The other door slams open.
“Boss,” one of his men calls out, strolling in like he doesn’t even see me. “We’ve got a situation.”
Another guy follows, holding a phone, not even bothering to glance in my direction.
Petyr’s head turns. He’s distracted. For the first time since I set foot in this cursed storage room, he’snotlooking at me.
It’s the only chance I’m gonna get.
I twist the doorknob and sprint out, heart in my throat, hands shaking.Out of sight, out of mind,I remind myself.Out of sight, out of mind.
I get out of sight and pray to whatever deity is listening that Petyr’s emergency kicks me far, far out of his mind.
God only knows what will happen if he gets his hands on me.
3
PETYR
People always think, because I grew up the way I did, that I’m spoiled. Entitled. That anything that doesn’t taste like a silver spoon is hardly worth having.
There goes a Gubarev boy, rotten to the core.
They’re right that I’m rotten.
They’re wrong as to why. Dead fucking wrong.
I’m hungry like thisbecauseI grew up having everything. Having shit given to you is one thing—but keeping it? That’s another.
In my world, the sweetest things life has to offer are dangled in front of your face. But a dozen sets of hands sit waiting in the shadows to snatch it right the fuck away from you. They want what’syours.
You learn fast to start chopping at the greedy paws.
And now, this pretty thing has fallen right into my lap. Hands are reaching for her—the hands of fate, the hands oflurking enemies, the hands of this and that and the fucking other.
I’ll sever them all at the fucking root if they reach too far.
Sima.I roll the name on my tongue. It’s unusual. Russian, perhaps. The name “Simona” could easily be shortened to “Sima” in my native language. Lately, it’s become more and more common for second- or third-generation parents not to bother with the long version at all.
But it’s not the etymology that grips me. Frankly, I couldn’t give less of a shit about where her name comes from.
It’s that I’m certain I’ve heard that name before.
I think back to the moment she pointed at her nametag. She wanted me to see her role in today’s event, assure me there was no way we could have met before today.Wedding Something,it read.Coordinator, maybe.
I nodded along, but the truth is, I didn’t really look that hard. I don’t bother reading things I don’t have to. Dyslexia makes that a pain in the ass.
And she told me her name was Sima. That was enough for me.
Now, though, I’m thinking about it again. Because she ran, and because I know I’ve seen that face before. I may not be great at reading books, but reading people is a different matter entirely. And I meant what I said to her: I never forget a face.
I flex my jaw, impatient with myself. I despise not knowing things. I don’t like unsolved pieces floating around on a day when everything else has to be locked down tight.
And right now, everythinghasto be locked down tight.
It’s the only way I make it out alive.
Though I doubt the delicious wedding planner is secretly an enemy spy. If she were, she wouldn’t have looked so scared. Instead, she kept babbling, her soft brown eyes as wide and frightened as a doe’s. Her lips, red and shiny, kept parting like she couldn’t catch her breath. They looked full, juicy. Positively fucking edible.
