Chapter 4 - The Shadow of the Marchetti Name
The next morning, the penthouse was freezing despite the central heating. Moscow winters had a way of seeping through concrete and glass. Alexi was gone, locked away in his downstairs command center dealing with the fallout of Akatarina’s failed assassination attempt.
The guards outside my door remained motionless, but they had left my breakfast tray on the small table near the window.
I ignored the food. Instead, I paced the length of the room, turning over every detail of my cover story. It was airtight. Fabricated birth certificates, a fake culinary school background in Dublin, employment records forged by the best underground fixers my father’s money could buy. But Alexi Ivankov was not a man easily fooled by paper trails. He trusted nothing and no one.
A soft chime echoed from the hallway, followed by muffled voices. The heavy oak door of the penthouse unlocked, and heavy footfalls entered the suite.
It wasn't Alexi.
It was a man I recognized instantly from intelligence dossiers back in Italy: Dmitri Rostov, Alexi’s ruthless second-in-command. Dmitri possessed eyes like chipped ice and a loyalty to Alexi that bordered on religious fanaticism.
Dmitri stopped in the center of the room, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He didn't bother with pleasantries.
"The boss is busy," Dmitri said in broken, heavy-accented English. "He thinks you are a fascinating puzzle. I think you are a loose end."
"Is that right?" I asked, leaning casually against the bookshelf. "You should tell him. I'm sure he'll love knowing his attack dog is questioning his judgment."
Dmitri took two heavy steps forward. "We checked your Dublin records, Ms. McBride. The culinary school you attended? Burned down in two thousand eighteen. The bakery where you worked for three years? Owned by a shell company registered in Palermo."
My heart skipped a single beat, but my face remained blank as stone.
"Palermo is a lovely place for pastries," I replied evenly.
"Palermo is also the home of Giovanni Marchetti," Dmitri growled, his hand drifting dangerously close to his shoulder holster. "The Italian syndicate doesn't send lost little girls to Moscow to bake bread. They send soldiers."
Before Dmitri could draw his weapon, the door to the private elevator chimed open.
"Dmitri," Alexi’s voice cut through the air like a razor.
The boss stepped into the room, stripping off his leather gloves. He looked from Dmitri’s tense posture to my calm demeanor, his eyes narrowing.
"Leave us," Alexi ordered.
"Boss, she is Marchetti’s—"
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"I said, leave us, Dmitri."
Dmitri clenched his jaw, shot me one murderous glare, and marched out of the penthouse, slamming the heavy door behind him.
