From that day on, I’ve been working around the clock to get everything in place. It hasn’t been easy—not by a long shot—but last night I finally got the final loose ends tied up. And not a moment too soon.
The suicide note Emerson Lister left explained in detail the deal she struck with my family for Blake, and within hours of the feds finding it, they were swarming every Kabinov property in Southern California with a search warrant. Thanks to our rats inside the bureau alerting us to what happened, all top ranking members of the Bratva were far away by the time the agents showed up, but the unexpected heat of them breathing down our necks forced Pakhan to speed up the Ricci operation. If it doesn’t go down tonight, it may never happen.
I double and triple check that everyone and everything is in place for their arrival. Vincent Ricci, one of his men, and Dmitri, one of our most lethal brothers, should be pulling up to the cabin at any minute, and I’ve only got one shot to get this right. This is my do-over. This is no longer only about revenge; it’s about redemption.
When I hear the vehicle approaching, I press send on the text I’ve had queued up and ready to go for this moment. Opening the bullet chamber of my pistol, I confirm one last time that it’s fully loaded before tucking it in the back of my pants. Then, a final pat on my upper thighs verifies the small rectangular remote is in place. Voices and footsteps draw near to the cabin, and after several taps on the wood, the front door swings open.
My breath hitches as I’m caught completely off-guard at the three men standing in front of me. It’s not Vincent Ricci or his sidekick that has my mouth as dry as the Mojave Desert and my entire body trembling with fear. No. It’s the Russian who escorted them here, the one who most definitely isn’t Dmitri.
“Vnuk,” Pakhan uses the endearing term for grandson as he steps inside and greets me with a kiss on each cheek. “I hope you have everything ready for our friends here.”
The two Italians follow his lead, closing the door behind him and embracing me like we’re long lost friends instead of sworn enemies, but I’m too busy frantically devising a new plan to give a shit.
Finally finding my voice, I extend my arm toward the small table. “Please sit and let us celebrate finalizing this deal with a shot of fine vodka, then I will bring out our lady of the hour. She’s . . . resting in the other room.”
“I’d love to toast with you, my friend,” Vincent flashes a sinister grin in my direction, “but I think I’d like to see the lady first. Then, we can share as many shots as you’d like.”
I blink hard. This is it. The moment of reckoning.
“As you wish. Right this way.”
Striding to the closed door separating the two rooms, the three men are hot on my heels, all eager to get a look at the American Princess. Slowly, I turn the knob on the door and push it open. Then, shoving my hands inside my front pockets, I step inside and reveal the heavily drugged young woman, naked and bound to the bed by her wrists and ankles. Her head has been shaved and every tooth has been extracted from her mouth, but there’s no denying who she is.
In less than a second, I’ve got three guns pointed at my face, demanding answers louder than any words. As the victorious smile spreads across my face, I wrap my fingers around the remote concealed in my pocket and chuckle lightly as I press the button.
“You should’ve had that shot first.”
IT TAKES ME A FEW seconds of staring at the text to realize the numbers on my phone’s screen are geographical coordinates, but the moment it clicks, I rush outside the Truckee diner I’ve been holed up in most of the day and wave my arms frantically in the air. Agent Diomassi and Marshal Doherty are huddled with some other men around the hood of their SUV, staring at a topographical satellite image of the area, but as soon as they see me, they sprint in my direction.
“Did he make contact?” one of them shouts mid-run.
I nod emphatically, thrusting the phone into their faces as soon as they reach the sidewalk where I’m standing. “They’re coordinates. Where they are. Let’s go!”
“Hot damn, boys!” Diomassi calls out to his men. “We’re in business. Convoy pulls out in less than five!”
Everything after that is a blur. I’m shoved inside the backseat of one of the Suburbans as the agents plug the coordinates into their map, pulling up the quickest route to the location. Minutes pass as we speed like a runaway bullet train through the snow-capped mountain range, but my thoughts are focused on one thing and one thing only.
