Chapter 4 - THE BLUEBIRD IN THE NURSERY
Elena’s apartment smelled wrong.
Not damaged.
Not dirty.
Wrong.
Someone had been inside the grief.
That was the only way she could explain it.
Cabinets stood open.
Drawers had been emptied.
The couch cushions had been cut.
Her bedroom mattress had been overturned.
But the worst damage was in the nursery.
Noah’s stuffed bear lay facedown near the door.
Eli’s blanket had been pulled from the crib.
The wall decals had been scraped.
And the wooden mobile Marco built by hand hung crooked above two empty cribs.
Blue birds.
White clouds.
Tiny yellow stars.
Elena stopped in the doorway.
Three months disappeared.
Her sons were alive again for one brutal second.
Noah laughing.
Eli kicking both feet whenever the birds spun.
Marco complaining that the mobile instructions were written by sadists.
Elena gripping the doorframe.
Matteo stood behind her.
He said nothing.
For once, his silence did not anger her.
She walked inside.
The armed men remained outside.
Matteo had ordered it without being asked.
Elena touched Noah’s crib.
Dust had begun settling along the rail.
She had not entered this room since the funeral.
Not once.
Marco’s last words returned.
Remember the bluebird.
She looked at the mobile.
“There are six birds.”
Matteo stepped closer.
“Which one?”
“I don’t know.”
Elena reached upward.
Her fingers shook.
The first bird was hollow wood.
Nothing.
The second.
Nothing.
The third had been painted darker blue than the others.
She turned it.
A seam.
Her heart accelerated.
“Matteo.”
He reached up but stopped before touching it.
“You.”
Elena twisted the bird.
The wooden body opened.
A tiny brass key fell into her palm.
And beneath it, wrapped in wax paper, was a memory card.
Elena stared.
Marco had hidden evidence above their sleeping children.
Anger hit first.
Then understanding.
Nobody would search there.
Not if the family survived.
Not if there was no reason.
But Marco had known there might be.
“You knew.”
She whispered it to a dead man.
“You knew.”
Matteo looked at the card.
“Do not insert that into anything connected to the internet.”
Elena almost smiled.
“You say romantic things.”
“I’ve been told.”
She looked at him.
“By your wife?”
Something shifted in his face.
“Yes.”
The answer softened something between them neither acknowledged.
Matteo handed the card to his security technician.
“Offline system.”
The young man nodded.
Then Matteo examined the brass key.
“Storage locker?”
“Safe-deposit box?”
“Maybe.”
Elena turned it over.
A number had been stamped into the metal.
She knew that number.
“Union Station.”
Matteo frowned.
“What?”
“Marco rented a locker there once when we were moving.”
“You remember the number?”
“No.”
Elena shook her head.
“But he used 417 for everything temporary.”
“Why?”
“Our anniversary.”
April seventeenth.
Pain passed through her unexpectedly.
Matteo saw it.
He looked away.
The technician called from the kitchen.
“Mr. Volkov.”
They joined him.
The memory card contained only three files.
One encrypted spreadsheet.
One photograph.
One twelve-second audio recording.
The photograph opened first.
Elena’s knees nearly gave out.
Marco stood beside Nadia Volkov.
They were outside a coffee shop.
Neither looked at the camera.
They were speaking to a third person.
The face had been partially obscured by a passing vehicle.
Matteo leaned closer.
“Can you recover that?”
The technician nodded.
“Maybe.”
Elena pointed.
“What coffee shop?”
Matteo recognized it.
“Red Hook.”
“When?”
“Metadata says June sixteenth.”
The day before Marco died.
The audio file came next.
Marco’s voice filled the kitchen.
Elena’s hand flew to her mouth.
“If you found this, I failed.”
She stopped breathing.
“I’m sorry, Elena.”
Her eyes filled.
Matteo’s gaze lowered.
Marco continued.
“The bluebird isn’t about Matteo Volkov.”
Matteo slowly looked up.
“It’s about the man beside him.”
Static cracked.
Then Marco spoke again.
“Nadia was right.”
“She says the danger is family.”
The recording ended.
No one moved.
Elena wiped her face angrily.
“That’s it?”
The technician shook his head.
“There may be deleted data.”
“Recover it.”
“I’ll try.”
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Matteo turned instantly.
One of his men appeared.
“Movement downstairs.”
“We cleared the building.”
“So did we.”
The lights went out.
Elena’s blood turned cold.
Again.
Matteo grabbed her and pulled her behind the kitchen island.
Glass shattered in the living room.
A suppressed gunshot cracked.
One of Matteo’s guards fell.
Elena did not scream.
Her hospital instincts took over.
“Is he hit?”
“Stay down.”
“He’s bleeding.”
“Elena.”
“He will die.”
She crawled toward the guard before Matteo could stop her.
The man had been struck high in the shoulder.
Blood soaked his shirt.
Not immediately fatal.
Still dangerous.
Elena pressed both hands over the wound.
“Look at me.”
The guard’s eyes widened.
“What?”
“Look at me.”
More shots cracked in the hall.
Matteo fired back.
Elena focused on the wounded man.
“What’s your name?”
“Tomas.”
“Good.”
“Pressure.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
She tightened the makeshift dressing.
He cursed.
“Now you know.”
Despite everything, Tomas almost laughed.
The kitchen door burst inward.
A man entered.
Elena recognized him.
The same man from her apartment security footage.
The same man from the crash site.
His weapon lifted.
Not toward Matteo.
Toward Elena.
“Down!”
Matteo slammed into her.
The shot shattered a cabinet.
His guards returned fire.
The intruder collapsed.
Elena hit the floor beneath Matteo.
For one second, neither moved.
His body covered hers completely.
His heartbeat hammered against her shoulder.
Then he pushed himself up.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
He checked anyway.
Arms.
Torso.
Face.
“Elena.”
“I said I’m fine.”
His hand remained against the side of her neck.
Then awareness returned to both of them.
He pulled away.
The intruder was still alive.
Barely.
Matteo crouched beside him.
“Who sent you?”
The man coughed.
Blood touched his lips.
His eyes found Elena.
“You should have died with them.”
Elena froze.
Matteo grabbed his shirt.
“With who?”
The man smiled at Elena.
“Your boys.”
Something inside her turned to ice.
“Why?”
The dying man’s eyes rolled toward Matteo.
“To make him look in the wrong direction.”
Matteo’s face changed.
“Viktor?”
A weak laugh.
“No.”
Then the man died.
Elena stood motionless.
Matteo rose slowly.
The technician looked up from his computer.
“Mr. Volkov.”
Nobody answered.
“I recovered part of the hidden image.”
He rotated the screen.
The obscured third person beside Marco and Nadia appeared.
A man in an expensive gray suit.
Silver hair.
Kind eyes.
The face of someone who could have been a senator, professor, or grandfather.
Matteo stared.
Elena looked between them.
“Who is he?”
Matteo’s voice went quiet.
“Viktor Sokolov.”
Elena looked back at the smiling older man.
“Your godfather.”
“Yes.”
“But the attacker said it wasn’t him.”
Matteo’s eyes remained on the photograph.
“I know.”
“Then who?”
Matteo slowly zoomed in.
There was a fourth figure reflected in the coffee-shop window.
A younger man.
Tall.
Dark-haired.
Watching from across the street.
Matteo’s face lost all color.
Elena noticed.
“Who is that?”
He did not answer.
“Matteo.”
May you like
His voice came out rough.
“My brother.”
