In the business of selling stolen goods, anonymity was essential. Margo had assumed her own identity was an open secret between her and Vojak—they’d spent too much time together, face-to-well-known-face, for her to have gone unrecognized by now; but he’d courteously played the farce for over a year, never addressing her by name—until today.
Halfway back to the mansion, a private drive crested a hill, ending in an empty lot with an oblique view of the ocean. A signboard advertised a forthcoming property, but for now it was a dusty waste, hemmed in by looming cypress trees that blocked the view of neighbors. Vojak was waiting for her, leaning against his car, eyes on the gray clouds rolling in over the coast.
“I appreciate a little cloak-and-dagger as much as the next girl,” Margo began in a weary tone as she climbed out of her own vehicle, “but … maybe you could’ve saved this stunt for the next girl?”
“I’m sorry.” Vojak’s tone was somber and almost formal. “This wasn’t exactly my first choice. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you, but…”
“I’ve been a little out of touch,” Margo finished for him. There was a moment of pregnant silence, into which she nearly screamed. “I’m assuming you didn’t summon me here for my opinion on zoning laws?”
Vojak glanced at the churned earth behind them, and shook his head. “No. I’ve got some news, actually. I found a buyer for those wayward paintings that followed you home last month.” He gave a distant grin. “A certain collector I know offered a million for the lot.”
Margo’s brain was still moving on a slower rotation than normal, and it took her a beat to catch up. “A million? As in … a million?”
“Some of it will be cash, and some of it will be stones, so there may be a delay while I organize a clean wire transfer for you. But yes: a million as in a million.”
“Wow. Okay. Wow.” Margo watched birds circle a line of palms beyond the brow of the hillside. Money felt so abstract all of a sudden; she’d never had less than she needed, and now she had more than she knew what to do with. But a million, even divided up, would make a huge difference to those she’d share it with. “Thank you.”
“Just doing my job,” Vojak remarked. There was another pause as he stared at the clouds, and Margo was afraid she was going to have to shake him until he told her what was really on his mind; but then: “A couple of guys came to visit me this week.”
Instantly, Margo’s hackles rose, the man’s tone bringing up gooseflesh on her arms. “A couple of guys?”
“Big, thick accents, covered in bad stick-and-poke tattoos of eight-pointed stars and skulls and shit.” Vojak fixed her with a look, and Margo felt the color drain from her face.
“Russian prison ink?”
“They didn’t exactly present me with calling cards, but I’m guessing they were Russian mob—or mob-connected.” He fingered the toothy snarl of a silver wolf’s head on his cane. “They dropped in to see if I’d heard anything about the theft of some antique Russian jewelry. Apparently, a highly organized team of young women”—Vojak fired her a glance—“stole an absolute fortune in gems from a friend of theirs, and they are really eager to find out who was behind it. So eager that they’re going around, making offers that aren’t easily refused. If you catch my drift.”
“You basically handed me that drift,” Margo mumbled.
“I told them I had no idea what they were talking about. No clients of mine have commissioned that kind of a job, and no one has come to me trying to move any Czarist pieces.” The tip of the cane scratched a zigzag in the ground at their feet. “But they weren’t exactly satisfied. They really want to know what happened to these particular baubles, and they’re willing to apply any kind of pressure it takes to find out.”
“I see.” Margo swallowed dryly. Her father’s death had eclipsed everything so totally that she’d forgotten to even report the Petrenko haul to her fence. And now … what exactly was Vojak trying to say? “They think you know who took these items?”
“It’s a small world, and they know I’m one of the guys most likely to hear about it,” he answered diplomatically. “But I haven’t heard. And I don’t think I want to—because I’m not sure I could resist the kind of pressure these dudes were describing to me. So if you know who was behind this particular job, or you ever find out, maybe do us all a favor and keep me out of the loop? If you understand what I’m saying.”
“I understand.” Margo’s mouth felt like it was full of paste.
