Chapter Sixty-Two

THE MEN DRAGGED NICHOLAS from the van in handcuffs. He’d suffered a split lip and bruised jaw, but luckily hadn’t lost any teeth.

Two burly men carrying automatic weapons—who Nicholas had seen take down his security team at the hotel—now held him by the arms. The security guards remained unconscious, lying in the back of the van.

He knew better than to take on his assailants. He was outnumbered and without a weapon. But he wasn’t outsmarted. They hadn’t scanned him for tracking devices. He flexed his wrist against the handcuff. His Rolex was still there.

As the men pulled him into an opulent, three-story villa, he thought of Acacia. It was possible his attackers had captured her as well. He prayed she was still alive.

He marched down a long hall and into a massive library. At the far end of the room, next to a black marble fireplace, stood a man.

Nicholas recognized him immediately. “Kuznetsov.”

The man turned. He held a crystal glass in his hand. He took a sip of amber liquid. “Cassirer.”

Serge Kuznetsov was of medium height and appeared to be in his fifties with a shaved head and peering blue eyes. His barrel chest and squat physique reminded Nicholas of a bulldog. He wore an expensive-looking tailored navy suit without a tie.

He gestured to his men, and they settled Nicholas in a leather armchair near the fireplace.

“Would you mind removing the handcuffs?” he asked in English, lifting his arms behind his back.

Kuznetsov nodded to one of the men. He produced a key and undid the cuffs.

Nicholas rubbed his wrists.

“A drink?” Kuznetsov approached the bar that stood in front of a large window.

“Vodka,” Nicholas replied.

Kuznetsov retrieved a bottle from a small freezer and poured two fingers of the spirit into a glass. He handed it to one of his men, who delivered it to Nicholas.

Nicholas sipped the liquid, but he didn’t take his eyes off his enemy.

“This is all very unfortunate.” Kuznetsov sat opposite Nicholas, his men standing nearby.

“Since I am your prisoner, I would have to agree.” Nicholas’s tone was wry.

Kuznetsov’s eyes grew sharp. “You attacked my home.”

“You murdered my sister.”

“No.” Kuznetsov lifted a finger and wagged it in Nicholas’s direction. “A Bosnian named Luka murdered your sister.”

Nicholas threw back more of his vodka. It tasted expensive but still produced heat in his throat. “You gave the order.”

Kuznetsov raised his shoulders. “I placed an order for rare artwork. I didn’t give an order to kill. Luka got carried away.”

Nicholas began to argue, but Kuznetsov spoke over him. “I’ve killed before, and so have my men. This is not a secret. But I did not kill your sister.”

Nicholas’s hands began to shake, he was so angry. “Where’s Luka?”

“He gave you that scar.” Kuznetsov made a slashing motion across his face. “I wonder, why didn’t you have it removed?”

Nicholas curled his hand into a fist. “I’ll have it removed after I have justice.”

“Justice.” Kuznetsov gazed at him. “I’m afraid you’ve traveled a long way, only to be disappointed.”

Nicholas ground his teeth together. “What do you mean?”

“Luka is dead.”

Nicholas stared daggers at his enemy. “What?”

Kuznetsov sipped his whisky, purposefully delaying his response. “After you found Luka and the others, they came to me. I dealt with them.”

Nicholas stared at the Russian in shock.

In a haze, he lowered his head to look at the glass in his hand. It was heavy and probably crystal. The vodka was expensive. And he and his enemy were sitting across from one another, calmly discussing life and death.

It was possible Kuznetsov was lying. But the fact the Bosnian and his crew had disappeared seemed to lend credence to the Russian’s account.

This was not an outcome Nicholas had anticipated. He had envisioned confronting Kuznetsov and moving on to confront the Bosnians. Now the latter might never happen.

He felt as if he’d been marched onto a scaffold, only to have the floor give way under his final step. He was falling through space and time, entirely adrift.

And Riva…

He choked back his anguish. He’d never be able to look her killer in the eye and demand retribution.

Nicholas stared at the vodka in his glass. The clear liquid taunted him. He was somewhere outside Moscow, having a drink with a man who referred to the Bosnian thieves as if they were an annoyance—a group of flies he’d swatted, not a group of human beings he’d murdered.

