Page 31 of Tangled Vows

The care she offered me. The care I received from her.

Especially on that couch. Clare touched me with love and thoughtfulness. It was like she and I were old lovers and had reunited for one last night of passion together. We touched each other like we had been missing the closeness between us for years. It was crazy. She didn’t feel new to me, even though we’d just been together once. She felt like my lover from long ago.

Once she’d fallen asleep next to me, I began wondering how this had been possible. I watched her eyes flicker, remembering the women I’d been with. Well, most of them anyway. It was impossible to recall every one-night stand I’d had so far. In any case, none of those women had acted like Clare. Some of them had big mouths on them, but that was just about the only big thing about them. By that, I don’t mean their breasts; I mean their heart. Their will to show some affection to someone who needs it. They just didn’t have any. All they wanted from me was sex, money, and more sex.

My Pakhan’s father had been dead for well over ten years, but one of his quotes had stayed with me to this day.

“A woman who can be bought is not worth having.”

Oleg might have been rough around the edges—much like Ivan—but he was a wise man, God rest his soul. When it comes to relationships, Oleg’s quote is my favorite. That’s probably why I haven’t kept a girlfriend in so long—because they all knew who I was and prioritized spending my money.

The shitty thing about the next morning was me leaving early. This time, I had a reason to get out of bed, which had nothing to do with any awkwardness. It was a text I’d gotten from Ivan:

“Rurik says he’s got the name of that prick. He’s been running his image through facial recognition software since I gave him the surveillance footage of your security cameras. It took him some time, but he got a hit just a half-hour ago. I’m heading over to his place.”

It’s a good thing Rurik thought of doing that on his own.

This thought runs through my head at the end of Ivan’s message. I don’t remember ordering him to do that. Knowing my brother, I doubt he did that, either. So, once again, I realize just how bad I’ve fucked up. I was so consumed by the urge to hunt down the Armenians that I failed to do something so basic.

Don’t go down that road again. No point in doing that—what’s done is done. Why did Rurik take more than a week to track down that prick?”

It’s this question that drives me out of my house and sends me right back to the city. Rurik is by far the most skilled hacker in the Bratva. He can hack into someone’s computer with his eyes closed. This kind of delay is strange. I’d understand it if it took him a day or two, but it’s actually been ten days since Ivan gave him that footage. I need a word with him, and I want to do that before my brother gets there.

Rurik likes to keep a low profile. Although the Bratva pays him well, he doesn’t live near the beach. He lives well within the city and rents a ground-floor apartment. The first time I was there, I asked him why. His response was:“Because all my neighbors will think I’m just a nerdy Russian immigrant who struggles to make ends meet. Plus, the basement is ideal for my computers. They don’t fit in any other room.”

I’m not good at understanding computer geeks like him, but I wasn’t going to argue his decision. He was the one who’d have to live in that dark, medium-size apartment, not me.

I’m in for some disappointment once I get to my destination. Ivan’s green Ford is parked outside Rurik’s building. He may have remembered not to use a fancy car to get here, but his presence here complicates things. I don’t keep secrets from him, but it’s obvious that Ivan’s been convinced as to why that search took ages to yield results. I’m not, and I didn’t want him to try and discourage me from asking.

I find them in the basement staring at a screen while Rurik points at it. I interrupt Ivan’s series of nods as he looks up from the screen.

“Good morning,” Rurik acknowledges me with a small smile. “A word first?”

I come to a stop just five yards from our man, curious as to what he means to discuss with me.

“Morning,” I murmur, my brother’s smile fading. “What is it?”

He exhales hard, shaking his head in frustration. “I’ve been kicking myself since Viktor mentioned what we should have done in the first place. Why the fuck didn’t we think of that first before capturing Kevorkian?”

I snort in half-amusement, half-frustration. “I know the feeling. I’ve been doing the exact same thing. We fucked up, Ivan. Plain and simple. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Rurik,” I call out our associate’s name. “Nice to see you again. Thanks for running that punk’s face through your software and all, but...” I pause and purse my lips. “Normally, you work pretty fast. Why the delay this time?”

“Because I had to be thorough, Leonid,” he explains, maintaining calm in his expression as he faces me. “We didn’t know if the bomber had a record or not, so I couldn’t limit the search to federal databases only. There was also the issue of computer power. The Bratva’s computers were fried during that lightning storm last month, and we haven’t replaced them yet. My own computers aren’t nearly as powerful as the organization’s.”

“I see,” I tell him, a wave of regret washing over me. I shouldn’t have been curious. Rurik’s explanation makes perfect sense. He’s proven his worth plenty of times in the past. He wasn’t screwing around—his efforts were just hampered by things beyond his control. “Give me that name, please.”

I haven’t even finished my sentence when a sharp noise from the computer tortures my ears, a small picture in a red frame flashing in the middle of the screen.

“Say hello, you little piece of shit.” Rurik smiles, clicking on the picture. He enlarges the image, the person’s personal information in a tab right under it. He’s got short, dark-brown hair, a goatee and a small mark on his left eyebrow. It’s almost in the middle and runs an inch up his forehead.

Name: Sergio Juarez

Nationality: Mexican

Age: 24

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