“I hope so,” Vojak stated gravely, “because I’m trying to scare you. These guys know a few dozen ways to remove body parts and keep you alive while they’re doing it, and they are definitely a ‘dismember first, ask questions later’ kind of crew.” He pushed off the side of the vehicle and opened the door. “If you know anything? Try to forget it. I intend to do the same.”
The sedan did a wide circle over the barren earth, and then trundled out of sight, disappearing down the slope back to the Pacific Coast Highway. For a long while, Margo stood by herself in the empty lot, her feet frozen and her blood thoroughly chilled.
23
By the time she reached the mansion, the storm clouds had burst, and Margo’s stomach was as unsettled as the storm-tossed Pacific. For Vojak to track her down in person meant the threat was very real—and she should’ve seen it coming. Pulling her car into the garage, she switched off the engine and pounded her hand against the steering wheel until her palm started to hurt. She should have expected this.
She knew about Petrenko’s criminal connections, and she knew he’d picked up art on the black market before; she even knew a few of the Czarist pieces were among his dubious acquisitions. Vojak was one of the best, and a man with the Russian billionaire’s purchasing power would surely have heard of him. In retrospect, it was a given—obvious—that Arkady would try to track down his things by leaning on his underworld contacts.
Vojak couldn’t tell what he didn’t know, though, and thank God he couldn’t tell Petrenko this. But she was in a hell of a position, anyway, and even if she buried the stash sixty feet below the Staples Center, she still wouldn’t be entirely out of the woods. The man wasn’t stupid, and he clearly had an inkling about Margo’s involvement. If Petrenko’s “pressure” was extreme enough, she could still be in danger—and so could the boys.
Slamming her fist against the steering wheel again, she collapsed back, sobbing helplessly. It felt like she’d done nothing but cry for a week, her father’s death leaving her constantly on the knife’s edge of tears. She was exhausted and overwhelmed and, now, furious. How could she have been so stupid? She’d seen Axel lose his objectivity, and it had convinced her that she was seeing things with clearer eyes; but she’d been just as bad. The temptation of ending all their debts, pulling off an impossible job, had kept her from thinking far enough ahead. After all her dire warnings about variables and ugly surprises, she’d fallen face-first into a snare that had practically come with a blinking marquee.
Hands shaking, she sucked down some air and forced herself out of the car. Unbelievably, she still had several more hours of her father’s death to get through before she could dive into an emotional spiral on account of this particular wrinkle.
* * *
Nobody dared to tell a grieving daughter she couldn’t have alcohol after her father’s funeral—and rarely did anyone have the guts to say no to Margo Manning anyway—so she indulged until the crush of earnest guests felt less threatening, and the air took on a thick, dreamy quality, mourners speaking to her as though through glass.
And then finally the guests were filtering out, empty glasses and wadded cocktail napkins left discreetly behind, the foyer echoing with murmurs of, “Call if you need anything,” until only a handful of people were left.
Dallas, his tie loosened, placed a champagne flute in her hand. His eyes, a deep, chestnut brown, were wide and warm. “I thought you could use this.”
Margo studied the sparkling, rose-gold wine, tiny bubbles breaking
its surface, and took stock of herself. She felt languid, a rowboat moored with a loose knot. “Hmm … I’m afraid if I have anything else, I’ll regret it.”
“I, uh…” Dallas winced. “It’s time for the reading of your dad’s will. I figured a little liquid courage…”
Margo tightened her grip on the champagne, suddenly more sober than she’d felt in months, and followed him to her father’s study. Like every other room in the mansion, it was dominated by stark lines and squared edges, a minimalist theme in muted tones. Win Martin, gray and clammy, was slouched behind Harland’s desk, his expression as absent as a Halloween mask. Sinking into a boxy armchair, Margo wondered which one of them was going to have the harder time getting through this formality.
The attorney waited until everyone was present—Irina and Dr. Khan, Reginald Castor and Addison Brand and others she only vaguely recognized—while Dallas perched discreetly on a stool in the corner. It was weird seeing the study occupied; it was the room that Harland had vanished into for most of Margo’s childhood, a forbidden zone where she dared not to tread, effectively abandoned since his illness.
