“Bozhe, nyet,” he murmurs in a low, broken voice. “Not my son.”
I hear the quaver in his voice, as if he’s about to break down and cry. He’s not faking it.
Raising my hand, I signal my men to lower their weapons. “Where is he?”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine and they’re flooded with tears. “I don’t know. Not here.”
“Any idea where he might have gone? Don’t bullshit me, Oleg. He has to pay for this.”
He sits up straight and blinks away his tears, becoming his stoic self again. “I know he does, God help him. I will not interfere. But, no … I can’t imagine where he’s gone. He has a condo across town; he might be there. Otherwise, I couldn’t tell you.”
I press a finger to my earpiece—a direct line to Jaime. “Address.”
“Coming right up, jefe,” he replies.
I turn back to Oleg, switching the safety of my weapon on. “Your son’s life is forfeit. It now belongs to me. Don’t stand in my way.”
Oleg waves a dismissive hand, all business now. “As is right. You will see no resistance from me.”
“Good,” I reply. “Keep your guard up. Arman is in town and he has the Brotherhood with him. Later, we’ll have to talk about the potential for a turf war. He’s a greedy son of a bitch, as you know.”
He bobs his head in a nod, but his eyes are unfocused, his mind elsewhere. I lead my men from the room, leaving Oleg to his mourning. The next time he sees his firstborn son, it’ll be as he stands over Viktor’s coffin.
29
Elena
Diego has been gone for too long. It’s been hours and he hasn’t called or come home. The house is as silent as a mausoleum, leaving me with nothing to do but sit and worry. For a while I try to distract myself sketching new designs. The lines start to blur together, so I put my design book aside and try to get lost in a novel. When that doesn’t work, I flip through the channels on TV. I spend an hour watching infomercials and soap operas without fully engaging, my mind racing through every possible reason it could take him so long to return.
He would have gone to Oleg’s penthouse first. If that prick was in any way involved, he’s probably dead by now. If Viktor was home, he’s gone, too. That would be the end of it, though, and my husband would be here. My mental wheels turn frantically as I go over what else Diego might do in this situation. I’ve come to know him well enough that it isn’t difficult. If either of the men weren’t in the penthouse, he would start combing the city looking for them. There are only so many places in Miami they might choose to hide. If they don’t turn up, Diego would come back here to consult with Jaime and track them down.
But he’s not here, and I can’t stop thinking that something terrible has happened to him. He was already injured, and I could see the pain all over his face before he left. He hasn’t been taking his pills, even though he does religiously swallow his antibiotics twice a day.
Oleg isn’t stupid, and neither is Viktor. They must know Diego is on to them, which means they’ve had time to prepare for a counterattack. Did my husband and his men walk into a trap? A barrage of bullets? A bomb set to explode? Do any of those things happen in reality, or only in mafia movies?
Pacing the bedroom, I grunt with frustration. I feel weak and helpless, unable to do anything to help my man. By keeping me ignorant about how things work in his world, he’s blinded me, tying my hands behind my back. It’s meant to protect me, but just now I can’t help resenting him for it. Sitting around and patiently waiting to find out what’s going on isn’t my style, and it’s driving me insane.
“Fuck this,” I mutter, reaching for my phone. I’m going to call up to Jaime and demand he tell me what’s happening and where Diego is. I’m owed that much at least.
Before I can dial, the phone starts ringing, displaying an unknown number. Diego had Jaime remove the encryption, allowing anyone to contact me and vice-versa. I usually ignore unfamiliar numbers, but the sick feeling in my gut tells me this is important. It has something to do with Diego.