Page 133 of Unexpected Heroine

With unwavering strength and a raised chin, she holds my stare. “That man, Skidmark, was in charge at the house. He decided everything. When we slept. If we ate. If we were allowed water or to use the restroom.” Her face contorts, and she practically spits out the rest. “Whose turn it was. He was in charge, so you definitely need to find him.” She gulps. “However...” Pausing, she raises her pointer finger and closes her eyes. When they open again, they’re darker. Colder. “There’s someone else. Skidmark was only in charge when the real boss wasn’t there. Of all of them, he’s the one you need to stop. He needs to pay for what he’s done.”

I should have known Lettie would have the answers. She’s never failed to surprise me with what she’s capable of accomplishing. Why should this be any different?

More than likely, the real boss is Lenkov. Although, I can’t see him going into that prep house. Seems beneath him.

“Who is the real boss, Lettie baby?”

She doesn’t answer right away, which gives me far too much time to consider other possibilities.

Usually Lettie’s a fast talker, probably a byproduct of her ADHD. Lots of thoughts, most of them flying out before she can synthesize them. Not the case today.

Every word she delivers is thick with meaning.

“His name. Is. Viktor.” The disdain in her tone sends shards of glass through my veins.

I recognize the name instantly. One of Lenkov’s adult children just torpedoed to the front of the MFKL.

The urge to grab my phone to fire off a message to Mia to see what intel she has on him is almost too much to dismiss. The only thing that stops me is the way Lettie is starting to break down. Saying his name has caused a visceral reaction inside her that she can’t suppress.

Behind the facade she tries to show—a mask of hard-fought confidence and bravery—are memories she never wanted to relive. Yet she’s forcing herself to say it.

She’s so fucking strong. Although I don’t have the right to be proud of her, I am and always will be.

Reaching forward, I offer her my hand by placing it between us on the bed, palm facing up.

She accepts it, lacing her fingers through mine and pulling our joined hands onto her lap.

With renewed strength, she continues. “Viktor is important in the mafia. He’s the son of the head guy. Tasha called him the pack... pack something.”

“Pakhan,” I suggest, head nodding.

She pulses around my hand. “Yes, that’s it.”

My jaw clenches as frustration assaults me. Not at Lettie. But at our supposed informants.

Tasha didn’t volunteer this information to me when I visited her and Savin. Just another morsel of intel they were keeping locked up until they got a deal from the feds. Only this isn’t a morsel but the whole fucking enchilada.

Thanks to my newfound empathy—as inconvenient as it may be—I get why they’d keep that quiet for now.

Still makes me want to beat the fuck out of something.

I shoot a puff of air crisply through my rounded lips and gently urge Lettie to tell me more. “When Tasha told you about Viktor, what all did she say? How does she know he’s in charge?”

“She’s not how I found out he was the one in charge.” She licks her lips, her nervousness spiking. “You see, on the first day I was there, I was pretending to be unconscious and overheard a couple of the men talking. They said the boss was coming to the house. Like it was a big deal. And then Creeper,” she blinks and adds, “Sorry. Davidov called Viktor the baby boss. He doesn’t think too highly of him.”

Vital intel always comes from the inside. Lettie is too smart and a bit too nosy to not have gathered valuable information. As much as I’d love to shield her from any further discussion or thoughts about her time there, her assistance will expedite my efforts immensely. I’m so fucking glad she’s finally sharing this.

And if I’m honest, I’m relieved she’s telling me before she tells the cops. It gives me the opportunity to handle it the way I see fit.

“Did Viktor show up, Lettie?”

Her eye contact slips, tears filling her blue eyes.

A-fucking-gain.

I detest when she cries. Not because I only love her when she’s shiny and happy—much like she once assumed. It’s the sheer agony her tears inflict on me.

And I’m not blaming her for that. Not at all.

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