My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say?Sold myself to my mob boss employer for three months, no big deal?
Job bonus. Don't worry about it.
Bullshit. Your boss gives out $7500 bonuses?
It's complicated. Just take it to Martinez. Get the paperwork started.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
You didn't do anything stupid, right?
I stared at the message. Depending on your definition of stupid, I'd either made the smartest choice of my life or the dumbest.
I'm handling it. Trust me.
That's not an answer.
It's the only one I've got. How's Z?
The subject change was obvious, but Shanice let me have it.
She's good. Drew another picture for you. This one has a Christmas tree.
My chest tightened. Zara and her damn Christmas trees. The holiday was weeks away, and my baby sister was still holding onto hope that this year would be different. That this year, we'd have a real Christmas instead of hiding and running and pretending everything was fine.
Maybe we would. If I could survive ninety days of Olek Sidorov.
The coffee maker beeped. I poured myself a cup—black, no sugar—and took it to the window overlooking the back garden. Snow had fallen overnight, covering everything in pristine white. Beautiful. Peaceful. Deceptive, like everything else in this house.
"You're up early."
I spun around, coffee sloshing over the rim of my mug.
Mikhail stood in the doorway, Olek's second-in-command and the only member of the Bratva who actually lived on the property. He was built like a wall—six-foot-five, shoulders that barely fit through doorframes, and a face that looked like it had lost several arguments with brick walls. But his eyes were kind. Or as kind as a professional killer's eyes could be.
"I could say the same about you," I said, wiping coffee off my hand.
"Olek wanted an early meeting." He moved to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. "You know how he is. Doesn't sleep, expects the rest of us not to either."
I knew. I'd watched enough security footage over the past six months to learn Olek's patterns. He rarely slept more than four hours a night, usually between 2 and 6 a.m. The rest of the time he was working, drinking, or?—
Watching me.
"Must be exhausting," I said neutrally.
"You get used to it." Mikhail studied me over his mug. "You okay? You look tired."
"I'm fine."
"Katrina." His voice gentled. "I know we're not friends. I know my job is to be Olek's right hand, not your confidant. But if something's wrong?—"
"Nothing's wrong." The lie came easily. Too easily. "Just didn't sleep well."
He didn't believe me. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes narrowed slightly. But Mikhail was smart enough not to push.
"Alright," he said finally. "But if you need anything?—"
"I'll figure it out myself. Like always."
