Chapter 147 147

Chapter 147 147
“Of course he was.”

“You know him?” I step closer, but Sam’s sharp look pins me in place.

“Yes.” He wipes his muddy, bloody hand on his slacks. “We need to get him to the castle immediately. Mr. Morris⁠—”

“Already messaging the doctor, sir.”

“Good.” Sam’s shoulders bunch with tension as he scans the darkening lane. “I need to check the perimeter, see how he got here. Nova—” He turns to me, expression softening fractionally. “Go back with Mr. Morris. Find Myles. Stay with him until I return.”

“But—”

“No arguments.” His thumb brushes my cheek, the gesture at odds with his commanding tone. “And don’t call the police. Under any circumstances.”

Thunder cracks overhead as Sam strides off into the gathering gloom, leaving me with more questions than answers. The stranger moans from the cargo bed, muttering something I can’t decipher.

Mr. Morris guns the ATV’s engine. “Coming, Mrs. Nova?”

I climb on behind him, my engagement ring catching the last rays of sunlight. The gold band feels heavier than usual, weighted with the mud of the trail, the blood of a stranger, and secrets I’m not sure I want to know.

Mr. Morris guns the engine and we shoot off down the path toward the castle. I take one last look over my shoulder as we go. Samuil is a shadow amongst shadows.

Then the darkness swallows the last of him.

40

SAMUIL

The trail cuts through dense pines, their branches swaying in the wind like dark sentinels. My feet know this path—every rock, every dip, every spot where a sniper could perch. I’ve mapped these grounds obsessively since bringing Nova here.

And now, there’s a new guest joining us.

Angelo fucking Boyko. Of all the poor bastards to stumble onto my land, it had to be the one who’s been tracking my family for a decade.

Last time I saw him, he was trying to flip me against the Andropovs in a Chicago steakhouse. “Your father’s methods are outdated,” he’d said, sliding onto the barstool next to mine at Gibson’s. “The world is changing. The old ways of doing business won’t protect you forever. I can offer you a way out.”

Now, he shows up here, beaten half to death, right after Kat and Ilya’s latest attack decimated my holdings.

The timing’s too perfect. Ilya’s recent strike, Katerina’s disappearance, and now, a battered FBI operative materializing on my doorstep? The universe doesn’t hand out coincidences like party favors.

There’s a bloody line connecting these dots.

Boyko was wrong about one thing, though: the old ways are the only thing that will protect what matters. Nova, our unborn child, Myles and Hope and Serena and the dogs—all those lives depend on me reverting into what my father raised me to be.

Cold. Fucking. Blooded.

My phone buzzes. Myles confirms they’ve got Boyko settled in the east wing’s secure room. A doctor’s en route.

Nova’s with them, too, which simultaneously relieves and irritates me. She shouldn’t be anywhere near this mess. But trying to keep her away is fucking impossible. It’s a miracle she agreed to go back to the castle at all.

I pause at the edge of the tree line, scanning the rocky hills beyond the castle. Someone chased Boyko here. Had to. The question is whether they wanted me to find him—and why.

The Andropovs could be using him as bait, or maybe the feds are finally ready to make their big move against the Russian mob families in Chicago.

Either way, I need to hear what Boyko has to say. But first, I need to secure the perimeter.

It doesn’t take me long to pick up the trail. And when I follow it long enough, I come to the source of the broken glass and twisted metal strewn across the forest floor.

The rental car sits half-buried in bracken, its front end crumpled in a ditch. Even from twenty yards away, I can tell it’s one of those cheap European compacts tourists love—perfect for blending in on narrow Scottish roads.

Not so perfect for outrunning whoever fucked up Boyko.

I circle the vehicle twice, checking sight lines and possible ambush points. The steep embankment above the crash site would make a decent sniper position, but the thick evening mist provides decent cover. Still, I keep my movements precise and unpredictable as I approach.

The driver’s side door hangs open. Dark arterial spray paints the windshield and dashboard in an arc consistent with someone taking a blow to the face. More blood soaks into the upholstery of both front seats. The position and pattern suggest Boyko was driving when he got hit, managed to stay conscious long enough to crash, then dragged himself out and down the hill toward the castle.

A Glock 19—standard FBI issue—lies on the floorboard under the steering wheel. I retrieve it using my handkerchief, check the magazine. Full except for one round. If Boyko fired, he missed.

The rest of the car is clean. Too clean. No phone, no badge, no wallet, no briefcase. Either Boyko ditched everything before he ran, his attacker took it all, or he came here more incognito than he should have.

I pocket the gun and start back toward the castle, taking a different route than before. The fog’s getting denser, making it hard to see, but I know these grounds by heart now. Every hollow, every rise, every spot where someone could be waiting.

Boyko may have come alone, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t followed. And I’ve got too much to protect to take unnecessary risks.

By the time I get back, my clothes are soaked through with mud, dew, and fog. Myles meets me at the side entrance. His usual easy smile is nowhere in sight.

“Doc’s twenty minutes out. My guys found tire tracks near the south gate but nothing else suspicious. No chatter about any ops gone sideways, either.” He falls into step beside me. “Think he came solo?”

“For now.” I scan the security feeds on my phone. “Double the patrols anyway. And get eyes on the village. See if anyone heard or saw anything out of place.”