22. Chapter 22

22

Clara

B arefoot, dirty, and dragging the remnants of my dignity, I make my way over to Mitch.

I shake my head, not quite believing it. “Mitch, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

He glances up, caviar fork frozen mid-air, his eyes sweeping over me like I’m some kind of ghost.

“Clara?” His voice drags slightly, like the words are fighting their way through molasses. He’s staring. At my bare feet. At the mess that used to be me about five car chases ago.

One eyebrow arches lazily, almost comically slow. “What… happened… to you?”

“You know I was kidnapped by Kuznetsov, right?”

He blinks, his gaze wandering like he’s trying to process the sentence, then lazily shovels another spoonful of caviar into his mouth. He chews deliberately, the sound almost cartoonishly loud in the silence.

“Yes,” he finally says, dragging the word out like he’s still piecing together the conversation.

“And you’re just… eating caviar?”

“This is good,” he says, lips curling into a slow, lopsided smile that feels all kinds of wrong.

Holy shit, Mitch is smiling.

There’s a gap where his front tooth should be, which is new. In the decade I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him crack more than a grimace.

Not since Jake died.

“Well, in his defense, we had to pump him full of ketamine to get him to stay put.” A doctor appears beside Mitch’s bed, gray hair cropped military-short against his skull, wire-rim glasses perched on a nose that’s been broken at least twice. “He tried to escape. Twice.”

“Three times,” Mitch corrects, spearing another bite of caviar.

“Three times,” the doctor agrees. “Last time with an IV pole as a weapon.”

Something hits my feet. I look down to find Leonid crouched there, hospital slippers in hand. He doesn’t ask, just lifts my foot and slides one on.

What the actual fuck?

My brain short-circuits. The fearsome Raven, terror of the Russian underworld, is putting Cinderella slippers on my dirty feet.

I should move. Say something. Do anything except stand here like an idiot while he slides the second slipper on with the same efficiency that he probably uses to hide bodies.

“Your feet were cold.” He stands up, hands in his pockets like he didn’t just break my brain.

“I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were. Your toes were turning blue.”

Mitch snorts into his caviar. The doctor busies himself with a floating screen, shoulders shaking.

I open my mouth. Close it. What exactly is the protocol when your sworn enemy starts playing fairy godmother?

“The ketamine explains a lot,” I manage finally, desperate to focus on anything else. “Like why Mitch is eating fancy fish eggs instead of trying to murder everyone.”

“Oh, he did try.” The doctor taps his broken nose. “Hence the ketamine.”

“God, Mitch…” My fingers find the bruises mapping his arms, spreading up his neck.

Leonid drops into a chair beside the bed. “Would you believe this man crawled through a broken windshield, bleeding, just to find you?”

“What?”

“Shot up my Audi on Canal Street.” Leonid’s mouth twitches. “Dragged that bad leg of his through glass and metal. Didn’t even flinch. Just kept asking where you were.”

The bruises make more sense now. “And you let him fight Dmitry?”

“Let him?” Leonid scoffs. “Your guardian psychopath here wouldn’t stop until someone told him where you were. Dmitry just happened to be closest.”

I grip Mitch’s hand. His knuckles are split, glass cuts still visible.

“You shouldn’t have—”

“He is a soldier,” Leonid interrupts. “One of the old ones. The kind that dies standing. I’m merely honoring his choice.”

“By drugging him into submission?”

“By saving his life.” The words hit harder than they should. Mitch blinks at his plate, head tilting like he’s trying to remember something.

“Caviar pairs well with cheese. And watercress. Did you know watercress grows in water?” He squints. “Like fish.”

My chest tightens.

Even high as a kite, he’s still trying to protect me. His hand suddenly clamps around mine. “Clara.” His voice breaks. “I’m sorry. About Jake. About letting things slip—”

“Slip?” Something cold slides down my spine. “What slipped, Mitch?” He shakes his head, fighting through the ketamine haze.

“Should’ve seen it. The signs were there, but I was watching the wrong shadows. Looking east when I should’ve been looking—” His words slur, eyes unfocusing.

“Mitch?” I squeeze his hand. “What shadows? What signs?”

