Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 124446 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 622(@200wpm)___ 498(@250wpm)___ 415(@300wpm)
“Can I get you some tea?” Ilya asks, weirdly sympathetic.
I look between the twins. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Yan replies curtly. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Make sure you’re ready.”
“Where’s Anton?” I ask.
Yan packs some of my neatly folded clothes into an expensive overnight bag for the sake of appearances at the hotel. “Taking care of Kiss.”
What? Today of all days? “Couldn’t it wait?”
“No.” He adds a pair of shoes to the bag without looking at me. “By tomorrow, Kiss could be gone again or dead, and I want answers.”
“What about my bodyguard?”
“You’ll tell Dimitrov something came up.” He shrugs. “It happens.”
I gape at him. “Are you serious?”
“Don’t worry.” Ilya gives my shoulder a squeeze. “We’ll manage fine without Anton.”
Ignoring Ilya, I keep my attention focused on Yan. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t need to tell you anything,” Yan snaps. “You just have to do your job.”
I flinch at the outburst.
“It’s all right,” Ilya says softly. “It’s just nerves. The job, you know.” He shoots Yan a nasty look.
“Eat,” Yan says. “You have ten minutes.”
I’m not hungry, but Yan is right. We’ll need our strength.
After a light breakfast, I apply lipstick and put on the heels we’d gotten for the occasion. Yan and Ilya test wireless ear mics that are connected to their smartwatches. It allows them effortless and discreet hands-free communication. As I’ll be searched, I’m not wearing a mic. I’ll only have the phone Yan gives me, which I slip into my bag. It’s the secure number Dimitrov used to contact me, in case his guards decide to check. Yan’s hackers have uploaded Natasha Petrova’s contacts and apps to the phone, complete with mirrors of her social media accounts. One never knows how thoroughly Dimitrov will be checking me out.
We load the crated painting, the case with disguise material, and the overnight bag in the van. As I’m about to get in, Yan curls his fingers around my wrist, and for a moment, the fiercely passionate man of this morning breaks through the surface of icy detachment.
“Be careful,” he says.
“You, too.”
He kisses me on the forehead, so as not to spoil my lipstick, before helping me into the passenger side. Ilya gets into the back and Yan drives. We make a stop at the hotel a few blocks away from the Hotel Paris, where the two security guards already wait in the room we rented. I take care of their disguises, turning them into Yan and Ilya’s doppelgängers, before they walk to the Hotel Paris via the back alleys. We wipe away our traces and fingerprints, check out, store the disguise bag in the van, and it’s showtime.
As previewed, we park in a side alley next to the hotel. If Dimitrov’s men are watching, our arrival must appear inconspicuous. Petrova would respect secrecy. Flipping oversized sunglasses over my eyes, I slip into my role. My shoulders are squared and my breasts pushed out when I get out of the van. My steps are long, my legs not faltering in the high heels. I nod at the doorman waiting at a service entrance like I’m the Queen of Sheba and proceed ahead of the transporters who are carrying the crate and my bag. We enter via the kitchen and take the service elevator that only runs to the first floor, where the conference room is situated.
I step out on the first floor, the men following behind. From behind my dark glasses, I keep a watchful eye. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. There are no suspicious men lurking around, only some of Dimitrov’s regular guards hovering in front of the conference room, pretending to help themselves to coffee from a carafe that stands on a table in the hallway. I recognize them from the photos in the file I studied during our preparations.
The manager is on the floor. He makes a big show of greeting me and wishing me a good stay, then flicks his fingers at a bellboy, who comes running to take my bag from Yan. The manager offers to walk me to my suite, but I decline in my Natasha Petrova voice, stating I don’t wish to be disturbed. He hands me the keycard before bowing and kissing my hand, assuring me of his loyal service. I sway my hips as I cross the hallway while the guards drool after me, their eyes fixed on the impressive size of my fake boobs.
It’s a good show, a convincing one.
I enter the regular elevator ahead of the bellboy. Yan and Ilya follow, balancing the crate between them, their caps with the transportation company logo pulled down low over their eyes. The bellboy pushes the button for the fourth floor. We ride in silence. I exit on the landing, casting an eye around for surprise elements, but all is quiet. Opening the door to the Klimt suite, I study the space with a critical eye for the bellboy’s sake, who isn’t in on our plot.