I can’t sleep — my brain is far too crowded with thoughts to power down for the night, despite the fact that Conor is snoring softly beside me. His face is the picture of exhaustion. There are deep circles beneath his eyes and a tension that never fully leaves him, even in sleep.
Not wanting to disturb him with my restless tossing and turning, I slowly untangle my naked limbs from his and slip out of bed. I grab his shirt off the floor and tug it over my head, smiling as his scent washes over me. Breathing it in like a drug. I smile even wider as I remember the moment I ripped it off his body earlier, when we stumbled into the bedroom after dinner.
He made for a delicious dessert course…
I walk out of the bedroom and shut the door behind me with a soft click, grinning at the thought. Passing through the dark living room, I make my way to the kitchen and flick on a light. My eyes widen when I see the state of it.
When I suggested cooking dinner together earlier, I figured it would be a fun way to pass the time while waiting for an update on the Petrov situation. I did not foresee our foray into homemade pasta-making would descend into a full-on food fight, complete with spattered egg yolk grenades and hurled handfuls of flour — most of which has now congealed into a sticky, lumpy mess that coats the floor, the countertops, the walls. Even some of the ceiling.
What a mess.
It’s going to take a small eternity to clean. Still… it was worth it. I laughed more today with Conor than I did in a decade with Paul. And after our fight this afternoon, it was refreshingly normal to simply hang out. Like a real, actual couple, rather than two people thrown together in a high-stakes game of Russian roulette, running for our lives. It was almost as if the gods smiled upon us, as though someone up there decided to grant us a one-day-furlough from the madness of our situation.
Thank you, I toss vaguely upward into the great unknown, not even sure who I’m speaking to. For giving us today. And… for giving me him.
Shaking my head at my uncharacteristic show of faith, I grab a roll of paper towels and a bottle of bleach spray, then set to work scrubbing down the disaster zone that used to be a kitchen.
By the time the kitchen is clean, it’s well past midnight and my arms are aching from hours of swabbing the decks. I collapse onto the couch in the living room with a deep sigh. I don’t want to risk waking Conor by turning on the TV, but I know any attempts at sleep will be useless.
I’m still too wired.
My curious eyes slide to the files on the table. Before I can talk myself out of it, I pull one into my lap and start to read. And thus begins my proper education on the life of Alexei Petrov.
I read about his childhood in an orphanage outside Moscow, where he and his sister Ekaterina were placed together after the death of their parents. I read about his wild teenage years on the street, how he fought his way up from a skinny runt of the litter to the top dog of the most notorious gang in the city. I read about his first forays into the criminal underworld, running drugs and weapons over the Ukrainian border for an aspiring mafia boss he would one day surpass in both power and ruthlessness.
From what I can tell, his rise through the underbelly of the Bratva was damn near meteoric. By the time he was thirty, Alexei Petrov — a street rat from the gutters of Moscow — was the most feared man in all of the city. Maybe all of Russia. His lack of anything resembling a conscience was well-documented and highly effective when it came to eliminating his existing enemies and preventing new ones from cropping up. Few challenged him for control of his ever-expanding crime syndicate… and those who did were simply never heard from again.
Honestly, it has all the makings of a classic coming-of-age novel. An origin story for one of the world’s biggest super-villains.
Keep your pretentious Russian literature, your Tolstoy and your Dostoevsky… the story of Alexei Petrov is far more interesting than anything I’ve read in ages.
My eyes devour file after file, stunned by the level of detail. It’s excruciatingly thorough. Decades worth of research. A million facts and figures and anecdotes, all at my fingertips.
It’s the ultimate binge-read.
And I’m undeniably hooked.
I learn about Alexei’s propensity for expensive prostitutes and fancy hotels. I even learn about his favorite food — borscht, how very proletariat of you, Alexei — and his favorite place to vacation — a villa on the Baltic Sea — and the name of his first two wives — both, coincidentally, called Natasha.
