Soft jazz hummed through hidden speakers, the kind of sultry music designed to make people forget they were conducting business that could get them killed. I’d been coming here for three years, and the atmosphere never changed. Same dim lighting. Same velvet-upholstered booths. Same careful balance between elegance and violence.
I took a long drink, letting the tequila burn away the taste of the week I’d just survived. Drew Kamarov had been in Chicago for seven days, and somehow he’d managed to crawl under my skin in ways I didn’t have names for yet.
My mind drifted back to Seattle without permission, dragging up memories I usually kept buried six feet deep. Two jobs to keep a shitty studio apartment that leaked when it rained and froze when it snowed. Morning shift pouring coffee for minimum wage and fake smiles. Night shift dodging drunk bastards who thought a tip entitled them to grab whatever they wanted.
I’d been four days away from eviction when Rafael Kamarov walked into that dive bar like he owned it. Maybe he did—I’d never bothered to check. He’d sat in the corner booth for two hours, nursing expensive vodka and watching me work with eyes that cataloged everything.
Watched me dodge a grabbing hand without spilling a single drink. Watched me deflect a crude proposition with a smile sharp enough to cut. Watched me handle three separateproblems simultaneously while keeping the bar running smooth as silk.
When closing time came, he’d waited by the door.
“You’re wasted here,” he’d said, like he was commenting on the weather. “Come to Chicago. I’ll give you security, money, power. Everything you’re killing yourself for in this shithole.”
I should have told him to fuck off. Should have known that men like Rafael Kamarov didn’t offer opportunities—they offered chains disguised as chances.
But I’d looked at my bruised wrists where some asshole had grabbed me earlier, at my worn-out boots held together with duct tape and determination, at the eviction notice burning a hole in my pocket. And I’d said yes.
Hailey had come with me, of course. Where I went, she went. That was the deal we’d made when we were fourteen and freezing in Father Vincent’s orphanage, sharing one thin blanket between us.
***
“Earth to Cassandra.” Barbara’s voice cut through my spiral like a knife through butter. “Are you planning to stare at that drink all night, or are you actually going to have fun?”
I blinked and focused on her. Barbara Davis sat across from me in a silk blouse that probably cost what I used to make in a month, honey-brown eyes sharp with the kind of intelligence most people missed because they were too busy looking at her perfect manicure.
She was a firework—expensive, loud, and impossible to ignore. The kind of girl who should have been hosting charity brunches and planning society weddings, not sitting in a Bratva club drinking top-shelf tequila with women who knew how to hide bodies.
“Just thinking,” I said, which was the truth wrapped in deflection.
“Bullshit.” Hailey materialized behind the bar like she’d been summoned, red lipstick bright as fresh blood and smile sharp as broken glass. She wasn’t working tonight, but she always hung out behind the counter anyway. Old habits from our Seattle days, when the bar was the only territory that belonged to us.
She poured three shots of Patrón without asking, sliding them across polished wood with practiced ease. Her hazel eyes found mine, and I saw the question there before she even asked it.
“What’s eating you, Cass?”
I downed my shot instead of answering. The tequila blazed a path down my throat, familiar and burning and not nearly strong enough to drown what I was feeling.
“Work,” I said automatically.
“Try again.” Barbara raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow, her second shot already gone. “We both know this isn’t about work. This is about a man.”
My jaw tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Drew Kamarov.” Hailey said his name like she was testing how I’d react, like she could read my truth in the twitch of my eye or the set of my shoulders. “Rafael’s cousin. The Russian who’s been following you around for the past week like a well-dressed shadow.”
“He hasn’t been following me around—”
“He’s been observing,” Barbara cut in, doing a decent impression of my clipped tone. “Always watching. Always analyzing. Getting under your perfectly controlled skin.”
I wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell them both they were seeing things that weren’t there, reading into a situation that was purely professional. But these were the two people in the worldwho knew me well enough to spot my lies before they left my mouth.
“He’s irritating,” I admitted finally, pouring myself another shot because this conversation required chemical assistance. “Rafael never micromanages me. He trusts me to handle things, gives me space to work. But Drew? Jesus Christ. He questions everything. Wants to know why I do things certain ways, wants reports on shit that doesn’t need reporting.”
“Mmm.” Hailey leaned her elbows on the bar, studying me with the intensity of someone who’d shared every significant moment of my life since we were kids. “So he’s paying attention to you. That’s what’s got you all twisted up?”
“I’m not twisted up—”
“You’ve been brooding for a week,” Barbara interrupted, signaling Hailey for another round. “I’ve known you for what? Two years? I’ve seen you handle armed robberies with more grace than you’re handling one Russian intelligence officer.”
