by Layne, Ivy
“Listen up, crazy lady,” Alice cut in.
I knew that tone. Alice was done. So was I. If my mother’s voice was stone, Alice’s was adamantine. I'd never seen her sky-blue eyes so coldly furious.
“Cooper is going to take you back downstairs and lock you in the safe house. You are going to stay there until he decides to let you go. You can keep your bullshit opinions to yourself. He doesn't care what you have to say. I don't care what you have to say. And you have nothing to do with this little girl.
“If you’d lay off drinking for a few days, your brain might un-pickle itself and you’d see that you're throwing away everything worth having in your life to cling to a man who doesn't give a shit about you. But that's your problem. I'm not going to let you make it ours.”
Alice strode across the kitchen and took Petra from my arms, passing Lacey without a backward glance. “I'm going to get her calmed down and give her a bath. Cooper, could you take out the trash?”
I shouldn't have enjoyed the outrage splashed across my mother's face at Alice's pithy comment, but I did. I enjoyed it a lot.
My mother transformed again after Alice disappeared, meekly allowing me to escort her back downstairs. I followed her into the safe house to find my father lounging on the couch, reading the newspaper, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. With wary eyes, he took in Lacey's lack of expression and my hard jaw.
“Whatever you two are cooking up, it's not going to work,” I told him, tired of beating around the bush. “At ten forty-five, someone will bring you to the conference room. Agent Holley is arriving at eleven. Understood?”
“I'll be there, boy,” he said easily. Too easily.
I looked from his relaxed smile to my mother's utter lack of expression. I couldn't shake the feeling that they were up to something. I tried to convince myself it was nothing.
For one thing, my father was way too clever to trust anything important to my mother considering the amount of alcohol she consumed in a given day. She was not what I would call a reliable partner in crime.
She was, however, infinitely persuadable if offered any of her weaknesses. My father had said she was happy as long as her credit cards were paid off. I wished I could say he was wrong.
After I got to my office, I texted Alice to check on Petra. She responded after a short delay with a picture of Petra, covered to her neck in white bubbles, a dot of bubbles on the tip of her nose. She was smiling and looked like she was playing with some kind of bath toy.
The idea had been for Alice to hit her desk for a few hours this morning while I watched Petra, but things had turned around since then. I texted,
I'll switch with you once we’re done with Holley.
Works for me.
We definitely needed to get her an assistant. I rescheduled some meetings, reviewed the paperwork Dave Price had sent over, and made a short list of current employees who might be interested in the assistant job. It sounded like a junior position, but only to someone who didn't realize that Alice was a whole lot more than an office manager.
Ten forty-five rolled around way too fast. Evers, Axel, and Knox joined me in the conference room, sitting on either side of the seat we’d saved for Dad, leaving the far side of the table for the FBI.
Right on schedule, two of my men escorted my father into the conference room. As if he wasn’t the flight risk we all knew he was, Maxwell ignored his guards, striding ahead of them with his most charming smile plastered on his face.
When he was seated, I slapped the termination papers in front of him and handed him a pen. He signed, muttering, “Your mother about chewed my head off. That woman is pissed.”
I met Agent Holley at the door at exactly eleven o’clock. He’d showed accompanied by three of the bureau’s attorneys. All male, and all dressed in identical ill-fitting charcoal grey suits, they observed my handshake with Agent Holley without expression.
Holley’s greeting was friendly, but as we walked back to the conference room, neither of us mentioned the reason for our meeting. I liked Agent Holley. Respected him. I wished I could say I was entirely on his side. Until I was sure he wouldn’t toss me in prison along with my father, I’d keep my own counsel. I had to.
My father greeted Holley as if they were old golf buddies, shaking his hand and patting him on the shoulder with an affable smile. Holley allowed him his pretense but didn’t return it, taking a seat at the head of the table opposite Maxwell.
Maxwell's jaw hardened at Holley's assumption of authority, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. Then Agent Holley started to talk. He listed the charges against my father, referencing the incontrovertible evidence they had for the majority of them.
Some of it was small-time, most of it was firmly in felony territory. When he was done, Maxwell sat back, crossed his arms over his chest, and said easily, “You'll never make all that stick.”
“I don't have to make all of it stick, Mr. Sinclair. In truth, any one of these charges would put you in jail for at least ten to fifteen years. Maybe you can skate on some of them, but do you really think you can shake them all?”
“I have evidence, too,” my father replied, eyes narrowed in something that almost looked like satisfaction, his head cocked to the side as he studied Agent Holley. “You've been running around like busy little bees building a case against the Tsepovs, but you have no idea what I've got tucked away. I could make your career.”
Agent Holley didn't react in the slightest. Looking down at his pad, he wrote something without acknowledging Maxwell’s statement, reminding me of a psychiatrist calmly taking notes while his patient ranted and raved.
My father probably expected Agent Holley to surge forward, salivating for more, and beg him to cooperate. He hid his disappointment when Holley shared a glance with the FBI counsel before he said, “No matter what you think you have, Mr. Sinclair, it's unavoidable that you’ll spend some time in prison.”