By the time I reach for one of the last folders in the stack, my eyes are drooping closed. Deciding to call it quits and head to bed before I go blind, I toss the folder back onto the table. Thanks to my halfhearted aim, it skids off the top of the pile and hits the floor instead, exploding in a flurry of papers and photographs.
Damn it to hell.
Heaving a heavy sigh, I bend to pick up the scattered contents and start shoving them haphazardly back into the folder, vowing to reorganize them first thing in the morning using more care. I’m rising to my feet when I see one last sheaf has fluttered to a stop beneath the legs of the coffee table.
Dropping back to my hands and knees, my fingers close around a glossy black and white photograph. I glance fleetingly at the picture as I prepare to shove it away, expecting yet another image of a suspected mob-hit, some bloody crime scene or gruesome murder.
Instead, I see something highly unexpected.
Something that sends my pulse spiking like a seismograph in the middle of an earthquake. Something that makes absolutely no sense at all… and yet, somehow, provides the exact solution I’ve been searching for all this time. The answer to the question we’ve been asking ourselves over and over and over for the past week, like a riddle with no remedy.
Here is the remedy.
Right here in my hands.
I stare at the black and white image more intently.
Not a crime scene.
Not a mug shot.
An egg.
A golden egg, to be precise, inlaid with dozens of sparkling sapphires and brilliant rubies and glittering emeralds. I know this to be the case, even though the photograph shows no color at all. Because I’ve seen this egg before. I’ve held it in my hands, turned it over in my fingers with disdain before tossing it away in the bottom of a jewelry box, thinking it no more than some cheap bauble made from synthesized crystal that Paul picked up on a whim. Just one more gift in the long series he sent, trying to win me back.
But this…
This is no cheap bauble.
No useless trinket.
No inexpensive paperweight.
This is…
“A Fabergé egg,” I marvel aloud, feeling like my head might explode. I wait one, two, three long seconds before I set the photograph carefully on the table, suck in a deep breath, and bellow at the top of my lungs.
“CONOR!”
“A Fabergé Egg,” I say, pacing like a madwoman across the living room. “He stole a Fabergé Egg.”
“I know, Hunt. You’ve said it six times, now.”
“Not just any Fabergé Egg, either. A freaking Tsar Imperial Fabergé Egg.”
Conor sighs.
“And not just any Tsar Imperial Fabergé Egg. One of the long lost Tsar Imperial Fabergé Eggs.”
“Hunt—”
I shake my head. “I should’ve figured it out the other night, when he started speaking French. Paul doesn’t speak French! And yet, I didn’t blink a freaking eye when he kept saying ‘nécessaire’ like a damn sommelier.” I pause. “Of course, at the time, I thought he was telling me it was necessary to run. I didn’t know Nécessaire was the name of the damn Egg. An Egg no one has seen, by the way, since 1952. At least, according to the brief Google search I conducted ten minutes ago while you were on the phone with Evelson.”
“Not sure you’re in the right state of mind to be Googling anything at the moment, Hunt.”
I ignore him.“Surprise, surprise! Nécessaire is not lost to history after all. Unless by history you’re referring to three months ago, when I tossed it in the bottom of a jewelry box like it was a freaking pair of fifteen dollar earrings.”
“Hunt—”
“Did you hear me? I threw it. I actually threw a Fabergé Egg. A freaking relic.”
“Shelby. Breathe.”
I whirl to look at him. “Breathe?! How can I breathe, Conor? My no-good, dirty-rotten, lying, cheating ex decided it would be a good idea to steal a priceless object from his uncle, then sent it to me — presumably to keep it hidden for him until he could find a way to get the Evanoffs off his tail and come collect it again. Like I’m his own personal, illegal artifact storage facility. A drug mule, if you will. Except I’m more of an egg mule. Which isn’t a thing. At least, so far as I know.” My head tilts. “There could be a black market for eggs, I suppose. Free-range, organic, cage-free, Cadbury, Easter, over-easy…”
“Hunt.” His lips are twitching. “I can’t tell if you’re joking or if you’ve had a stroke.”
“Me neither, to be honest.” My voice breaks. “I just didn’t see this happening.”
