This woman stalks into the living room ahead of me, all jagged edges and barely contained rage.
Good.
Anger makes people sloppy and vulnerable. And I need her vulnerability to rear its ugly head so I can unlock whatever secrets she’s hiding about the island, the diamonds, and her connection to Roman’s past.
Once again, the mission has evolved.
Now, it’s about more than just retrieving twenty million in stones. The job’s about survival. Mine, hers, maybe even the Kozlov Bratva’s.
Sentimentality has no place here.
I close the door behind us with a heavy thud, the electronic locks engaging automatically.
I know the combination to get out.
She doesn’t.
We’re sealed in, just the two of us and her secrets.
The safe house boasts standard Kozlov protection. Reinforced windows, state-of-the-art security system, fully stocked kitchen, medical supplies, and weapons.
Three bedrooms, three baths, and a view of Lake Michigan through bulletproof glass. Blinds currently cover the windows with special film that makes them impossible to see in, even at night.
The walls are cream white. Nothing ostentatious. No big paintings or sculptures. Minimalist. Utilitarian. No carpet in this space or the rest of the house because sealed hardwood floors are easier to clean.
A place to hide, to heal, to plan.
Or in this case, to interrogate.
I point to the sofa, an overstuffed and extra-long three-seater sectional large enough to nap on. “Sit.”
She whirls on me, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare tell me what to do.”
I shrug out of my jacket and brush past her to check the perimeter in a habit so ingrained, it’s practically muscle memory. “Stand, then. Makes no difference to me.”
“Where are we?” She trails behind me as I trudge through the living room toward the kitchen. “How long have you been planning this? The whole time? Since we met at the farmers market? No, at the school?”
I don’t answer. Don’t need to.
The truth is all over my face when I pivot to scowl at her.
Yes, from the beginning. Yes, everything was calculated. Yes, you were a mark.
She releases a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I’m such an idiot. You’ve been playing me this entire time.”
“Not everything was a lie.” I’m not sure why the distinction matters to me.
Her eyes harden, bright with unshed tears and cold rage I didn’t expect from someone like her. “Just the important parts, right? Just your name, your job, your reason for being in my life. What about the men trying to kill us? Are they fake too? Do they work for you? Were they staged? Like the hoodies at the farmers market? The jerks at Hobby Hut?”
I ignore her, open the black cupboards, and scan the white granite countertops, checking supplies. Everything’s stocked per protocol. I fill a glass with filtered water from the stainless steel fridge. A peace offering of sorts, or maybe just a tactical strategy to keep her hydrated for the impending interrogation.
She slaps my hand away when I offer the drink.
Water splashes across the front of my shirt, soaking through to my skin. I don’t flinch. Don’t react. Just give her the same detached focus I would any other subject.
“I trusted you! I let you into my home. I let you—” She cuts herself off, but we both know what she was going to say next.
I let you touch me. I let you inside me. I gave you parts of myself I’ve never given anyone else.