“Well, we all know why we’re here,” Win began brusquely, shuffling through the papers before him. His voice was clearer than it had been at the funeral home, but he appeared miserable. “Everyone in this room has been named in the last will and testament of Harland Woodrow Manning, and it was his wish that the disposition of his estate be presented in this manner.” He cleared his throat, reading, “‘I, Harland W. Manning, being of sound mind and body do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking all others that came before it.’”
He proceeded through several pages of minor gifts and endowments—the LA Opera, the philharmonic orchestra, LAMFA—before moving on to more substantial sums for personal acquaintances. When Irina was named, the woman started weeping, even before she heard the number.
“‘To my daughter, Margaret Evelyn Manning,’” Win read, and Margo’s heart began to pound inexplicably, “‘with the exception of gifts otherwise stipulated in this document, I leave the full remainder of all my liquid assets, stocks, bonds, and other material goods, and all my tangible properties, to be managed in trust by the party identified hereunder until her eighteenth birthday.’”
There was more—Harland’s longtime financial manager was appointed executor of Margo’s trust; a codicil allowed her to appoint a different executor when she turned eighteen, a proviso formally ending the trust when she reached twenty-one—but she barely heard any of it. Her palms sweaty, her pulse racing like she’d just dodged a head-on collision with a truck, Margo gulped the rest of her champagne with shaking hands.
It wasn’t really a surprise, but the dry, legal terms made it feel so final. With that brief, clinical paragraph, it hit her like a wave of freezing water that this was the last she’d ever hear from her father—this document, this inconceivably grandiose behest, formed the final page in their shared story. His words would never fill the air in this study, his judgment would never stare up at her from a row of tabloid pages, he would never get to build on the ground-shaking statements he’d made during their final conversation. The tears on her lips made the champagne taste like salt.
Win moved on, launching into matters pertaining to the company, Harland Manning literally micromanaging from beyond the grave. In a better mood, the attorney might have joked about it; but instead he kept his eyes on the page, his recitation rushed, like he couldn’t wait to have it all over with.
“‘As for the Manning Corporation, it shall come as no surprise that I wish to leave my company in hands that will faithfully carry forth my vision. Therefore, I hereby do appoint as Manning’s next chief executive officer, and trust the board shall confirm in such capacity, my loyal chief operating officer and longtime personal friend, Addison Beaufort Brand.’” A round of murmurs circled the room, and Margo stole a glance at the man in question, his face shiny with pride. There was a pause before Win forged ahead again. “‘As pertains to my holdings in Manning stock, I hereby leave the entirety of my controlling, fifty-one percent share to Addison Beaufort Brand to do with as he sees fit, and also appoint him to succeed me as chairman of the board of directors.’”
This time, the reaction was far less understated. Nadiya Khan glanced up sharply, her lips pressed into a flat line; Reginald Castor blinked, his face slack, eyes flicking between Brand and the attorney as if he hadn’t heard correctly; and, most curious of all, Dallas straightened suddenly in his chair, his brow furrowing as he stared a question at the back of Win Martin’s head. In fact, the only person who seemed to take the announcement in stride was Addison himself.
The remainder of the will was read hurriedly, tension rising in the room like flood waters; and when Win finished the last clause, Addison was the first to exit, grinning like a shark making off not just with the bait but the fisherman as well. Castor was on his feet next, his expression composed but his shoulders tense as he approached the desk. “I am somewhat disconcerted, Winchester. Based on certain things Harland had confided in me, I was expecting a different outcome from this reading.”
“I can’t help what you were expecting, Reginald.” Win’s tone was clipped and frosty. “And I have no idea what Harland said to you. All I can tell you is that he revised his will the day he died, and these are the results. Obviously, I am legally enjoined from discussing the details, and could only speculate as to his reasons anyway. I’m sure you understand.”
