Wednesday. Graveyard. St. Petersburg, Russia.
OBRAN STARED AT THE headstone marking his wife's grave. The stone was simple. The grave unremarkable next to all the others. Once they'd talked about what they wanted. She'd insisted that she'd come from modest roots and that was what she wanted to return to no matter what he could afford.
"Our girl is running into a world of hurt," he muttered to the bit of earth.
His phone rang, as if acknowledging the events meant they were back on this path. At least it was his man calling and not one of the others. There was still a slim chance he could save this. Save his daughter.
He blew out a breath and tapped the screen, all the while staring at the name of the woman he'd loved. "What?"
"She's just boarded a flight to Amsterdam," the man said.
"
