The office door bangs open.
I don’t look up. Only one person enters my office without knocking and expects to live.
"You look like shit," Illya says, dropping into the leather chair opposite me. He kicks his boots up onto the edge of my desk, right over a quarterly earnings report.
"Get your feet off my desk, Illya. I’m not in the mood."
"You’re never in the mood," he draws out, ignoring my command. He pulls a folder from his jacket and tosses it onto the map."But I’m surprised you’re in a surly mood today. Trouble in paradise? The little nurse give you a hard time about your evil ways?"
"Watch your mouth."
"I’m just saying. You stormed out of the house this morning like your ass was on fire." Illya leans forward, his expression sharpening. The joker mask slips, revealing the predator underneath. "I’ve been doing a deeper check on Aria."
My spine stiffens. "I didn't ask you to investigate Aria."
"No. You didn't. But things have changed."
"She is my wife. I trust her. And besides," I growl, picking up the folder, "we looked into her background when we hired her. Clean record. Nursing school. Deadbeat dad. What is this?"
"We looked ather," Illya corrects. "We didn't look hard enough at who she spends her time with. Specifically, this 'friend' she was so desperate to see this morning. Daniel Nichols."
I open the folder. A photo stares back at me. It’s grainy, taken from a surveillance camera, but it’s him. The man at the gate.Blonde. unassuming. "She told me about him. He’s a friend. Why are you wasting resources on a nurse's friend?"
"Because," Illya says, his voice dropping low, "Daniel Nichols doesn't exist. The ID he showed at the gate was a high-quality fake."
My grip on the folder tightens, crinkling the photo. Jealousy, hot and acidic, floods my veins. It pisses me off. What the hell kind of friend does my wife have that needs a fake ID? What kind of secrets is she keeping with another man?
"Who is he?" I demand.
"Danyeal Nicholai," Illya says. "He’s a mid-level earner. For the Lepin family."
The air leaves the room.
"Most likely," Illya continues, watching my face, "they’ve been using her to get whatever details they could about you. Or about Galina. A nurse sees everything, hears everything."
"She didn't know," I say instantly. The defense is automatic. "I barely said a word to her before yesterday, and I definitely haven't exchanged any secrets."
"Yes, but that's all changed now that she's your wife," Illya counters. "She’s inside the inner circle now, Igor. She’s a vulnerability."
"She is not a spy." I slam the folder shut. "She’s innocent."
"And you’re blinded by pussy," Illya snaps. "I’m your fucking enforcer, Igor. Which means I watch your back even when you’re too busy staring at her ass to see the knife. That's what you pay me for. And I would do it for free, for blood. So suck it up."
I glare at him, my hand itching for my gun.
"Don't give me that look," Illya warns, pointing a finger at me. "Before I stick Babushka on you and tell her you've been mean to her favorite grandson."
"You mean her baby," I sneer.
"Exactly." Illya grins, the tension breaking just enough. "Look, think about it. If you were Lepin, and you found out your enemy had a sick matriarch who needed 24/7 care... wouldn't you try to plant someone close to the help?"
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. I hate it. I hate that he’s right. It’s a smart move. It’s exactly what I would have done.
"It’s a classic setup," I mutter. "Ivan is the money man. I’m the strategist. You’re the muscle. If I were strategizing against us... I’d go for the weak link. The staff."
"So," Illya stands up, smoothing his jacket. "What’s the play? Do we clip the guy?"
"No," I say, standing up. I grab my coat. "Not yet. First, I deal with my wife."