Blake.
I’ve prayed more today than I probably have all other times in my life combined, because if I’ve ever needed anything from God, it’s for Him to return her to me safely. She’s it for me. My slow and steady. My sweet girl. My everything.
Right after the driver, who I think is named Agent Cunningham, informs us that we’re about fifteen miles out, a loud, echoing boom fills my ears and causes the SUV’s windows to rattle. My entire body tenses, and in the brief silence that ensues, the four of us exchange knowing looks. Then, as the smoke begins to rise from the treetops, all hell breaks loose.
Cunningham lays the pedal to the metal, doing the unthinkable by hauling ass faster than we were already going, and I don’t even bother thinking about how dangerous our speed is as he weaves around these hairpin curves and steep drop-offs. Diomassi, who’s in the front passenger seat, is on his phone, desperately trying to get information about what caused the noise we all so clearly heard, but he’s unable to get an answer before we turn sharply off of the main road and onto a gravel one.
I can smell the fire before I actually see the blaze, but the second I see the cabin engulfed in menacing flames, I throw the door open and leap from the still-moving vehicle. Landing awkwardly on the hard, icy ground, I stumble to my feet and take off in a mad dash toward the inferno, which might as well be Hell if Blake is inside.
“Blake, please, God, no,” I cry to myself over and over as I reach the group of matching black SUVs parked just behind the truck Raze had picked me up in and a white Mercedes.
All of the agents have their weapons drawn as they circle the burning structure, but I pay no mind to them, or any other threat that may be looming. I just need to get inside. Trudging forward, I ignore the throbbing pain in my left ankle, as well as the shouts for me to stop moving. Fuck my leg and fuck them.
Just as I get about ten yards away, the overwhelming heat coming from the blaze making it feel as if I’m standing on the surface of the sun, someone tackles me from behind and pushes me face-first into the cold, hard ground.
“Are you fucking stupid? Do you have a death wish today?” Doherty growls, pressing his knee into the small of my back.
“If she’s in there, I do,” I seethe through painful breaths.
“Not on my watch, Decker. Not on my fucking watch.” Then he slams the butt of his gun into the back of my head and everything goes black.
THE REMAINS OF FIVE BODIES were found in the pile of charred ashes after the local firefighters finally arrived and put out the blaze. Four males, one female. The men were identified by dental records as Vincent Ricci, Gabe Scalise, Anatoli Kabinov, and Rayzkin Kabinov; however, the woman’s teeth were all missing—most likely through torture, the authorities believe. With all the information that’s been gathered, as well as my admittance to visiting Blake in that cabin with Raze, the fifth body has now been officially identified as Bryleigh Carter Oliviera, a.k.a. Blake Martin.
Devastated and destroyed, I have no desire to go on. No desire to talk to anyone. No desire to get showered or dressed. No desire to go to work. No desire to open the pile of mail on my kitchen table, not even the funny-looking envelope that has no postage mark on it. Whatever it is, it can’t bring her back to life, just like my family and friends can’t and my job can’t.
None of it means anything if I can’t have her. I was supposed to keep her safe, to protect her. But I failed. And now . . . well, now the only thing I have to look forward to . . . is death.
MY EY
ELIDS FEEL AS IF they’ve been cemented together, making it damn near impossible to pry them open, and there is not a single drop of moisture in my mouth . . . but I’m alive. With my shaky arms, I push myself up to a sitting position in the bed I’m lying in and immediately scan my surroundings. I’m petrified of what—or who—is waiting for me to wake up, but I’m tired of hiding. I’m ready for this to all be over, even if that means my life . . . because at least I’ll go down fighting.
Upon first inspection through my hazy eyes, it appears I’m alone in this room that looks like a standard Motel 6 room. Two full-size beds with a nightstand in between. Mass-produced landscape prints in cheap frames on the wall. A single wooden dresser situated against the opposite wall, holding a TV, an ice bucket with a couple of mismatched glasses, and a tiny coffee pot. A luggage rack in the corner with a suitcase on it . . .
