“You think he set Astrid up for that attack?”
“I think he’s not the only one playing a double game.”
I sit back in the seat, the papers still in my lap, rain drumming against the windows like a ticking clock.
I’m going to find out just how deep this rot goes.
CHAPTER 28
ASTRID
It’s been a week, but I’m still not used to the extra measures Yuri is taking.
I sit in the back seat of the black SUV, tinted windows closing me off from the city. One of Yuri’s men drives—silent, focused, armed. Another follows behind in a second vehicle. This has become my new norm. Escort detail, twenty-four-seven. It’s like being a VIP in a nightmare. Luxury, but only because someone wants you dead.
My phone buzzes in my hand. It’s a FaceTime call from Maura. I accept, and her face fills the screen, backlit by the morning sunshine and the vague chaos of toddlers in motion.
“There she is,” she says, smiling. “How’s our little duchess?”
I roll my eyes with a half-smile. “Safe and secure and surrounded by guns.”
Maura laughs. “It’s only temporary. Trust me, I’ve been in that bubble before too. You feel like you’re living in a museum exhibit.”
“Exactly.”
She brushes a lock of hair from her face. “But that’s what life is like sometimes, in our world. It’s not always bullets and drama, but when it is, everyone tightens the ranks.”
“It’s just a lot. I keep thinking I’ll get used to it, but it still feels like I’m waiting for something bad to happen.”
Her expression softens. “That means you’re still sane.”
There’s a crash in the background, then the unmistakable sound of a child shrieking with glee.
Maura glances behind her. “Sorry. Michael just turned a full laundry basket into a crash pad. Gotta go.”
“Dinner tonight?” I ask quickly.
“You know it. I’m making lasagna.” She winks and ends the call, the screen going dark.
I lower the phone into my lap and exhale slowly, the city blurring past. For a moment, I forget the nausea, the bruises still fading from my back, the nightmare of the encounter in the alley.
The car pulls into the underground garage of Ivanov Tower. We descend into shadow, the city vanishing behind cold concrete and fluorescent lights.
Two guards meet us at the elevator—one male, one female—both professionally blank. I nod at them without speaking. They lead me through the underground corridor, then up the elevator to the top floor.
Ivanov Holdings hums around me. The carpets have been steam-cleaned. The shattered glass is gone. Security camerashave been doubled. Employees move about briskly and efficiently, trying to forget about the FBI storming the place.
My office is still mine. No one’s touched it. Two guards are posted just outside.
I step in and place my bag on the desk, fingers brushing the surface of my laptop. Just as I’m about to open it, my phone buzzes again.
Yuri’s name glows on the screen, and so does something inside me.
“Come to my office,” he says when I answer.
“I’m on my way,” I reply.
Yuri’s office is quiet. Papers are stacked across his desk in meticulously organized piles. His laptop glows, casting a pale light that blends with the steely gray morning pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.
