Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92160 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 461(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
"The Irish are asking questions. They may be jealous."
I shrug. Makes sense. Their agreement with her is up, and I swooped right in. I was well within my rights, but it’s their loss. "They’d have done the same."
"Doesn't matter."
I grunt. "What do they wanna fucking know?" I ask, but he doesn't answer right away.
"They're up our ass. Seems she got them in trouble."
Whatever.
"She was a contractor for them. She laid out what they needed to do. It's on them if they got in fucking trouble."
He doesn’t speak for long seconds, as if weighing his words. He tips his head to the side. "You have feelings for her."
I look away, not wanting to admit it out loud. I've had feelings for her since the first time I looked at her. The first time I watched her. I saw how vulnerable she was, alone. And then, when I found out how much we had in common…
I decided long ago, before I knew Anissa, that I'd be alone. After Gleb was gone, after my parents hated me, after I knew what love was capable of doing—I wanted to be alone. I told myself that she was just a job, but now I know how I feel about her. And I don't even like that. She's in the other room right now.
"Be careful," Rafail says. "Allowing yourself to have feelings for somebody will fuck up your judgment."
I bite my tongue to hold back a retort until I taste copper. Reminding him that he should fucking talk isn’t gonna go over well. He may be my cousin, but he's my pakhan.
"What do you want from me?"
"A reminder of what you promised. And keep her here. If she runs, she's a fucking liability. You know that."
"Of course I do."
He nods. "You do that, and I'll make sure your fucking grown-ass parents stay out of your hair."
"How do you propose to do that?" I ask him.
"Sending them away," he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Polina’s brother has a place in South Africa. Turns out, he needs someone to house-sit. Free vacation."
The trace of humor on his face vanishes. "While they're gone, you change the locks on your house. Trust me when I tell you, you don't need your parents walking in when you're trying to knock up your wife."
No fucking shit. "Yeah. I'll do that."
He stands, dusts imaginary lint from his clothes, and nods.
I stare at him. "And the Irish?"
He blows out a breath and squares his shoulders. "I'll deal with the Irish."
Her hands move with a terrifying kind of precision. Not delicate. Not hesitant. Expert.
Like she’s done this a thousand times. I watch the flex of her fingers as she loads a clip, her gaze focused on the task at hand.
“You’re more comfortable around guns than I thought.”
She doesn’t look up. “That’s rich,” she says, her eyes finally twinkling at me. “Coming from you.”
The table between us is a graveyard of stripped-down weapons and scattered docs. Forged passports. Burner phones. She crafts identities so easily it’s almost disconcerting.
I don’t like it. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that she can disappear again at any time. If I let her.
I won’t. I fucking won’t.
I sit back, my arms crossed, studying her. “You know,” she says, in that voice that weaves around me like magic, “If you keep staring at me like that you’ll burn a hole through my skull.”
I snort. “Maybe I’m trying to make you stay put.”
Maybe I’m not lying.
Her lips twitch in an almost-smile. That damned mouth of hers. Always ready to fire back, sharp and dangerous.
“Afraid I’ll run?” she taunts, her eyes sharp.
“No,” I lie, my voice cold and flat. “I know you’ll try.”
I know it.
A comfortable silence stretches between us. She flips a passport closed and slides it across the table to me.
“Paris exit route. Clean as it gets.”
“Excellent. Rafail will appreciate this.”
Her eyes flash hard for a second before she can help herself. She still doesn’t like doing what Rafail asks.
She moves to the next document without waiting, like it’s the normal state of affairs to move from one person’s escape to the next.
“So does…does Polina ever see her mother?” She doesn’t meet my eyes when she asks, but I note the way her voice wobbles and she swallows hard, as if nervous.
“Yeah, Ekaterina Romanova owns a place in Moscow, though their family is firmly established in The States, too.” I pause. It isn’t just her mother. She’s their mother.
“Oh.” She continues to arrange paperwork without saying much else. But I know this bothers her.
“Do you want to meet her?”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide in surprise. “Me? Meet her?” Her cheeks flush pink.
“Well, she’s your mother. I think it’d be natural for you to want to meet her.”
She blinks, her eyes wide, and swallows hard again. “Right. Yeah, I—well it makes me nervous, you know? But I—yes.” She lifts her chin up. “Yes, of course I want to meet her.”