Wait.
Why am I in a motel room instead of the cabin? Where is Raze? What was he doing with Emerson in his truck before everything went dark? And why is there a suitcase here?
Scrambling off the mattress, it takes me a few seconds to catch my balance when my feet hit the floor, the remnants of whatever I was drugged with still partially hindering my movements and clouding my thoughts. As soon as I’m confident I can walk, I pad across the stained carpet floor to the lone piece of luggage. With hesitant hands, I reach out and unzip the bag, drawing in a ragged breath as I open it.
All of my clothes from the cabin that Raze had brought in for me are neatly folded and packed, along with a few other articles that still have tags on them. There are two wigs, both with jet-black hair, and several pairs of sunglasses. But the thing that has my entire body shaking uncontrollably is a legal-sized manila envelope with the word Kotyonok written on the outside. I have no clue what’s inside, but yet somehow, I know.
I pick the thick, lumpy package up and take it back to the bed I was just in, inhaling a deep breath and counting to ten before I open it. Dumping the contents on top of the bedspread, a cell phone falls out first, followed by a passport, a small change purse, and a stack of papers. There’s a handwritten note on top.
Blake,
By the time you read this (sorry about the high dosage of sedative, but I couldn’t risk you waking up early), I’m sure every news channel on the television will be covering the shocking deaths of Italian mob boss Victor Ricci, the American Princess-in-hiding Bryleigh Oliveira, and the grandson of the US-based Russian mafia leader Rayzkin Kabinov. The good news is you’re not dead, but I suppose you already realized that. The bad news is the rest of what they’re reporting is probably true . . . but please, don’t feel sorry for me. This is exactly what I planned. I’m where I’m supposed to be, and soon, you will be too.
I don’t want to make this too long, because well, I’m a guy and I haven’t written many letters like this before . . . but I wanted to try and answer all the questions you must have about what’s going on, and help you get started on the next part of your life. So here’s the long and short of it.
Kotyonok, you don’t deserve the shitty things this life has dealt you. You fell in love at an early age with the wrong man and got sucked into a life you had no idea even existed. Somehow you found the strength and courage in yourself to fight your way out, and even though you knew it wouldn’t be easy, you did what you had to do to save yourself. I never got a chance to tell you how much I admire you for that.
You already know everything that led to you ending up in my custody, so I’ll spare you that story again, but what you didn’t know—what I didn’t know—was that my grandfather’s plan all along was to kill you after you took care of your father-in-law. As soon as I found out, I began making other arrangements to ensure that didn’t happen, and I’m praying it’s all worked out the way I set it out.
I know why Emerson Lister turned you into me, and that’s the exact reason her body is the one the authorities have now identified as yours. (All body hair and teeth were removed as precautionary measures before the fire. And yes, all that time I spent outside recently was rigging the house with explosives so I could make sure to eliminate all evidence. When I do things, I do them right.)
After Madden found out she was the culprit for your disappearance and he dismissed her from his life, she was heartbroken and distraught, and it didn’t take me many promises of giving her a new identity and a bank account full of money to get her to agree to fake her own death and allow me to set her up with a new life.
Only I lied.
You’re the one I’ve set up with everything you could possibly need to start over, in hopes that you and Madden will be able to find the happiness you both deserve. In the envelope with this note, you will find a new birth certificate, passport, a driver’s license and social security card in the zipper purse, as well as a prepaid Visa with ten thousand dollars on it, and a little bit of cash. Welcome to your new life, Anastasia Kotyonok, a name that literally means Resurrection Kitten. I hope you’re okay with the dark hair, and I thought you could choose either Ana or Stacey if you didn’t like the full name.
