“It's already stocked with glasses, plates and silverware?” I ask. This is too weird. The apartment is shiny and beautiful, and the floors are sleek granite and marble, and the light reflects from the windows, blinding me. The table is too long, it's really long. I don't have enough friends to even fill that dining table.
“Will you relax?” Cynthia chuckles. “You deserve good things in your life. Besides,” she adds with a wink, “I live in this building so if I ever need a doctor, it's nice to know you're just a few floors away.”
"Physician’s assistant," I automatically correct while still turning in little circles, taking in the furniture, the artwork on the walls. The wooden bookcases are just waiting to be filled up with my medical journals and trashy paperback romances.
This can't be right.
She opens the champagne bottle with a dramatic pop and pours two glasses, handing one to me.
“It's not that I'm not deeply appreciative,” I say as she raises her glass for a toast. “I am. But this can't be right. An apartment with this kind of square footage and amenities must be over a million dollars. There's no way this is low-income housing.”
“Do you remember the part about you being a doctor?” She ignores my earlier correction about being a PA. “I'm not sayingyou have to make house calls.” She giggles a bit. “But since youarein-house… It seems like a good arrangement.”
I furrow my brow, but obediently tap my glass to hers, taking a sip. It's good champagne, the expensive, over one hundred dollars a bottle kind. And I take another sip.
“So, some sort of work for rent agreement?” I ask, still trying to wrap my head around this. “It's too expensive. It's too bright. I know I can't afford this."
Focus.
I take another sip of the champagne as Cynthia tells me about some of the features in the kitchen, like the Viking stove and stainless steel appliances.
“There's no balconies on this floor, sadly,” she says, walking down the hall.
Following her, my body does something weird. It weaves a bit as I take a step, a little bit like Captain Jack Sparrow after he's had a bottle of rum and I put my hand on the counter for support.
My glass is empty. When did that happen?
Cynthia takes it from me and puts it on the table with a quiet clink. “You must feel very overwhelmed,” she says, examining me, her gaze suddenly sharp.
“Oh, I'm- I'm fine.” I chuckle, embarrassed that a glass of champagne is making me wobble around like this. I definitely don't have the grace and charm of Captain Jack Sparrow when he does it.
“Why don't you sit down?” She guides me over to the sectional and as the back of my legs hit the cushion, everything goes dark.
Chapter Six
In which you never want an apartment wired like this one.
Dmitri…
Current day, June 2nd…
“What the hell is going on? I mean what-"
I turn, the girl still in my arms and my phone wedged under my chin. Demid and Kir surge from the open elevator.
"Roman messaged me," Kir says quietly. "He's on his way with a clean-up team, in case they're needed."
"Dude! What thehellis going on?"
It's Ilya, Adam's (relatively) useless brother standing in the hallway, stupefied, a bottle of beer still dangling from his hand.
“Do you know who lives in this apartment?” I cut him off.
"No.” He shrugs. “They're new, I think they just moved in."
“Do you know their names? Is it a couple?" The elevator chimes softly and Roman steps out with four of his men. "1014," I tell him. "The door's open."
Ilya stares at my team heading into the apartment until I step in front of the bloody door, blocking his view. “So, you don't recognize this girl?" I ask impatiently.