“Your newfound obsession with egg varieties?”
“No. Unknowingly possessing a priceless object that’s made me the target for several Russian hitmen. And, for the record, when I say priceless I don’t mean it in the, ‘Aw, shucks, look at that family having a picnic, what a priceless moment’ sort of way. I mean it in the very literal, ‘you cannot put a price tag on this item because it is irreplaceable’ sense of the word.” I pause. “Though, if you could put a price tag on it, it would probably say something in the $20 million range.”
“You’re freaking out.”
“Of course I’m freaking out! Why aren’t you freaking out?”
“Not really my style.”
“Well, it’s not usually mine either, but I’m making an exception in this particular case.” I blow out a breath. “Did you know that there were only fifty-two of these Eggs ever made? And that this one was made for the Tsar of Russia, as a gift for his wife?”
“Google tell you that factoid?”
“Maybe.”
“That’s it. I’m restricting your internet privileges.”
“Too late! The damage is done. I already memorized the Wikipedia page. I am a freaking fount of knowledge. Ask me anything.”
He stares at me blankly.
“Go on! Ask me something.”
“You want some whiskey?”
“I meant something about the Eggs.”
He shrugs. “You want the whiskey or not?”
“No! Yes. Maybe.”
“Way to be decisive, babe.” Conor smirks and walks into the kitchen. When he comes back, he’s got two low-ball glasses of whiskey in his hands. He passes one to me in silence and raises his other in solidarity. “Cheers.”
“What on earth do we have to celebrate, in this moment?”
He takes a small sip. “You.”
“Me?”
He nods. “You’ve been so busy spiraling into panic, I don’t think you realize what this all means.”
“Um… that we’re utterly fucked? Because if you think Alexei Petrov is going to let a $20 million, one-of-a-kind antiquity slip through his fingers…”
Conor shakes his head. “Before, we were walking around blindfolded, hoping to stumble onto whatever your husband stole by dumb luck alone. That’s like fighting with your hands tied behind your back. Thanks to you, we know exactly what Petrov is after. We know why he’s so determined to get it back. And we even know where it is — presuming you didn’t throw that jewelry box in the trash.” He actually cracks a smile. “Don’t you see? Now, we have a chance at closing this case on our terms. We’ll get the Egg from wherever you stashed it, use it as bait to draw Petrov and his boys out, and finally catch the bastards.” He lifts his glass again. “And that, Hunt, is definitely worth celebrating.”
I eye him nervously. “Yeah… you might not want to celebrate our victory too prematurely.”
His brows go up. “Why’s that?”
“When I said I had the Egg, I meant it. I had the Egg. Past tense.”
His silence is profound. I hear him take a sharp intake of breath, steeling himself. “Hunt, please tell me you didn’t throw our only shot at stopping Alexei Petrov in the garbage.”
I wince. “Not exactly.”
“Then where is it?”
I keep my eyes closed as I tell him the location of the Egg. And, as I listen to him curse like a sailor on leave, I raise my glass to my lips and drain my whiskey in one long sip.
I’m going to need a little liquid courage for what comes next.
“You’re not coming with me.”
“Like hell I’m not,” I growl. “You can’t expect me to sit around here waiting. Not when I can finally be of use for something.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“No more dangerous than me sitting around here like a sitting duck while you rush headlong into the fight. Again.”
“I rush headlong into danger because I’ve spent years training for it.” He shakes his head. “I can’t protect you out there.”
“I’m not asking you to protect me! I’m asking you to let me help you.”
“Shelby—”
“You don’t even know what the Egg looks like, besides what you’ve seen in some faded black and white photograph. And more importantly, you’re not the one who’s responsible for giving the damn thing away as a re-gift because she didn’t have time to go shopping before her boss’ 50th birthday party!” My cheeks heat with mortification. I’m still struggling to wrap my mind around the fact that I accidentally gave Aimee — the aura-reading, earth-loving woman who owns the small studio where I occasionally teach yoga — a priceless Fabergé Egg… under the pretense that it was a healing crystal to help ‘channel her spiritual energy flow’, no less.