As the attorney gathered the loose pages, stuffing them inelegantly into his briefcase, Reginald Castor watched him with a gimlet eye. “No. I’m afraid I don’t.”
Without another word, Castor made stiffly for the door of the study, sparing a brief moment to pat Margo’s shoulder. Almost immediately, Dallas was standing before the desk, his handsome features pulled together in a frown. “Win, I’m confused, too. I thought that—”
“Not now, Mr. Yang,” Win dismissed him irritably, snapping the locks shut on his briefcase. “It’s been a long day, and I don’t have time to explain points of law to you.”
“It’s not that.” Dallas’s frown deepened. “I just … I thought…” He struggled, frustrated, seeming to rethink his words. “I was under the impression that…”
“I’m not paying you for your impressions,” Win retorted, an edge in his voice that Margo had never heard before. “In fact, I don’t believe I’m paying you at all. How about you stick to filing and answering the phones, and leave the ‘impressions’ to me?”
Dallas straightened, his eyes going cold. “Sure, why not.”
Scooping his briefcase off the desk, Win muttered a general farewell and then hastened out of the room, avoiding Margo completely. She watched in shock as he disappeared, and then turned back to Dallas. “What the hell was that about?”
Dallas just shook his head. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t understand—” He cut himself short, giving her a guilty look. “I’m sorry. There’s a lot I can’t say, because of legal stuff. But I’m surprised and confused, and … okay, maybe I shouldn’t even say that.”
“Surprised and confused about what?” She asked the question reflexively, but he only shook his head again, unwilling to meet her eyes.
“Margo?” Dr. Khan was standing beside her chair, her eyes troubled, and the girl got to her feet. “I … wanted to say again how sorry I am. I’ll give you a call in a few days, to arrange that visit—and I’m afraid I won’t take no for an answer.”
Again, there was the palpable sense of words unspoken hanging in the air, but the woman merely squeezed Margo’s hand and then left.
Irina approached next, blubbering into a knot of overworked tissues, and dragged Margo into a bosomy hug that lasted way too long. She asked repeatedly if there was anything the girl needed—but there really wasn’t; no one had the power to give Margo what she truly needed just then.
When the housekeeper left, the room was empty but for Margo and Dallas. He slipped off his tie, long fin
gers uncoiling the knot. “How come your mom wasn’t here?”
“Are you kidding?” Margo snorted a laugh. “When I called her about it, she told me she could, quote, celebrate her ex-husband’s death just as easily from Italy, where the wine is better and her good cheer wouldn’t scandalize his hypocritical acquaintances. Unquote.”
“Yowch.” Dallas’s eyebrows climbed halfway to his hairline. There was a moment of silence as they looked around the room, at the empty chairs still aimed toward the desk, and he shifted his weight. “Margo … did your dad ever talk to you about his plans for the company? I mean, in the event that … well, in this event?”
“Not exactly.” Margo couldn’t stop thinking about Harland’s desk—the drawers she would have to go through, the items she wouldn’t want to use or throw out. It was all hers now, and the responsibility felt like a mudslide. “Dad was weird about the company. He always wanted me to take an interest, but he also wanted me to have space from it, if that makes sense?”
“What’s your current stake in Manning, do you know?” He seemed to realize how brazen the question was, because his ears turned a little pink when he asked it. “Sorry, that’s probably none of my business.”
“No, it’s fine,” she assured him. “I own a handful of stock—not enough to make a difference, but more than most of the casual shareholders. I always let Dad vote for me, though. Now, I guess—” And then it finally hit her: In bequeathing his full interest in the company to his second in command, Harland had transferred the family business right out of the family. For all intents and purposes, the Manning Corporation now belonged entirely to Addison Brand. Not sure how to process this, Margo looked up at Dallas, blinking. “I don’t get it. He always used to lecture me about my fuckups because of how they would affect my credibility in business. He never pressured me to take an interest in Manning, but it felt like it was just … assumed. I know I’m only seventeen, and I’m not even sure I want a corporate future, but I can’t believe he shut the door like that.”
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