“You think I poisoned it?”
“It wouldn’t be the craziest thing you’ve done in the last twenty-four hours.”
I laugh. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d do it with my own two hands. Now, drink. Before it gets cold.”
Amara sighs audibly before taking a sip. Her expression softens and her shoulders relax. “It’s good,” she says.
“Turns out knowing a coffee order is a two-way street.”
She nods and takes another sip. “So what are you going to do?” she asks again.
I take in a breath and let it out. “You’re too wiry to be working for the Chadovichs. Definitely not the cops.”
“The what?” she asks.
I ignore the question. “But you are smart.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you don’t. That said, I should fire you. Honestly, I should kill you. You were in my office and I know you know too much. Maybe not as much as I originally thought, but still too much. I also know I can’t trust you like I thought I could.”
She pales. “So you’re going to kill me.”
“No.” I shake my head. “You’re a good assistant. You just need more training. In fact, I have a proposition for you.”
Her eyes narrow and she clicks her fingernails on the cup. “What does it involve?”
“Not dying,” I answer and the clicking stops. “And more money. A lot more money.”
There’s a beat of silence before she wraps her hands around the mug and takes another sip. “I’m listening.”
“I am engaged.”
She swallows. Her poker face is fairly impressive, but I can tell a bomb just went off inside her. Her eyes show it all.
“I had no idea you were seeing anyone. Guess I’m not that great of an assistant after all.”
“I’m not. Do you know whatBratvameans?”
“Oh. Uh, okay.” Her nose wrinkles in confusion. “It’s like the Russian version of the mafia, right?”
“Something like that.” I’m only giving her an inch at a time because what I am about to tell her, what I am going to disclose, is… a lot to take in.
“Wait.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re not trying to tell me that you actually know these mafia?—”
“Bratva.”
“—Bratvamen. Or that you’ve dealt with them. Right? Because that would be… crazy.”
“I don’t know them,” I say cautiously.
Her relief is palpable. “Okay, good. I was gonna say, that’s, like?—”
“Iamthem.”
It takes her a second before she stops sipping her coffee and lowers the cup to the table again. I decide it’s best to just keep going. Rip the Band-Aid off all at once.
“Right now, there are two Bratvas in NYC. The Rozanovs?—”
