When I’m done with my meal and coffee, I clean my mug and put it back exactly where I found it. Anxiety nips at me. Restless, I wander.
The west wing is off-limits. Bogdan’s warning plays in my mind:That’s Sasha’s private space. The phrase makes my spine itch. What doesprivatemean to a man like him? And why does he need a whole wing for it?
I veer the other way, past the staircase and along a hall I hadn’t noticed before. The doors here are dark wood, flush against the wall, handles hidden. Soft, recessed lights glow in faint amber.
At the far end, a set of double doors sits slightly ajar. I can’t help myself. I want to know more about him. Ishouldleave it alone. But I can’t. I drift closer, holding my breath like someone might hear me.
Then I’m at the door. I know I shouldn’t, but I nudge it open with a fingertip.
On the other side is Sasha’s office. If the living room of his penthouse is a sterile showroom, his office isthe nerve center. Matte black walls, a big, square window that looks out over the city. Low amber light. A massive slab of a desk sits in the back middle, dark wood, raw enough to show grain. Three phones rest on matching leather trays. Two laptops sit open but are asleep.
There’s a wall of TVs and a sitting area with a wet bar off to the side. The room is huge, cavernous, built to function, but also to intimidate and impress.
I step into the room, knowing I shouldn’t but unable to help myself. The wall of screens is angle after angle of security cam footage. There’s the lobby, the building entrance, the blocks around the building. There’s AngelCorp Tower’s entrance, a camera for each floor that cycles through different feeds.
On the far wall, a glass case glows softly. Inside are weapons. Not movie-prop nonsense, or antique guns from the Civil War or something, but real weapons. Pistols laid out in a row, a rifle above them. Knives with dark handles, edges clean. Each in its own place, each spotless.
I take a small step back and feel the room tilt. This is all for protection, I’m sure. But also preparation. This is the room of a man who’s expects violence and is planning for it down to the last bullet.
On the desk, a folder sits open neatly, in the way all of his things are. A line of Cyrillic curls across the top. I don’t read Russian, but my name is in regular English among the rest.
My file. My fingers twitch. I don’t touch it.
My heart is in my throat. The office hums softly, like there’s machinery in the walls I can’t see. I back up too fast, clipping the doorframe with my shoulder. The sound is louder than I want it to be.
“Smooth,” I whisper, wincing and rubbing my shoulder.
I step back into the hall and start walking again, faster now. My slippers are silent on the wood, but my heartbeat is loudin my ears. At the end of the corridor, another door is slightly open. A draft brushes my ankles. I should know better, but I can’t help it.
I glance in.
Metal floor. Lockers. Benches. Three men in black tees sit at a stainless-steel table, cleaning guns with the sort of casual vibe that suggest they do this every day. A fourth leans against a locker, earpiece tucked behind his ear, eyes flicking to me as soon as the door opens.
Everything stops. One of them stands. He’s polite in a way that chills more than anger would.
He raises a huge tattooed hand in my direction. “Ma’am,” he says, a Russian accent dripping off the word, “this area is restricted.”
The other hand rests lightly on the gun at his hip. Would he really do it? Would he shoot me?
“I’m sorry,” I manage. My tongue feels thick. The room smells like oil. “Wrong… Wrong door.”
No one smiles.
I back out, heart ricocheting against my ribs. I turn and walk fast, then faster. The hallway stretches too long, the air too thin. I need to get away. I need to get out. I knowI’m being totally irrational, but I don’t care.
The elevator panel blinks at me when I hit the button. Nothing. No call. No friendly ping. Of course, it needs a keycard. And of course, the one person who could summon it is out with Bogdan.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Plan B.”
I hurry to the kitchen, where the emergency stairwell is. Once there, I push the door open and start down. It’s all smooth concrete, harsh lighting, and cool air. I peer over the railing. It’s a long way down.
But it’s my only way out.
I head down the stairs, moving with speed that surprises me. My robe swishes around my calves, and I clamp it closed with one hand, the other on the railing.
I don’t know what my plan is. Last time I looked, it was thirty degrees outside. The robe is nice and warm, but it’s not going to do a damn thing against a February-in-Chicago wind. It doesn’t matter. I need to get away from Sasha, away from all those guns, away from those men who I’m sure know how to use them.
By the time I hit the lobby level, my legs are shaking like crazy. I push through the stairwell door and into the room of polished marble and too-bright light. I step out onto the main floor of the lobby and realize I must look totally insane. The desk attendant blinks, startled. I glance down at myself and remember I’m in a robe and slippers with a crazy look in my eye.