“I don’t know about that,” Maxwell cajoled, “you don’t know what I have.”
“No, but I know what I have. We don’t need your evidence. It would be helpful, but it's not necessary. I'm here to give you a single opportunity to cooperate in exchange for a reduced sentence. If you can assist us in bringing in Andrei Tsepov we’re willing to talk. Anything less than that and the deal is off the table.”
“Listen, you boys can’t expect me to hand you Tsepov. Information? That I can deal with.”
“We don’t want information, Mr. Sinclair. We want Andrei Tsepov.”
“I’m not putting my ass on the line to draw Andrei out. You're crazy if you think it’ll be that easy.”
Agent Holley tapped the back of his pen on the desk to retract the point and closed his notebook. Unfolding from the chair to his full height, he loomed over the table.
“We’re done here. I’m sorry we couldn’t come to an agreement. I need you to stand and put your hands behind your head.”
Pulling a shiny set of handcuffs from his suit pocket, Agent Holley looked from one side of the table to the other, meeting the eyes of the attorneys he’d brought with him. “Gentlemen?” All three rose in unison.
For the first time, Maxwell's façade of charm cracked. He didn't stand, but he did lean forward, bracing his elbows on the conference table.
“Hey, let's not be hasty. I don't want to go to jail. I want to do the right thing as much as anyone—”
Lie. Such a fucking lie, and we all knew it.
But Maxwell wasn’t done. “You can’t expect me to be the one to bring him in. I may not want to go to jail, but more than that, I don't want to die. Andrei is not like his uncle. He's a fuck-up, and a nut-case, and he’s more dangerous than Sergey ever was. If Andrei thinks I've betrayed him, he'll shoot me without a second thought.”
“Prison or cooperation, Mr. Sinclair. Those are your choices.” Agent Holley laid it out and waited.
With another shared glance, the FBI agents sat back down. Agent Holley re-opened his notebook and clicked his pen open.
“I suggest we hammer out a plan, Mr. Sinclair. Between your own people and ours, we’ll do everything we can to keep you alive, assuming you follow our directions. Your only other option is prison. Am I clear?”
Maxwell nodded.
I’d kept my mouth shut through their initial negotiations, but as they began to work out a way for Maxwell to draw Tsepov out into the open, I chimed in along with Evers, Knox, and Axel.
I didn't want my father to go to jail. He was an asshole and a shitty dad, but he was still my father.
I definitely did not want him to die. Tsepov had taken too much from too many people. Petra’s mother. Summer’s father. Lily’s husband. Every single woman and child whose life he’d destroyed.
Helping the FBI bring Tsepov in was a risk, but even my father had to admit it was worth it if it would keep him out of jail for the rest of his life.
If Maxwell was going to put himself in the line of fire, my brothers and I would do everything we could to make sure he came out of it in one piece. We could protect him from Tsepov. We couldn’t protect him from himself.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Alice
I woke to the sensation of something vital slipping through my fingers. Of something I desperately needed being dragged away as my hand closed on air.
In those first foggy seconds as sleep receded, I thought it was a dream.
A cry broke through the fog and I knew. The heat of Petra’s small body beside me was gone, the sheets moving around me. Another plaintive cry and a vicious swear.
That was all it took.
I was painfully awake, panic spiking through my limbs, firing up my brain.
Petra.
My skirt tangling around my legs, I lunged to the end of the bed, my hand reaching to catch Petra's arm. Lacey stood there, a manic look in her eyes, her hands closed around Petra’s leg, pulling with all her strength.
Lacey?
What was Lacey doing here? How had she even gotten in? Everything was on lockdown. Cooper’s front door required a handprint, and there were cameras everywhere.
I lunged again, wrapping my arms around Petra's chest and kicking out at Lacey to make her let go. Her fingers around Petra's ankle were a steel manacle.
Hacking at her arm with the side of my hand, I tried to break her grip.
She was impervious, just drunk enough that she felt no pain but not so drunk that she was going to give up and go away. Dangerous.
Holding Petra to me with one arm, I closed my fingers around Lacey's wrist and twisted hard. Nothing, her fingers were still locked around Petra’s small leg in a bruising grip.
Shifting my attack, I grabbed Lacey’s thumb and yanked hard. With a shriek of pain, her hand fell off Petra and I whirled, shoving the little girl behind me.
Lacey dove around me. I shot out one arm to block her, sending her flying back. This wasn't the first time I'd been grateful for my training, but it was the first that I wished I’d had more.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to stall her. “What do you want?”
Lacey’s eyes fixed on me, the lines of red snaking through whites less bloodshot than usual. She was feral. Focused. She wanted my girl and she’d go through me to get her.
I shoved Petra further behind me, not taking my eyes off Lacey. I didn't want Petra within arm's reach as Lacey steadily advanced. We were trapped in Petra’s bedroom, Lacey blocking our only exit.
I couldn’t let her close enough to grab Petra again. She might be drunk, but she was oddly strong. Determined.
We needed help.
