Page 89 of Lord of Passion

Then, I smell it. Smoke. The fire suppression system shudders but the water doesn't come spurting out the way it should.

Fuck.Fuck!How many guests do we have in the hotel right now?

I launch into my frantic phone calls. Security. "There's a fire in the hotel, start escorting guests out immediately." The front desk. "We have a fire, use the overhead system and notify the guests to evacuate."

Angelica's voice is high and terrified. "We think it started in the basement and went up. There's no water! Why aren't the sprinklers working?"

It's him. I know it's him and he's going to kill hundreds of people if we don't get them out in time.

"In the announcement, tell people to use the stairs. Tell the kitchen staff and Housekeeping to help guide people out. I'll be right there." I call 911, my shaking fingers making me grateful it's only three numbers.

"911. What is your emergency?"

"The Hotel Lyric is on fire," I explain rapidly. "I believe the water suppression system has been tampered with. The fastest route here would be Fire Station 16, they can take-"

Then, I hear the pounding on my office door. It's shaking under the blows.

"Mrs. Morozova, the door is locked! Let us in!"

Chapter Forty

In which the night is on fire.

Nikandr…

"Fucking drive on the sidewalk if you have to!" I punch the ceiling of my car. Kliment was a stunt driver in Hollywood before we recruited him to the Bratva, and I know he's doing everything he can; speeding through intersections, taking one turn on two wheels.

It's not enough. We're still five minutes away and I'm hearing the agitated responses on the police scanner. Fire trucks are huge and unwieldy and at the best of times, getting them somewhere quickly is difficult. This goddamned fire started right at rush hour.

There's another scattered burst of conversation on the scanner.

"…Fire suppression system down."

"Front desk says there's two hundred and twenty-five people at the… with guests… staff."

"Explosion heard at the back of the hotel…"

Johann Novikov.

It makes sense. Like a child who can't have what he wants, he tries to tear it apart instead.

Roman calls. "How close?" he asks, tone grim.

"Three minutes," I say. "Are you there?"

"Yes, I've got people going through with fire extinguishers and getting people out where they find them. It looks like there's close to a hundred and fifty people milling around out here. Did you get through to Caroline?"

"Get everyone you can to the Lyric. The fire trucks aren't going to be enough." I run my hands through my hair. "I'm calling her now."

The phone rings serenely until it goes to her message, "The number you are trying to reach is not in service at this time. Please check the number and -"

I call again. Same message. And again. We just talked ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago. Her phone should still work. The fire didn't knock out a cell tower.

Tapping my phone against my forehead, I send up a prayer to a God I don't believe in to keep my wife safe.

There is already a thick plume of smoke spiraling over the hotel when we arrive, already dozens of clueless fucks blocking the street, phones out, no doubt hoping this will make them go viral on TikTok.

Shoving open the door, I knock two of the sight-seers into the gutter. I'm fine with that.