“She left,” I say.
Ghost doesn’t ask who. He’s not stupid. “The chick who was in the warehouse?”
“Yeah,” I answer, not looking at him.
“And?”
“And what?” I bark.
He rolls his eyes. “Don’t do that. You pulled her out of a warehouse chained to a wall. She’s been sleeping in your house. Now she’s not. So what’s the deal?”
“Her father showed up,” I say. “Big entrance. Suit. Driver. Whole damn bratva vibe.”
Ghost frowns slightly. “Bratva?” He lets out a slow breath. “So, not an accountant from Jersey.” He states.
“Not even a little,” I laugh darkly.
He shifts on the stool, turning more toward me. “Okay. So who the hell is he?”
I take my time answering. Not because I’m being dramatic. Because saying it out loud makes it more real. “Dragunov.”
Ghost goes still. “As in—”
“As in Moscow. As in shipping, oil, construction, political donations, and a bunch of shit nobody can prove.”
He whistles low. “You’re telling me she’s Dragunov’s daughter?”
“Yeah.”
“And you just had her at your house.”
“Mm hmm.”
He studies my face like he’s trying to decide if I’ve lost my mind. “You try to stop her?” he asks again, quieter this time.
“No.”
“Why not?”
I turn my head and look at him. “Because she’s not mine.”
Ghost’s eyes narrow slightly. “You sure about that?”
“Yeah.”
He taps his bottle against the bar, thoughtful. “Did she want to go?”
“She needed to.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I admit.
He leans back a little. “So break it down for me. Why does she need to go back to a man like that?”
I drag a hand over my jaw. “Because men like that don’t let things go. She told him no in my driveway.”
Ghost’s brows lift. “She told him no?”