I'd fallen asleep in Petra's room not long after lunch. For a kid who’d tossed and turned all night, she slept like an angel when she napped. I only meant to stay until she was out, but she'd been so warm tucked into my side and I was so tired. I’d drifted off right beside her.
I don't know how long we slept. It didn't matter. No one would come to our rescue unless they knew we needed help. There was no phone here. No alarm panel.
We had to get out of Petra’s room.
I backed slowly away from Lacey, moving deeper into the room to put space between us before changing my path to an arc, trying to get Lacey to clear the doorway. With each step to the side, Lacey mirrored me, gradually taking a position on the far side of the door. She was closer to us, almost within grabbing distance, but she no longer blocked our way out.
Lacey was strong and determined, but she was still a little drunk and not very smart. Not realizing she’d open up an avenue for our escape, Lacey advanced, hand outstretched.
“Just give me the girl,” Lacey cajoled, her voice a terrifying singsong. “You said she’s not yours. Why do you even care? I just need to get rid of her. Once I hand her over to Andrei, he'll make her disappear. Then Maxwell will forget her slut of a mother and everything can go back to normal.”
“Do you really think he’ll forgive you for that?” I took a slow step sideways, closer to the door, hoping Lacey would again mirror my movement. She did, coming closer, but setting herself deeper into the room. Almost…
“You don't want her anyway,” Lacey crooned. “You and Cooper want to be alone, don't you? Why would you want a child? Sticky and messy. So demanding. Just give her to me. I'll make her go away. Then you and Cooper can be happy. Maxwell will come home. Everything will be the way it’s supposed to be.”
Lacey's utter lack of conscience was chilling. She couldn't figure out how to get rid of me, so she found a way to convince herself that Petra was the source of all of her problems.
Get rid of Petra and Maxwell would forget about the girl he claimed he’d loved? Forget about their child?
Considering Maxwell, I could kind of see Lacey's point. He probably would forget about Petra once she was out of sight. But to give her to Andrei, knowing what he did with women and children? Lacey was a monster.
No matter what, she wasn’t going to touch Petra.
Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I made a quick quarter turn and snatched up Petra, bundling her into my arms as I barreled through the open door and into the hall. Lacey lurched after me, hands clawing, nails digging into my arm. With a burst of speed, I tore through her grip and down the hall.
Cursing my short legs, I sprinted for the front door. Too far. It was too far. Lacey was gaining on me way too fast for an out-of-shape drunk woman twice my age.
I wasn’t going to make it. Her fingers closed on the back of my dress, yanking so hard I rocked back on my heels, almost going down. With a lunge, I broke free and veered right at the end of the hall.
On the wall opposite the windows was a panic button discreetly placed beside the light switches. I slammed my hand on it the second I was close enough, the faint click of it activating filling me with relief.
I’d reached the panic button but sacrificed my escape route.
I bumped into the side of the couch as Lacey emerged from the hall. A triumphant smile spreading across her face, she came to a stop directly between us and the front door.
Lacey studied Petra and me as if we were bugs under a microscope, assessing her options. Sidling ever closer, she stopped again at the side of the couch, right next to the light switches. Lacey didn't seem to notice the panic button pushed flush with the wall.
No, her attention was on the table beneath the switches and the tall, black, iron lamp in the center.
Shit.
Two feet tall, with the circumference of a baseball bat, the lamp made for a hell of a weapon. Why hadn’t I thought to grab it?
She was fucking insane. I juggled Petra in my arms, raising her until my mouth was level with her ear. “Hide behind the couch. Do you understand? Nod if you understand. Hide behind the couch.”
For an endless second, Petra remained still, no response to my whispered order.
Please, please sweetie. Please understand.
I could try to fight off Lacey, but not while holding Petra in my arms. The panic button would bring help, but every second passing was an eternity. Lacey could do a hell of a lot of damage with that lamp in the few minutes it would take to mobilize a rescue.
After an endless moment, Petra gave a slow nod, whispering back, “Hide.”
I kissed her temple. “That's right, baby. Hide. Hide for me, okay?”
I set her on her feet. She took off like a shot, scrambling around the glass coffee table and behind the short side of the L-shaped couch. Pushed up against the wall of windows, the slanted back created a narrow tunnel. Far too small for an adult, it was the perfect hiding place for a wiggly three-year-old.
Even if Lacey took me down, she’d have a bitch of a time getting to Petra before help arrived. Lacey was strong, but the couch weighed a ton. The worst of my fear retreated now that Petra wasn't seconds away from being bashed in the head with two feet of iron.
Petra was safe, but me? I was in some trouble.
Lacey howled with rage as her quarry disappeared behind the bulk of the black leather couch.
“Why do you always get in my way?” she demanded with a petulant whine.
Advancing on me, she adjusted her grip so she held the narrow base of the lamp with two hands, cocking it back over her shoulder in a decent imitation of a batter’s stance.
Fucking hell.
I dodged, staying between Lacey and the end of the couch where Petra had disappeared. The lamp grazed my arm as Lacey swung.