My eyes dart between Leonid and Mitch. Something’s off. Leonid’s too calm, watching Mitch like he already knows what’s coming.

Tears streak down Mitch’s weathered face. “Jake wouldn’t want…” He swallows hard. “Wouldn’t want to see you sad because of him.”

Fuck that.

“Shut up.” I turn away, but Leonid’s there, those eyes burning into me. I snap my gaze back to the floor. Rage builds in my chest, hot and familiar.

My head snaps up. “He killed Jake.” The words taste like blood in my mouth. My fingers dig into Mitch’s bed rail.

I point at Leonid, hand shaking. “He killed Jake. The Raven killed my brother.”

“No.” Mitch’s voice slurs, his head rolling side to side. “No, no, no, Clara…”

No?

The word hits like a punch to the gut. Relief floods in where anger used to be, and what the fuck is that about?

“No.” Mitch coughs, struggling to focus. “Leonid Kuznetsov, the real Raven—”

Leonid nods, tapping his chest. Claiming the title.

“Was in Moscow,” Mitch’s words tumble out, fighting the drugs. “When the fucking fake Raven… they… they killed Jake.”

The room tilts. Fourteen years of hatred crack down the middle.

If Leonid was in Moscow…

If The Raven wasn’t The Raven…

If Jake knew something…

Black spots dance at the edges of my vision. The last thing I see is Leonid lunging forward, those damn eyes of his full of something that looks too much like concern.

Bastard. Even his eyes are lying to me.

Aren’t they?

“Well, well.” A familiar voice drags me back to consciousness. “The great Clara Caldwell is human, after all.”

My eyes crack open to find Leonid in a chair beside me, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. He looks hot. Hotter than his usual hot .

“Fuck off.” My throat feels like sandpaper.

“The doctor says it’s exhaustion. Shock. Low blood sugar.” He ticks them off on his fingers. “And something about stubborn idiots who don’t eat between car chases.”

I try to sit up. Bad idea. The room spins.

“Stay down before you face-plant again.” His hand catches my shoulder. “Once was entertaining enough.”

“Glad I could provide the day’s entertainment.” I squint at him. “Where’s Mitch?”

“Sleeping off enough ketamine to drop a horse.” His thumb traces circles on my shoulder. “He’ll be fine. You, on the other hand…”

“Elijah?” My heart jumps. “Where’s—”

He pulls out his phone, flicking through it before holding up a picture. My son sprawled on what looks like the world’s most expensive couch, fast asleep with a massive German Shepherd curled around him. Pizza crusts are scattered nearby.

“He’s fine. Demolished three slices of pizza, made friends with every animal I own, and passed out with Kayla.” His lips twitch. “She hasn’t left his side.”

Something in my chest loosens. “You have a dog?”

“I have several. Though they seem to be his dogs now.”

I stare at the picture longer than I should. At my son’s peaceful face. At the way the massive dog wraps around him like a shield. At the casual evidence that the feared Raven keeps pets and feeds kids pizza.

Fourteen years of painting him as a monster, and here he is, letting our son turn his guard dogs into puppies.

Our son.

The thought hits like a sucker punch. I drop the phone like it burns.

“What? Going to drug me too?” I quip, hoping to change the topic in my own head.

“Tempting.” His voice drops lower. “But I have better ideas.”

Before I can tell him exactly where to shove his ideas, he leans in and kisses me.

Not like before. Not that angry clash of teeth and spite. This is slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to tell me something his words can’t.

I should push him away. Should remember fourteen years of hatred. Should—

Fuck should.

Deep down, I’ve always known. Known it wasn’t him who killed Jake. The timing was wrong. The details didn’t add up. But hatred is easier than uncertainty. Easier than admitting there’s still a monster out there, one without a face or a name.

One I can’t find.

Can’t fight.

Can’t kill.

Until today. Until I saw him in the auction. The truth I’ve been running from.

Leonid isn’t my brother’s killer.

He’s just the face I gave my nightmares.

And God help me, but I’m glad. Glad it’s not him. Glad I don’t have to— My fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer. He tastes like coffee and danger and things I shouldn’t want.

When he finally pulls back, those eyes of his are dark. “Still want to kill me?”

“Yes.” I drag him back down. “But not until I find out who killed Jake.”