Page 21 of The Wrong Monster

Ariadna, ignoring the tension in the room, puts down her pen.

“I know who informed on Mikhail,” she says.

The three of us pivot toward her. Her ankle bounces delicately, not in heels today but in Gucci loafers.

“Yuri.”

Timur’s head snaps toward me. I force myself to inhale. Slowly.

Evenly.

Years ago, Yuri walked away from me and my business with a handful of loyal men, convinced he could build something stronger. He’s spent years trying to carve pieces from my territory, buying loyalty where he couldn’t earn it and hiding in the crevices of the Adirondacks.

He’d never be foolish enough to start a war because he knows how that would end.

But it looks like he’s found another battlefield.

“He couldn’t beat us,” Art mutters. “So…”

“So he decided to let the government try,” I finish.

“Is Beaumont right?” Timur asks, the question spilling out of him. I try to ignore the look that Art and Ariadna share. “Are we going to have to shut all this down?”

“No. Of course not. The Borisovs have never folded, and I don’t intend to now. But Beaumont might be right about one thing,” I admit begrudgingly. “The harder we fight back, the more they’ll take notice. We need to play this safe.”

My fingers tap an erratic rhythm in the otherwise quiet room. I can feel everyone waiting, the tension growing, and the frustration clawing up my spine.

Today there won’t be an answer; a solve.

“I’ll put something together. We’ll meet here again Friday, see what we can do. Art, keep an eye on…” I tip my head toward Timur. I want to be sure his family is safe and that the government isn’t stupid enough to raid my little brother. I know he has nothing incriminating. The only association he has is to me and the actual crimes I commit daily.

Art nods. He and Timur gather what little they have with them and leave, Art towering over my brother in the doorway.

Ariadna doesn’t move. Which is how I know she has something for me.

She flips a page in her notebook, then another, as though deciding what matters.

“I also identified the attorney.”

My gaze comes to rest on her, everything in me going still.

“The woman from the Pandora.”

“Go on.”

“Matilda Pierce.” The name settles somewhere between my shoulder blades, making me straighten. “Twenty-eight years old. Lives in Manhattan.”

A photograph slides across the table of the woman from the hotel room. She’s on a busy street with a cell phone to her ear, in a tight pencil skirt and heels. Professional.

It isn’t the woman I remember.

Or rather, it is. Just... hidden.

“The zvezda,” I murmur.

Ariadna nods, her own accent peeking out briefly at our first language. “Noted in the report. It seems she covers it with makeup most of the time.”

Interesting. So I’ve seen a part of her that she likes to keep hidden. A dark delight twists down in my gut.