Page 151 of Ripped Lace (Ripped Bratva)

I slump against a wall and catch my breath, eyes closed, head hanging low. I can’t find a way to think about failure or freedom, about Phoenix or Theo, or anything at all. My mind is just a cloud of blackness.

Until I hear a sound from the just outside the cell.

In the shadows clustered at the far corner of the aisle, something emerges. A silhouette. A young boy’s silhouette.

He steps forward into the meager light. He’s got chains around his hands and legs and a collar around his neck. He’s five, maybe six years old, with eyes that look like they’ve seen enough horrors for a hundred lifetimes.

He’s absolutely filthy, and also much calmer than I’d expect. Like he’s been locked in here for far too long and knows there’s no chance of escape.

“Have some water,” he whispers, offering me a dirty bottle with a thin opening.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I’m about to take a sip when I look at the boy’s face again. Cold realization starts spreading through me as my eyes are confronted with a truth that my brain isn’t capable of handling yet.

“W… what’s your name?” I ask shakily.

“Yuri,” the boy replies softly. “My name is Yuri.”

37

Phoenix

We’re almost at Wild Night Blossom when a call comes in.

Matvei presses the answer button on the dash. After a crackle, Konstantin’s voice comes through on the loudspeaker. He sounds rattled.

“Boss… something just arrived for you.”

“What kind of something?

“I don’t know exactly. There’s a little box and a letter. It’s addressed to you.”

“From?”

“Viktor Ozol.”

Matvei and I make eye contact. I veer the car to the side of the road and slam on the brakes.

“Fucking hell,” Matvei breathes. “What do we do now?”

“We see what the motherfucker sent,” I say. “Konstantin, bring the package and the letter to the eastern safehouse. Drive as fast as you can.”

I hang up and swing the jeep in the opposite direction. We rock up to the safehouse in seven minutes. Konstantin will need at least another fifteen to get here.

“Too much time,” I mutter to myself. “Too much time to fucking think.”

“Phoenix,” Matvei cautions, “whatever’s in that letter… You need to be able to keep your head.”

He’s right. But I’ve told him that plenty in the last few days. Right now, my impatience has its hands on the steering wheel.

“Where the fuck is Konstantin?” I growl, pacing back and forth. “It’s been a fucking century.”

“It’s been two minutes,” Matvei reminds me. “Literally. Let’s go wait inside, yeah?”

The safehouse is a roomy two-story house in a nondescript suburban neighborhood. High fences, a broad backyard, but nothing that you’d ever look twice at. The Bratva lives in places like this. Simple and efficient. Hidden in plain sight.

“Fine,” I snap. I jump out of the car and head up the walk to the front door.

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