At the sound of Paul’s name, something dark flashes in Conor’s eyes. He buries it away so quickly, I’m almost convinced I imagined it… but when he speaks again, his tone is no longer hazy or warm. He’s returned to that typical cool indifference I’ve come to know so well.
“Alexei Petrov was just caught on camera entering the country at Logan Airport. His private jet landed an hour ago.”
“What!? You don’t mean…”
“Paul’s uncle. The head of the Petrov crime family. Yes,thatPetrov.” His expression is grave. “He hasn’t been in the USA for years. I very much doubt he decided to take a spontaneous holiday to Boston for no good reason.”
“He’s here because of Paul.”
He nods tightly.
“And the stolen money.”
“We still haven’t confirmed this is about money. Despite our analysts best efforts, they’ve uncovered no evidence that Paul was embezzling cash on the side.”
My brows lift. “So you don’t agree with Sykes’ theory?”
“Petrov just flew halfway around the world.” Conor’s head shakes. “That fact alone leads me to believe this isn’t about money. If it were, he would’ve let his associates handle it without ever stepping foot outside his mansion in Moscow.”
“Then what is it about?”
“I don’t know. But it’s clear whatever your husband stole is not merely valuable. It’s also personal. It must mean a great deal to Alexei. So much so, he’s determined to reclaim it — in person — from whoever has taken it.”
“And… just so we’re clear… he thinks that person isme.”
Conor nods again, jaw clenched.
“So…” My mouth goes dry. I’m afraid to ask, but I force myself to do it anyway. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re not safe out in public. It means we have to get you off the grid.Now.”
Taking two strides forward, he grabs my hand, laces our fingers together, and starts tugging me toward the door. Hesitating at the threshold, his eyes meet mine. I think I actually see worry in their depths. But that can’t be right.
Conor Asshole Gallagher never gets worried about anything.
“He’s coming for me, isn’t he?” I ask before I can stop myself. The fear in my voice is potent.
“He will not lay a hand on you,” Conor growls menacingly. “That’s a vow.”
I do my damndest to believe him as we step out into the night. The two agents in the SUV flash their headlights at us as we bolt toward the Jeep Wrangler — hand in hand, like two fugitives on the run.
Bonnie and Clyde.
I can only hope we don’t meet the same grim end those two did.
* * *
We’re driving so fast,the world is nothing but a dark blur.
I’m not sure where we are, exactly. Somewhere on the outskirts of the city, in a neighborhood I don’t recognize. I stare out the window, searching for any sort of landmark that might help me narrow it down, but nothing familiar jumps out from the barren urban sprawl.
The endless stream of looming brick warehouses to either side of the street look half-abandoned, their windows either boarded up or bashed in, their adjacent parking areas full of litter, broken-down cars, and off-duty construction vehicles. We speed under a bridge overpass, fly by a row of round petroleum storage tanks, and careen around a huge lot full of dirt, piled higher than the treetops. At least, Ithinkit’s dirt… until we get a little closer and I see the mound is pure white: a massive mountain of road salt, already being stockpiled in preparation for the brutal Boston winter to come.
It’s been twenty minutes since we got the call about Petrov, and Conor hasn’t uttered a single word to me since we climbed into his Jeep. His jaw is clenched even tighter than his grip around the steering wheel as he maneuvers expertly around deep potholes and exposed manhole covers, shifting gears so seamlessly I think he must’ve been a NASCAR driver in a former life.
Thankfully, there aren’t too many other cars on the road at this time of night.
Or is it morning, now?