times over to make sure I’m not mistaken.

“What is it?” Mischa asks.

I hand him the phone. “What does it say?”

He reads it silently before looking up, his face pale. “It says Talia is alive.”





Mischa meets me outside the hospital room, his eyes cutting in front of me. “What is that?”

“What?” I look down at the gift in my hands.

“Did you bring an Aston Martin Stroller?”

“He’s a Vor.” I shrug. “He should be riding in style.”

Mischa wiggles the stuffed teddy bear in his own hands. “You make my gift look pathetic.”

“That’s because it is pathetic.” I slap him on the shoulder.

“I’ll get him a stripper and some vodka for his eighteenth birthday to make up for it,” he says.

“Good luck with that,” I mutter.

We walk into the room. Already, Talia is surrounded by other Vory visitors, and beside her, Alexei holds his son. I pause, almost feeling like I’m intruding on this moment as the new parents speak to each other in hushed whispers, gushing over their firstborn child.

The natural chain of thoughts makes me think about Nakya. I think about what she would look like here beside me, my babies in her arms. It’s an empty fantasy, and I am grateful when Alexei breaks the spell and gestures me farther inside.

Viktor whistles when he sees the stroller. “Very nice, Kol’ka.”

“Limited edition,” I say. “Only the best for our newest Vor.”

Alexei rises to greet me, and to my surprise, he reaches out to shake my hand. “Thank you for coming, bratan. And thank you for the gift.”

“Of course.”

There is an awkward moment of silence between us, but it’s a moment of understanding. Alexei isn’t just thanking me for the gift, he is thanking me for my help during the past month. But more importantly, he is forgiving me.





“Are you ready, Niki? You’re on in five.”

I rise en pointe to test out my shoes. A hard-won lesson. “I’m ready. Thank you again for this opportunity.”

Louis nods, his eyes moving down to my ankle. I know he’s worried it won’t hold up, and in all honesty, it might not. But I’m grateful he gave me a chance, even if it’s a small one. My days of being a soloist are over, but for tonight, I have a guest spot at the local ballet company, performing in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

One last dance.

While my days spent teaching children are fun, it isn’t the same, and it will never be the same. My love for the ballet cannot be fulfilled through teaching. A dancer who can’t dance is as good as an artist who can’t create. I don’t know what my future holds, but I know that I’m ready to say goodbye to this chapter of my life.

“Niki?” One of the stagehands waves to get my attention.

“Yes?”

“Someone left this for you.”

My hand trembles when she offers me the solitary white lily. She smiles, and I think I smile too, but my mind has just gone from zero to sixty, and I think I might throw up. When she disappears back down the hall, I open the attached note, reading the words with deliberate care.