A hand shot out, grabbing the doorknob and pulling the door closed. One of Biba’s soldiers narrowed his eyes at me. “I believe you were leaving,” he snapped in warning. “My apologies,” I offered, turning to catch up with the others. I only half listened as we said our farewells, then went our separate ways. I started my car and began to drive with no destination in mind. It couldn’t be. It had to be a coincidence. The image of Sofia’s panicked face when I told her I’d watched her paint came to mind, and my temples began to throb. Why on earth would Sofia’s painting be at a Russian chop shop? What the f**k had I missed in her life while I’d been gone? She had known about her family mafia connections all her life, so what other secrets did she have? The f*****g Russians? Those assholes were