Anyone else in the world probably would’ve realized their good fortune and sold the Egg to the highest bidder. It’s pure dumb luck that Aimee happens to be the least materialistic person on the planet. I doubt she has any idea of the Egg’s value. And, if she did, there’s a solid chance she might not even care.
His jaw clenches. “You aren’t coming with me. It’s out of the question.”
“This is my fight, too! You aren’t the only one who wants this over and done with.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And yet you expect me to sit here and do nothing.”
“No, I expect you to sit here and be safe while I go out and get the Egg from your friend.”
“I’ll go crazy waiting, Conor.” My eyes are suddenly stinging with tears. “I swear to god, if I have to stand here and watch you walk out that door one more time…”
He steps closer, bending until we’re eye to eye. His voice is uncharacteristically soft. “Shelby. I will be fine.”
“You don’t know that! Evelson said the Evanoffs left the deli. That they’re in the wind, whatever the hell that means.”
“It means—”
“Oh, I know what it means!” I say crossly, cutting him off. “I just don’t think it’s very specific, seeing as he’s supposedly the master of surveillance. You’d think he’d be able to pin down their location a bit more precisely.”
“The Evanoffs are highly trained at staying off the grid. How else do you think they’ve managed to evade capture after decades on the Most Wanted list?”
“Not dumb luck, I’m guessing.”
“No. Nothing dumb about it. They’re virtually untraceable when they want to be. Like ghosts.”
“Coldblooded killer ghosts,” I mutter.
“Yes. They are. Which is precisely why you’re staying here, where they can’t get to you.”
“But—”
“Shelby.” His jaw is set stubbornly. “I cannot do my job effectively with you out in the open, exposed. Don’t you understand? I won’t be able to think about anything except keeping you out of harm’s way.”
“So you’re saying I’m a liability. That I’m your Achilles heel. Your kryptonite. Your weakness.”
His face softens. Leaning forward, he brushes his lips against mine in a gentle kiss that makes my heart flip over. “I’m saying that I am in love with you.”
The world stops turning.
The air freezes in my lungs.
The muscles in my body go completely rigid.
“What?”
“You heard me,” he says starkly. “I love you. I am in love with you. I have been for months, probably since the first time I saw you on Christmas night, sporting a black eye but still somehow smiling. Sitting on the floor of a dirty dog kennel, celebrating the holiday with a dozen mangey mutts.”
I suck in a breath.
He was there for that?
I’d felt so alone, that night. The whole rest of the world was with family and friends, singing carols and spreading holiday cheer… but I was alone, with nothing at all to celebrate except the ending of my marriage. I sat on that kennel floor replaying my morning over and over in my mind. Paul’s rage and my terror and the shriek of squad cars racing down Merriweather Street.
That was the moment I swore to myself I was done with love for good.
Coincidentally… the same moment Conor looked through a window at a lonely girl on a dirty floor and fell in love with her.
You can’t say fate doesn’t have a sense of humor…
At the time, I thought that was probably the worst day of my entire life. But now that I know it brought me straight to Conor…
I glance up. Right at him.
His eyes are warm. Ultra warm. Practically burning.
He loves me, I think, stunned. Conor Gallagher loves me.
At least… he thinks he does.
For now.
The panic hits so fast, it levels me — stealing away my fragile hopes in an instant. Suddenly, my mind is reeling like a merry-go-round. My heart is pounding far too fast to possibly be healthy. I think I’m going to need a cardiologist at the ripe age of twenty-nine.
Cause of death: sheer and utter panic.
“Shelby.” His voice is soothing; he can totally see me freaking out. “Take a breath.”
My head is shaking, thoughts tumbling over each other so fast it’s a struggle to force one through my lips. “What the hell are you thinking, telling me you love me? You can’t possibly love me. You don’t even know me!”
“I know you.”
“You only think you know me,” I whisper, shaking my head. “There are things you don’t know, things that might change how you feel or—”
“Shelby Quinn Hunt.”
My words dry up. “Y-yes?”
