"With girlfriend?"
I look out at the city. Somewhere out there, in a small apartment she probably can't afford, is a woman with a crooked name tag and a smile that makes me feel human.
"Maybe," I say again.
"Bozhe moy, is miracle! Yes! You think! You come! You bring beautiful girl and everyone is happy!" She's back to full volume now, tears forgotten in her excitement. "I tell Dimitri you are coming! I tell—"
"Don't tell anyone anything yet."
"But—"
"Mama. Let me think."
She sighs, long and dramatic. "Fine. You think. But you call me tomorrow, yes? You tell me answer?"
"Yes."
"Promise?"
"I promise."
"Good boy. I love you, synok. Even when you give me heart attack with your stubbornness."
"I love you too."
I end the call before she can start crying again.
The penthouse is silent once more. But it's not peaceful this time. It's the silence of a predator deciding whether to hunt.
I pick up my phone again. Open the security app that shows the feed from cameras I installed three months ago. Outside the coffee shop. In the parking lot. Covering the exits.
Just to make sure she gets to her car safely. Just to know she's okay.
I'm a dangerous man. I've built an empire on violence and fear and the kind of control that breaks most people. I don't do uncertainty. I don't do maybes.
But for eleven months, I've let her be uncertain. Let her be a maybe. Let her be the one thing in my life I don't control.
My mother just gave me an excuse to change that.
Five days. A fake relationship. Protection and money and my undivided attention.
It's insane.
It's perfect.
I pull up my contacts. Find Andrei's number.
He answers on the first ring. "Boss?"
"I need you to find out everything about Jemma Dean. Everything. Work history, family, friends, debts, dreams, fears. I want a complete profile by morning."
Silence. Then: "The barista?"
"Yes."
"You're finally making a move?"
"Something like that."
