“We believe your husband attempted to extract himself from the business dealings he conducted for the Petrovs — money laundering and tax evasion, mainly — when he got a good look at the extent of their criminal activities.” She pauses. “As I said earlier, the Petrovs aren’t just any family. They’re embedded in every illegal operation on the planet, from dirty bombs to black tar heroin to off-market weapons to sex slaves. There aren’t many pies the Petrov family won’t stick a finger or two in, if it means turning a profit. We’re talking extortion, arson, assassinations—”
“Sykes,” Conor says sharply, breaking his silence for the first time. “That’senough.”
His partner shoots him a look. “I’m just trying to give her the facts, Gallagher.”
If he says something else, I don’t hear it.
I’ve gone pale. My stomach has turned to lead. Everything I thought I knew about my husband, my marriage, my life has turned to ash inside my mouth.
This is far, far worse than anything I could’ve imagined. Worse than the prospect of a torrid affair with a secretary. Worse than a violent outburst that leads to locked doors and leaking eyes. Worse than torn up divorce papers and a bruised cheekbone and police sirens sounding in the distance on a bright Christmas morning.
When I manage to find my voice, it’s shaky at best. “So… let me get this straight.” My hands clench so hard, I worry my fingernails are going to break the skin. “My no-good, dirty-rotten, lying, cheating bastard of a soon-to-be ex-husband actually turns out to notjustbe a no-good, dirty-rotten, lying, cheating bastard… but also the nephew of a Russian mobster.”
After a hesitant beat, Sykes nods.
“And, after aiding and abetting in his uncle’s criminal activities, my gem of a soon-to-be-ex has somehow managed to royally piss off said mob boss.”
She nods again. “Judging by the visit Petrov’s hitmen payed you yesterday, we’re guessing his uncle is less than thrilled about Paul’s decision to walk away from the family business,” Sykes explains. “And the language they used when making their demands —tell Paul he has one week to return what he took from Alexei— suggests he has some sort of leverage to ensure his freedom. Leverage his uncle wants back pretty desperately, if he’s willing to send two of his top assets across an ocean to retrieve it.”
“What the hell did Paul possibly steal that warrants sending large, scary hitmen to his wife’s yoga studio in retribution?”
“It could be money, it could be proof of criminal activity… Incriminating photographs or documents… Anything, really. We’re still trying to find out. The problem is…”
“What?”
“No one has seen or heard from your husband in weeks. He’s hiding out. Probably trying to formulate a plan that’ll keep his uncle from killing him long enough to return whatever he unwisely stole. But the longer he’s off the grid, the less patient Petrov is becoming.”
“Well, I guess that explains why they came after me. They’re trying to draw him out. Thinking he’ll step up and protect me.” I laugh bitterly. “Clearly they don’t know him very well.”
“Or…” Sykes bites her lip.
“Or what? Don’t leave me hanging.”
“They’re under the impression that you either know where Paul is hiding… or you know where he hid Alexei’s property.”
“I don’t.”
“Right. Buttheydon’t know that, Shelby.” Her eyes are intent. “And they aren’t the type to take your word on it.”
“Wait just a second.” My throat feels tight. There’s a lump of something — I think it’s panic — blocking my airway. “If Alexei and his cronies thinkIhave something to do with whatever Paul is hiding… that means…” I trail off, feeling the blood drain from my face.
“It means,” Conor says, breaking his strained silence as he walks over to the table and braces his hands against it in an intimidating pose that makes every muscle in his forearms flex tightly. His dark blue eyes find mine, and I see they’re brimming over with intensity. “You are in a shitload of danger, Hunt.”
Chapter Six
JAIL BAIT
A coffee cuphits the table in front of me.
I jolt out of my dark reverie — a montage of distorted memories from a marriage I no longer recognize — and jerk my eyes up in time to see Conor take the seat across from mine. Agent Sykes is nowhere to be found. She bolted soon after our earlier conversation under the pretense of ‘giving me time to process’ but I’d put money on the fact that she’s got her pert nose pressed up against that two-way glass at this exact moment, jotting down every word I say in her orderly notebook of clues.
I stare at the styrofoam cup like it contains a cluster of garden snakes. “What’s this?”
“Some call it coffee.” Conor leans back in his seat, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Fair warning, it’s pretty shitty.”
“I meant what’sthis—” I gesture across the table, indicating his general presence. “The wholegood-cop-bad-coproutine is pretty stale, don’t you think? Let me guess… she blows my whole world to pieces, then you swoop in — bearing coffee — to cherry-pick intel from the wreckage?”
“Hunt, I hate to break it to you… If anyone here is good cop, it’s Sykes.”