“I know where you grew up and why you got out. I know you like dogs more than cats, especially strays that don’t have homes to call their own. I know you prefer buying your groceries at a Farmers Market stall over a grocery store aisle. I know you have friends who love you, even though you keep them at arm’s length sometimes.” His mouth twists. “I know you can put your legs behind your head in a crazy ass yoga pose — and that it looks even better when you’re doing it naked, while I’m deep inside you and you’re screaming out my name.”
Oh, boy.
I think he’s done, but he’s not.
“I know the way you take your coffee, the places you run to clear your head, your favorite takeout spot. And I know you’re terrified out of your damn mind to hear me saying all these things to you right now, because the last asshole who told you he loved you ended up being the worst sort of liar.”
I’m stunned silent.
Utterly speechless.
“But because I know you…” His hands come up to cup my cheeks. “I also know that, in a few days, when you finish having whatever internal freak out you’re currently experiencing and let everything I just said sink in… you’ll realize that I’m right. That I know exactly who you are. And that I love you for it.”
I’m crying again.
Damnit.
I glare at him through the tears. “You know, if this was just some elaborate scheme to get me to stay here while you go running off to hunt down bad guys—”
His smiling mouth hits mine, swallowing the rest of my sentence. And I don’t even care. Because I’m kissing him back, my chest full of a lightness I’ve never before experienced, and there’s no need to say another word.
He loves me.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hmm?” I blink, still flying high from the drugging effects of his mouth on mine. “Honestly, when you’re kissing me, most of my executive functions stop working…”
He pulls back from me abruptly and walks into the kitchen. His muscles are tight, his senses on high alert.
“Conor, what’s goi—”
“Shh.” He holds up a hand to silence me, listening hard.
The only audible nose is the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, which informs me it’s just past six in the morning. At least, that’s the only sound to my ears. Clearly, Conor’s are more highly attuned, seeing as he reaches down and slowly slides his gun from its holster.
No, no, no.
“Thought I heard something outside.” His voice is almost inaudible.“I’m going to check it out. Lock the door behind me. And if I’m not back in two minutes, get inside the pantry and bolt the steel door.”
I make a small sound of protest, but I’m afraid to speak. Too afraid that, if there really is someone lurking out there, any noise I make might tip them off.
And get Conor killed.
His eyes cut to mine, holding for a long moment. He gives a small nod — as if to reassure me everything will be just fine, before walking to the door. At the last minute, he pauses, turns, and holds up two fingers.
Two minutes.
I nod.
He winks.
And slips outside, into the pink-edged dawn.
Two minutes.
You wouldn’t think they could possibly drag on so long. That one hundred and twenty ticks of the second hand could be so torturously drawn out. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I hold my breath as I wait — my eyes fixed on that thin, jerking dial as it makes its slow orbit around the clock face.
Forty seconds.
He’s not back.
A minute.
Still no Conor.
A minute thirty.
No sign of him.
The tempo of my pulse kicks up a notch as it nears the two minute mark. I strain my ears, listening hard for any sound outside. There’s nothing — not the rustling of tree leaves, not the rattling of a trash can lid, not the sound of footsteps or — god forbid — gunshots ringing out in the early morning sky.
Two minutes.
Sighing deeply, I turn on leaden feet to face the pantry. The last thing I want to do is barricade myself in there… but even without him here to yell at me, I can feel the weight of Conor’s disapproval looming large over my head.
Bossy, infuriating man.
I’m halfway to the pantry when I hear the soft rap of his knuckles on the back door.
Oh, thank god.
He’s back.
I race across the room to let him in, fully prepared to scold him for scaring the shit out of me for no reason. After I kiss him. With tongue. And maybe a little butt-groping.
What can I say? The man has a killer ass.
“Two minutes on the nose,” I say, smiling as I pull the door wide. The smile falls off my face when I see the man standing just outside, grinning back at me.
“Shelby Hunt,” Lefty says in a faint Russian accent. “We meet again.”
A millisecond later, his hand rears back and slams into my face, knocking me out cold in a single punch.