Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 316(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“What do you want to do?” he asks warily.
“We have to keep a very close eye on her to make sure she doesn’t suddenly decide to play ball with them.”
He nods slowly, not offering any insight, but I can read his mind. Why would I go to the trouble of monitoring her if I could just take her out? It’s what I would do to anyone else. If some sniveling Harvard grad douchebag came in here acting the way she just did, he would be dead before he had the chance to leave the building. Yuri and I both know that.
She’s a weakness I can’t afford. I don’t do weaknesses. I never have, and it’s what’s kept me sharp all this time.
But I can’t just eliminate her. I’ll probably live to regret it, but I won’t kill her just to keep my secret safe.
7
MARI
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m untangling a complicated reconciliation when my phone buzzes with a text:
We need to talk.
I don’t have the number saved, but I know it’s Lev.
Fine, I text back.
I’ll send a car, he replies.
My anger flares under my skin, masking the fear that’s been eating at me since I confronted him in his office. I close the Excel file and pack up my things. He’s not a man who likes to be kept waiting. As much as I’d like to be the kind of woman who ignores a summons, this feels too dangerous to worry about what it says about my feminism.
Outside the building, a black SUV idles at the curb with the rear door open. The driver calls my name in a steady voice. I swallow hard and get in.
In the back of my mind, I hear the advice about never letting an attacker take you to a second location. Does that still apply when your boss also happens to be a Bratva pakhan? Does it apply if I’m willingly putting myself in danger? The answer to both questions is probably no.
We cut west and slide up Tenth Avenue, then the driver merges onto the West Side Highway. The Hudson opens on my left, gray and wide. I wait for the turn onto Seventy-Second, the familiar swing toward his Upper West Side penthouse. But we don’t exit. We keep going north.
The skyline thins as we pass the Intrepid and the parkway opens, clean and fast. The Cloisters lift out of the trees. The Henry Hudson Bridge rises ahead like a steel rib. We cross into the Bronx, and the city shifts under the tires. He stays on the Saw Mill. Trees crowd the median. Stone cuts the hills in sharp lines.
Neighborhoods fall away. Green replaces brick. The road narrows and smooths. When we exit, the lanes become a quiet two-lane road shaded by old oaks. Stone pillars rise out of clipped lawn. A small guardhouse sits beyond them with glass that doesn’t glare. The first gate slides open without a sound. Twenty yards later, we encounter a second gate and wait to be buzzed in.
The mansion comes into view in pieces. The roof rises above the trees, and I’m sure I see snipers on top. The brick façade starts to reveal itself, and it’s so much bigger than I could have imagined. It isn’t a mansion so much as a fortress.
The SUV stops under a porte cochère. The driver opens my door without looking at me. I step down and smooth my jacket to give my hands something to do.
Then the front door opens and a man I’ve seen once before but can’t place steps out to collect me.
“Ms. Gonzales,” he greets me without smiling.
He leads me inside the grand entryway, and the place looks more like a museum than a home. It’s sterile, spotless, and reveals nothing about the man who owns it. I have the distinct feeling I’m being watched and wonder if there are hidden cameras somewhere.
“Is this Mr. Borikov’s home?” I ask, feeling the need to fill the silence. “I thought he lived on the Upper West Side.”
That’s what all his magazine interviews say, anyway. I’ve been obsessively researching him since Agent Cole showed up at my house. Nothing in any of his Forbes interviews reveals who he really is. This place is probably a closely guarded secret, and I’ve just stumbled into the belly of the beast.
“This is a family home,” the man says, his tone detached.
I follow him through the massive house until we stop at a set of double doors. He knocks twice, sharp, then turns to me, his stance defensive. I understand now that this man is some kind of guard. A quick glance reveals a bulge at his side that I’m sure is a gun.
My pulse hammers under my skin, but I take a breath and pretend this is all completely normal. The door opens. I square my shoulders and walk through.