THE FIXER

Dream on, Mama. I fear she’s just lying to herself now. She must realize how tenuous her hold on Viktor is. How dangerous he might turn out to be. How screwed we are. But she’s set this plan in motion, and there’s no going back on it.

For any of us.

“You won’t ever have to answer to that man who hates you again,” she promises.

That man who hates you.

Yes, I believed Maxim hated me. The day my father died I was sure of it. But not anymore. He’d dropped his grudge even before I gave my virginity to him. He’d let me play brat-flying to L. A. and making him chase me-and he hadn’t even been angry. His punishment had been delicious. He’d brought me a wedding ring and played nice with my friends.

He bought me a car.

Helped me find my way in the theatre scene.

Took me out and shared his friends with me.

All I’d done was make his life difficult and let him fold me over the hood of my car for hot sex.

If I make it out of this alive, I’m going to be the most grateful wife a man could ever have.

But it’s a big if.

And I’m not about to use the skills my mother modeled on another man. I owe Maxim that much. If I get myself out of this, it won’t be using my femininity as a weapon.

It will have to be my brains.

Maxim

I CAN HARDLY SEE, hardly think with the pounding behind my eyes. It feels like the center of my head will split open.

My chest already has. I left my organs-my fucking heart-out on that sidewalk in front of the parking lot.

“Who killed her,” I rage back at the penthouse.

Dima’s working like a maniac, his head down, his fingers flying over keys. I’m about an inch from severing his head from his shoulders over this. His fucking program was supposed to keep her safe. Alert us to anyone coming into the country.

“I’m analyzing everyone who came in before the program was in place,” Dima says quickly, shoulders hunched. Nikolai stands behind him looking at the screen as well. Possibly to protect his twin from me when I lose my shit.

“There.” Nikolai points at the screen. “What about that one? One male entering San Francisco from Moscow two weeks ago.”

Dima shrugs and taps away at the keyboard, fingers flying even faster.

“Can you get scans of passenger’s passports?”

“I’d have to hack a database. That will take time.”

“I want a name now!” I thunder.

Sasha will be avenged. Blood will be spilled. By tonight, if I have my way.

“Hack in on the Russian side,” Nikolai advises in a low voice. “Haven’t you been in there before?”

Dima bobs his head and taps away some more. Ten minutes later, Nikolai shouts, “There! I know him.”

“Who is it?” I demand.

“Alexei Preobrazhensky,” Dima reads. “Lived in Moscow. In the same building as Galina and Sasha. Must’ve been a guard?”

I stomp over to look at the photo. “Mother. Fucker. He’s a dead man now.”

“He’s a nobody,” Ravil says. “This is not his operation. Whoever has Galina must’ve sent him to do the dirty work.”

I glare at Dima. “Find him.”

Dima shoots a helpless and stressed look at Ravil, but then returns his focus to his screen. “Checking domestic flights to Chicago under the false alias.”

I pace the living room.

“Put that away in here,” Ravil commands.

I hear his words but I’m not listening.

“Maxim.”Nôvel(D)ra/ma.Org exclusive © material.

I look over.

“I said put that away.” He lifts his chin in the direction of my hand.

I look down to find I’m palming my gun. The safety is off.

Fuck. I put the safety back on and shove the piece in my waistband. “Give me something, Dima. If I don’t put a bullet between this guys eyes tonight, I will fucking lose it.”

Oleg stomps over to me. He stands at least a head above me, his shoulders half again as wide as mine.

“What?” I snap.

He drops a giant ham-hand on my shoulder and then lowers his head.

If it were anyone else, I’d probably punch him, but Oleg so rarely tries to communicate, I force myself to receive his condolences.

But it’s a mistake. I suddenly can’t breathe, grief tearing at my throat, making my eyes burn. I wheeze and drop my hands to my thighs, trying to draw a breath.

Fuck. Sasha’s dead.

My beautiful, smart, funny, lively, incredible wife is dead.

She’ll never brighten this room again with a smart remark. Never toss that red mane of hers. I’ll never get to see her act.

I never saw her act!

I try and try, but I still can’t breathe. My heart pounds, my throat’s closed tight like a fist.

I want to die.

Yeah.

Living without her isn’t worth it.

So I let myself choke out. I stop trying to breathe and stumble to one knee. My head hits the coffee table on the way down. The blackness that follows is relief.

Sasha

“I’M HUNGRY. Are you guys hungry? Should we order up some room service?” I decide the best course of action is to playact with my mother that I’m on board and everything is perfect. Until I figure out what my options are and what I can do.

I still desperately want to get to Maxim, to ease his heartache. I want to believe that he’ll take me back and somehow save my mother from her folly.

But I suspect even if Maxim took me back, my mother’s life would be forfeit. And as much as I hate her for this terrible plan, it’s not enough to want her dead.

Right now I’m the definition of stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“Alexei will get takeout,” Viktor says. “Right, Alexei?”

“Great.” Sending Alexei out sounds like a stupid idea to me considering the cops are still out there, but I don’t argue. I’m pretending to be agreeable. And I really am hungry.