Petersburg, Russia He remembered the three-story house vaguely. He’d been back a few times since he was a kid, but it never seemed quite as large as it had then, quite as grandiose. It was a ridiculous fusion of old-world Russia meets American shabby-chic; half the items cheap, Martha Stewart magazine reproductions mixed among the heavy, dark, hand-carved wooden furniture meant to last generations. Sacha never did care for it. Too Americanized, like the man who owned the place. Too loose and free flowing and willing to compromise. But it was all his now, or would be once certain legal documents were sorted, and he would enjoy striking the match and setting it all aflame. Just as soon as he found what he was looking for. Xander Duquesne was no longer an option. But Sacha had a feeling that would be the case before the meeting was ever set. He should have killed him when he had the chance, but would not focus on the missed opportunity. Neither his body nor the girl’s had been found in the rubble of the tunnels, and none of the night guards were left alive to stop them from walking right out the front door of the chateau.