Nicholas blinked. In his mind’s eye, his free fall came to an excruciating halt at the bottom of an abyss. He felt the impact as if it were physical, and his heart thumped irregularly.

The absurdity hit him with all the force of a fall from a great height. Kuznetsov showed absolute indifference to human life as he sat in the large villa drinking thousands of Euros of whisky.

“It will never be enough,” Nicholas muttered, looking at his enemy. He could kill Kuznetsov, if he was able to escape and get hold of a weapon, but it wouldn’t take away his grief for Riva. It wouldn’t heal his loss. If anything, it would sink him even further into darkness. He would become the man he hated, the figure who had haunted his dreams and the lives of his parents since Riva’s murder.

“The man who scarred you is dead,” Kuznetsov continued. “The other members of his team are dead. The dead bury the dead.”

“Perhaps.” Nicholas’s voice was hoarse. “But you’re still in possession of my family’s artwork.”

“And you think you can take it back?” Kuznetsov chuckled. “Advice is wasted on the young, but let me give you some. You need to know your enemy better than you know yourself, if you want to win. I’ve followed you for years.”

Nicholas’s eyebrows lifted. “Years?”

“When you went after Luka, I knew you wouldn’t rest until you found me. I followed you. I watched your progress. I monitored your aliases and trailed your mistresses.”

Nicholas’s face grew alert.

Kuznetsov smiled. “The model was interesting enough, but your latest mistress is far more compelling. You agree, don’t you? You seem to be willing to do anything for her.”

Nicholas unclenched his fist. Kuznetsov’s attempt to rattle him had succeeded, but he forced himself to remain calm.

“You have the Matisse from the Musée d’Art Moderne,” Nicholas changed the subject. “The government of France is very interested in recovering it.”

Kuznetsov stood and returned to the bar. “France is used to disappointment.” He refilled his glass with whisky and brought the bottle of vodka to Nicholas. Kuznetsov poured for him.

“Have you checked your house recently?” Nicholas watched his enemy as he placed the bottle in the freezer and regained his seat.

Kuznetsov’s eyes darted to Nicholas. “Another piece of advice, my young friend. Never attempt to invade Russia. Your people cut the power to my estate, but it was back on within minutes.

“Ivan,” Kuznetsov beckoned one of his men.

The man stepped forward. He hadn’t removed his mask.

“Ivan, have there been any reports of a security breach at the estate?”

“Just the power outage, sir,” Ivan replied. “And a bonfire outside the gates.”

“A bonfire.” Kuznetsov smiled smugly. “Your team has failed.”

Nicholas tensed. He didn’t understand why the incursion team hadn’t followed orders and breached the compound. Unless…

He redirected his attention to the man who was smiling at him. “Did you order the attack on the concierge at the Hotel Victoire in Paris?”

“I know of no such attack. I did business with a dealer in Paris. He ran into some trouble and handled it clumsily. But his trouble was not from me.”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what to believe. “What are you going to do now?”

Kuznetsov tasted his whisky again. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to send someone to retrieve Yasmin from Greece. She kept her mouth shut when she left, so I let her go. Now she’s going to be punished. Since Yasmin will be unavailable, I’ve decided to take your latest mistress as my own. I’ve never fucked a Brazilian.”

Involuntarily, Nicholas’s fingers curled into a fist.

“That will never happen.” He looked into the eyes of his enemy.

Kuznetsov laughed. “In Russia, I am king. Why should today be any different?”

Nicholas smiled.

Kuznetsov’s expression darkened. “Why are you smiling?”

“Have you studied Russian history?”

“What do you mean?”

Nicholas’s smile broadened, and he leaned forward in his chair. “What do you think happened to the kings of Russia?”

Kuznetsov threw his crystal glass at Nicholas’s head, spraying whisky through the air.

Nicholas caught the glass and in one smooth motion, flung it back at the Russian.

Kuznetsov lifted his arms to shield his face, and the glass shattered as it hit his forearm.

Nicholas ducked to avoid the flying debris. Kuznetsov’s men closed in on him, but at that moment the lights went out.

Nicholas dropped to the floor and maneuvered himself under the armchair. He could hear the sound of boots in the hall and shouts in Russian and English.

Then someone opened fire.