I laugh, helpless in the face of so much abundance.
With the faintest curve of a smile, Kirill watches me.
What would I do to see that smile in full?
The charity gala.
My stepfather’s annual event. Next week, the crème de le crème of Chicago will flock to his and my mother’s estate. Showing off. Chatting about how to handle money, spend money, make money, and save money. So many people.
The perfect way in. The only way in, really. I could help Kirill get what he’s after.
But that would require walking back into the world I swore I’d never enter again. Wearing the mask. Putting on the costume. Smiling just right. Moving just right. Thinking and listening and obeying.
The wine slides down my throat, the warmth chasing away the bitter aftertaste of old dread.
If he can show me care with fish and vegetables, I can help him too.
No half measures. I’m in. All the way.
“Okay. So about my mother’s estate.” I lean forward. “I was thinking?—”
“I’m on it.” Kirill starts typing on his phone before I’m even finished. “I’ll get satellite imagery. Schematics are on the way.”
I clear my throat and try again. “Maybe?—”
“What’s the alarm system?” Kirill doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even notice that I’m attempting to talk. Just plows forward.
“I don’t really remember?—”
“That’s fine. We can figure that out. I’ll locate blind spots in the camera coverage.” His tone is so sure, so absolute. As if my answers are irrelevant. “Do they have outside security? Guards?”
I think back, and the memory comes into focus. “It’s been a long time, but they had security back then. But, listen, I was thinking?—”
“I’ll find out.” He flicks his wrist like that settles everything. “There’s always a way in.”
Every time my mouth opens, he’s three steps ahead of me. Planning for problems I haven’t named and may not even know about. His thoughts race elsewhere, already enmeshed in my mother’s estate, untwisting locks and bypassing alarms.
“Kirill—”
He brushes my interjection away to talk about weak points, tree cover, the way every estate has a vulnerable north boundary, and how long it takes for private security to arrive.
I eat while waiting for him to breathe. When he continues rattling on, I barge in. “I might have an idea.”
He’s lost in the blue glow of the screen, in his own orbit, not even pretending to hear me.
The realization wedges between my ribs like a sharpened knife.
He brought me here because I’m a problem to be managed. An issue to be tuned up and then sent back out like one of his gadgets.
He values me enough to feed me and not threaten me, but he’s still holding all the cards. Always working alone.
I prod at my halibut, the immaculate, glistening flesh dissolving into bland nothingness with each bite. As my throat squeezes, refusing more food, I look across the table at Kirill, the man who touched me like I was irreplaceable, who killed for me, who gave me safety.
He never offered me partnership, though. Not even once.
By the time we get back to our room at the hotel, everything has become clear.
Kirill’s not just a control freak. He’s a loner. He doesn’t do partnerships, trust, or teams.