Also in this packet, you’ll find a one-way plane ticket (The airport is about forty-five minutes from the hotel you’re in. Take a cab and pay cash.) from Reno to Brunei, a small sovereign state on an island in Asia that I promise you’ll love, for this upcoming Monday. Until then, you are not to leave this room (food in ice chest in tub). No one should be looking for you, as they all they think you’re dead and all, but don’t take any chances. When you do leave, I’ve provided clothes and wigs and other stuff to alter your image. Once you get to Brunei, there will be a driver waiting for you to take you to the small place I’ve set up, and he will also give you further instructions about the future once you’re there. I’ve arranged for a few things to help get you started.
I have also sent Madden a similar packet, providing him with a completely new identity, but because of his visibility and family relationships, his plane ticket is dated for exactly three weeks after yours. He’s got that long to figure out what to tell everyone and ditch his life here . . . and don’t you worry that he won’t. That man loves you more than life itself. He’ll drop everyone and everything if he thinks he’s got a chance to be with you. I know, because I feel the same way about my Darya.
I want you to realize this is me dropping everyone and everything to be with the woman I love. Finally, I’ve found a way to prove to Moi Kotik my appreciation of true love, by gifting you and Madden the opportunity to have a life together, and at the same time, I’m going home to be with her. Please don’t cry for me, for this is a day I’ve dreamed about for a long time.
My job here is done. I no longer want to be involved in the life I was born into; I want to be in the life I choose. And that’s with her.
So much for not making this long . . . I guess I’m better at letter writing than I thought. Okay, I’m pretty sure I’ve covered all bases with everything going forward for you, but if for any reason you find yourself in trouble, I’ve already programmed the number of a trusted associate over there for you in your phone. Just tell him you’re Raze’s kotyonok, and he’ll be there for whatever you need.
Finally, I just want to tell you thank you. I had no clue that day I accepted your limp body in exchange for a gambling debt how you’d change my life for the better . . . how you’d show me my purpose. And though I wish you would’ve had a normal life without all of this in it, I’m so grateful for you ending up with me. I hope you never forget our time in the cabin.
Now be a smart girl and wipe those tears . . . ’cause I know you didn’t listen to me earlier . . . and burn this note so there’s no evidence of any of this. There’s a pack of matches in the nightstand drawer. Go ahead. Grab them and burn this paper, nice and slow so you don’t set off any smoke alarms.
And enjoy your life in paradise. You deserve it.
-Raze
I cry and I cry and I cry. And after my tears dry up, I make myself a sandwich and watch the national coverage of the s
tory until they show a picture of Raze, and then I start crying again. I’m like a water faucet with no ‘off’ position.
Happy tears. Sad tears. Relieved tears. Guilty tears. Every emotion that exists tears. I cry them all over the next four days. However, when Monday morning rolls around, I get up, take a shower and get dressed, position my stylish raven wig, and make my way to the airport with confidence and poise I didn’t know I had.
The minute I step off the plane in my new home, with my new name and new look, I have a permanent smile stretched across my face and begin counting the days until I become a sweet girl once again.
Slow and steady.
Three Weeks Later
“WOULD ROYAL BRUNEI AIRLINES PASSENGER Zachary Covey please report to the customer service desk at gate nine in terminal one? Again, Royal Brunei Airlines passenger Zachary Covey, please report to one of the customer service associates at gate nine, terminal one. Thank you.”
The announcement is repeated in Filipino throughout the Manila International Airport, but I’ve already thrown away what was left of my lunch—or perhaps dinner, as my internal clock is so jacked up from crossing multiple time zones—and I’m striding through the throngs of people to reach the gate where I’ve been summoned. Anxiety bubbles in my gut, threatening to reject the food I just inhaled. And as I step up to the small desk where an older woman, dressed in an official airport uniform, is staring at a computer screen with her eyebrows pinched together in confusion, I’m afraid I may get sick if I open my mouth.
I swallow back the bile-flavored fear in the back of my throat and say a silent prayer that this entire notion of starting over for the sake of love isn’t stopped before it ever gets started. When I first appeared at LAX however many hours ago, I knew I was taking a risk. The biggest one of my life.