The spring air is crisp as we walk, and I find myself slowing my pace to match hers, in no rush to end this. Her shoulder occasionally brushes against my arm, and each touch sends a jolt through me that I haven't felt since... ever, actually.
“So what do you do, exactly?” she asks as we walk. “You've heard all about my business, but you've been pretty vague about yours.”
“Import/export,” I answer with the standard cover. “Family business. Not nearly as interesting as marketing.”
“I doubt that,” she laughs. “But I get it. Some people don't like talking about work.”
If she only knew what my “work” entailed. She’d run for the hills.
We reach the corner of her building, and that’s when I put on my sunglasses, not wanting to be recognized in case any of the Zakharov men are around, and she turns to me with that smile that does dangerous things to my insides.
“This is me,” she says, gesturing to the glass doors when we approach. “So, I’ll see you soon?”
There's hope in her voice that makes me want to promise her the world.
“Oh, now that I have your number, you can count on it.” I smile at her. “Enjoy your reports.”
“Yeah, right.” She rolls her eyes and laughs that airy, light, carefree laugh again before giving me a friendly wave and heading inside.
But the minute she's out of sight, I don’t leave. I cross the street to my new surveillance spot, one I discovered when I realized that parking my car in the same spot every day wasn’t exactly a good idea.
The café across the street has the perfect view of her office on the second floor, all of which I can see thanks to the fact that she never pulls her blinds down, and those windows are huge. I ordered a coffee and took a table by the entrance.
I sip my coffee and keep my eye on her office. She's just settling in, looking around for files in her drawers.
Then, she gets down to work, and a solid half hour passes by.
“You want anything, hun?” One of the waitresses saunters over. I know they frown upon customers who sit on a cup of coffee for ages, so to keep my spot, I order a sandwich.
“You want fries with that, hun?”
That’s when I notice three suspicious-looking men, broad-shouldered and wearing suits in the day, entering the building. I look closer, and one of them turns around to survey the street, and that’s when I notice the knife scar across his jawline.
These men? They aren’t just businessmen working on a Sunday. Everything about them screams Zakharovs.
My blood runs cold when I see them heading toward the stairs.
“Hun?”
“Sorry, what?”
“You want fries with that?” the waitress asks again.
I grab my wallet, my heart rate accelerating. Maybe I’m imagining it, maybe they’re just regular folks, but Gela’s all alone in her office, and none of her other employees are there. I need to go check out the scene, and if there’s no trouble, I’ll leave without bothering her.
“That’ll be all,” I say, and slam a twenty on the table, before heading out through the door. The moment I’m outside, I pull out my binoculars for a clearer picture and slide through all the windows on the building to see what the men are up to.
That’s when I see them, entering her office.
My hands begin to shake, a flare of protectiveness overcoming every sense.
Maybe they’re clients, a small voice in my head cautions. I can’t just go storming in there without cause. Then she’ll certainly run for the hills.
I watch Gela stand with a smile on her face as she talks. But within seconds, she begins to look confused, wary.
One of the men, the biggest of the lot, moves closer to her, saying something that makes her take a step back.
Her smile falters, and Scarface closes the blinds.
