The Siren's Touch. Amber Belldene

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СКАЧАТЬ Papa greeted the customer.

      She peered around the door. In the corner of the shop, her father fumbled at the narrow safe, attempting to slide the necklace inside. A tall, young man in a militsya uniform browsed over the cases of rings. Dark blond hair showed at his temples under his hat. Sonya’s pulse accelerated—it always did when she was in close proximity to militsya men. They could get away with whatever they wanted—from giving girls a hard time to extorting all the profit from neighborhood businesses.

      Instinctively, she gripped the door’s handle to rush in and protect Papa, but she resisted—he would have to handle these things himself from now on.

      “Were you interested in seeing something?” he asked the young man.

      The officer stood over the case of women’s rings, and his thumb played at the spot where his own ring finger met his palm. The gesture captivated Sonya.

      “Yes. This one, please.” His accent suggested he was from the countryside, not Kiev, and she softened toward him. But a militsya man was still a militsya man, and not to be trusted. He lifted the ring high into the faint light filtering through the window. But then, with his face turned up, he closed his eyes and his Adam’s apple rolled as he swallowed. Not the face of a happy man buying a wedding ring.

      Her foreboding gave way to a curious pity. Who had broken his heart?

      Wordlessly, he enclosed the ring in his fist, reached out and dropped it in Papa’s outstretched palm. In a voice so low she could barely hear it, he said, “I would very much like to see Director Andrich’s necklace. I am told it is very beautiful.”

      The scene froze, like a single frame of film stuck in the movie projector. She searched her mind for the rest of the memory, desperate to discover what had happened next, but there was nothing.

      A door slammed in Elena’s house, yanking Sonya fully into the present. Then a sob gathered momentum inside her, a giant bubble of frustration forcing its way up her throat. It tore out of her mouth, once again shaking the house and every precious object inside.

      Elena peeked her head through the hallway door and clucked. “Oh dear. I do hope Dmitri comes back soon. But in the meantime, child, please do try to calm down.”

      Sonya pressed both her hands over her mouth and used all her self-control to keep her roiling emotions inside while she waited for Dmitri.

      Chapter 7

      Dmitri found Makar huddled in a bus shelter on the block Gregor’s tech guys had singled out. The man’s face had been etched in Dmitri’s mind long ago, but still he’d double-checked, then triple-checked the photo to be sure. Definitely a positive ID. It was almost too easy. As soon as the bus pulled away, Dmitri hailed a cab to follow it across town.

      In the back seat of the taxi, Dmitri tried to slow the pulse hammering against his eardrums by sheer force of will. Makar stood near the back door of the bus, which lumbered down the street ten yards ahead. Dmitri kept his eyes trained on the man’s white hair.

      So close, so goddamn close after all these years.

      Stop after stop, Makar remained where he stood. After a slow journey across town, he appeared at the bus’s rear exit. He scanned the street before he took his first step out of the bus.

      “Let me out here.” Dmitri handed the driver a US fifty. No time for change. He vaulted out of the taxi without losing sight of his target. Makar rounded the corner onto an alley.

      Where was he going?

      Dmitri scoped out the buildings on the street for possible destinations. His gaze settled on the domed towers stretching taller than the other buildings—a church—St. Michael’s Ukrainian Orthodox.

      Too bad for Makar. Dmitri didn’t give a damn if the old man had got religion. After what he’d done to Dmitri’s father, he had sins to pay for, in blood. Makar’s death would wipe away a lifetime of wrongs, and Dmitri could finally put the past away for good.

      He jogged the length of the block and rounded the corner of the deserted alley, unholstering his Glock. He had a perfect, clean shot of Makar, who plodded down the sidewalk with his head tucked into the upturned collar of a khaki raincoat.

      But Dmitri’s finger froze on the trigger. It was too easy, too clean—and it would be over too fast. He’d choreographed this moment three dozen different ways, had waited a lifetime, and he wanted to savor it—wanted Makar to see his face and know he hadn’t gotten away with what he’d done to Ivan, not in the end.

      The old man approached an iron gate at the church’s side entrance. With his hand gripping one pointy spike, he raised his head and narrowed his eyes at Dmitri, whose nerves danced with anticipation. The moment of reckoning had arrived. He met Makar’s gaze, nodded, and kept strolling toward him, as if his business were somewhere beyond where the man stood.

      Makar smiled absently, no hint of recognition crossing his face before the broad side door of the church opened. A priest came out wearing his cap, an impressive black beard spilling onto his chest. With a voice that could easily fill a large church, he spoke in Ukrainian. “Brother Boris, welcome. I have laid out the board.”

      “Good, good. My apologies for being late.”

      With a heavy thud, the large door closed, and Dmitri halted, his gut sinking.

      A board?

      That could only mean one thing. Tension coiled around his bones. Just his luck. Makar had come to play chess. He could be in there for hours.

      Dmitri scouted out a recessed entry across the alley. Leaves and trash littered the space. The hiding place allowed him to see the church’s doorway, and it was deep enough he could drag the son of a bitch inside and take his time with him. He slung his pack to the ground and leaned against the wall.

      A wave of exhaustion washed over him, and he tried not to think about the sexy ghost waiting for him at his auntie’s house. The moment he’d stepped away from her, insanity seemed more plausible than her existence.

      He had to be crazy.

      Where his hands rested on his thighs, they shook. His Davidoffs were tucked into his breast pocket. He tapped one out and lit it, inhaling deeply. The richness rolled over his nerves like a woman’s caress. Sure, he could quit the booze, but his love affair with the smokes would never end.

      The bright sun forced its way between low clouds, and he cringed. He was a freaking wreck. Even after a shower, he smelled like his father, his sweat acrid with vodka. And it was all Makar’s fault.

      Everybody knows a broken father makes a broken kid.

      The broad white door of the church swung open, startling him out of his thoughts. A rumbling voice sounded, too low to make out the words. The priest, still wearing his little black cap, patted Makar on the back. Dmitri crouched in the doorway, lining up a nice disabling shot to the thigh.

      This was it.

      All he had to do was fire.

      His hand trembled, and his vision filled with blood—that woman’s tanned and freckled chest became Sonya’s fair skin, covered in a pulsing stream of crimson. He inhaled sharply, trying to clear his mind. СКАЧАТЬ