Page 121 of Cruel Kiss

"No," I tell her honestly. "But it's the only way."

"Now, you're getting the hang of it."

I bring her hand up and press my mouth to her knuckles, over the thin gold ring I gave her. And then we go—down the stairs, through the kitchen, past the vault-heavy door I had installed to keep the world out.

I open it. The night's out there, and the water, and the warehouse across it where my life will hang in the balance.

I hold the door for her. She steps through, chin up, the most dangerous thing in any room she'll ever walk into.

Then I follow her out, and I don't look back at the house.

Everything that matters is in front of me.

35

CALI

The warehouse isn't much to look at.

Bare concrete. A high metal roof. A single row of lights hanging down on chains that swing a little in the draft off the water.

Inside, there are chairs set up in a rough half-circle, and men in dark coats standing in the shadows where the lights don't reach.

I count the captains. Six of them, sitting. That's the jury. Grigor's one of them. He gives me a small nod when we come in, but the rest just stare. They stare at Ronan first, and then at me, and I can feel the word they're all thinking.

The operator. The reason.

Lev stands in the middle of it all. The gray cardigan is gone, replaced with a suit that's forty years out of style, but the face is the same. Kind, almost. He looks like somebody's grandpa.

"Ronan Akov," he booms, spreading his hands. "You came! I confess I wasn't certain you would. And you brought the clever one along, too." He looks at me and smiles. "Hello again, Calista. Tell me, did you remember your little computer this time?"

"Wouldn't leave home without it," I say, tapping my messenger bag. "It's practically an emotional support animal at this point."

"Good. Good. You'll want to keep your hands busy." He turns to the captains. "You all know why we're here. This man waspakhan. He turned off the supply of gun money that fed you. He made himself a friend of the FBI. He killed a civilian to protect himself. He let Pyotr go, despite the laws of our guild. I will show you all of his many sins. And then you will decide what must become of him."

Ronan doesn't say anything. That's the plan. He warned me on the drive over.You talk. I stand there and look like a man who has nothing to hide, because I don't. Let them see you do the thing you do best.

So I set my laptop on the folding table they gave us. I open it, and I turn it so the men can see the screen even though I know most of them won't understand it. That's fine. I'm going to walk them through it, one piece at a time, the way I walked a room of bankers through my husband's affair a lifetime ago.

"Before Lev tells you his spooky ghost story," I say, "I'd like to show you mine. It's shorter, and unlike his, everything in it is something you can actually go check. I only deal in facts."

Lev waves a hand, generous. "Let her blab. It changes nothing."

Hmph. We'll see.

"Number one." I pull up the first file. "For twenty years, somebody has been skimming off this organization. Off Igor when he was in charge, and then off Ronan. They were smart about it—I'll give them credit for that. Small amounts, spread thin, buried a dozen businesses deep so nobody would ever add it up." I drag the pattern across the screen. "Well, nobody butme. That's the thing about me—I add things up. And it goes back to a man named Crosby Hess, a partner at the firm. You might not know him, but he sure knows you. He wrote the codes you all use. He had the access. And the money that went missing? It didn't go to any fed, or to Ronan, or to me. It went tohim. The man who did this robbed the very man he now says he's avenging. That's your first receipt. Igor was robbed. Not by his son."

A couple of the captains lean forward. Grigor's face doesn't change, but his eyes move.

"Number two," I say. "The codes. Three separate times, somebody used old Bratva protocol to pull men off a target. The night a stranger came up the stairs of my home, twenty feet from where my children were sleeping. The night your people were ambushed in Sheepshead Bay and Navi Akov took two bullets. And the night Todd Bradshaw's federal protection was stood down, hours before he was killed. Those codes were spoken in your tongue, with your confirmations. When the men stood down, they thought the order came from the top. From Ronan. But the codes were written by Crosby Hess, thirty years ago. He didn't need Ronan to open his mouth. He just needed to sound like him."

"Number three." The forged badge fills the screen. "A production order showed up at my door on FBI letterhead, attached to a live case number that maps to a real investigation. These two men who wanted to barge into my house a great deal more than they wanted me to actually read the paper." I zoom in on the ID. "But like I said, I'm a detail-oriented woman. And I noticed that the badge number was wrong. Everything else was perfect, though—the letterhead, the case number, the judge's forged signature. That takes firm access. It takes somebody who can pull realfilings. The retainer agreement between Todd and the firm was lifted the same way, at two in the morning, with no case reason attached. Same hand. The firm's hand.Crosby's."

I don't look at Ronan. I keep my eyes on the men who'll decide whether he lives.

"Number four is the one Lev built his whole story on." I split the screen. "The burner phone. It puts Ronan Akov at every incriminating scene. Over and over, like a little beacon in the dark, lighting him up for the feds." I drag the calendar over it. "Except it doesn't follow Ronan. It follows hisschedule. Whoever built this pulled his official calendar and planted the phone wherever the calendar said he'd be." I zoom to the gap. "Here's the night the whole thing falls apart. Navi's shooting. Nobody schedules an ambush on their Outlook, do they? Grigor called it, so the burner didn't know to show up. It sat in the wrong place all night, while Ronan Akov was in a plastic chair at Methodist, soaking in his cousin's blood." I pull the hospital footage. Timestamps ticking in the corner. "There he is. Ten at night until four in the morning. The burner's nowhere near him. Like the rest of it, it's a fucking lie."

Now, a couple of the captains are murmuring low to each other. I don't stop. I can feel the tension building higher and higher.