Turning back to the car, I take a deep breath. Time to deal with our…guest.
My heart hammers thinking about her.
Snap out of it, mudak.
I’m halfway to the trunk when a muffled thump echoes through the garage. Then another. And another.
“Blyat,” I mutter.
The thumps grow louder, more insistent. A muffled scream follows, filled with rage and frustration.
Looks like someone’s not happy about being kept waiting.
So, more waiting for her. I spin around and head for the lift.
twenty-eight
Leonid
Idon't like how Kayla’s eyes widen when I tell her to prepare two sets of supper. It’s barely noticeable, just a slight tightening around her crow’s feet, but it’s there.
“Two, sir?” she asks, her accent coloring the words.
I nod, keeping my face neutral. “Da. Is that a problem?”
Kayla’s weathered hands smooth down her apron. “No,señor. No problem at all.”
As she turns to go, I catch the questions bubbling behind her lips. Questions she knows better than to ask.
It’s why I’ve kept her around for the past fifteen years. Kayla knows her place, does her job, and keeps her mouth shut. A rarity in this line of work.
I remember the day I hired her. A widow with two kids back in Mexico, desperate for work. I did my research, of course. Herhusband, a low-level cartel member, had been killed in a turf war. She needed money and safety. I needed discretion. It was a perfect match.
“Something else, Kayla?”
She shakes her head, silver-streaked bun bobbing. “No, sir.Dos cenas, coming up.”
As she shuffles toward the kitchen, I call out, “And Kayla?”
She pauses, looking back. “Yes, sir?”
“Make it… substantial. Our guest has had a long day.”
A flicker of surprise crosses her face before she schools it back to neutrality. “Of course, sir. Borscht and pelmeni, perhaps?”
I wave a hand. “Whatever you think is best.”
Kayla nods and disappears into the kitchen. I hear her muttering in rapid-fire Spanish as she goes.
Running a hand through my hair, I slump into a chair. What the fuck am I doing? I’ve got an assassin in my trunk, and I’m worried about feeding her?
“Ty sdurél?” I mutter to myself. Maybe Maksim was right. Maybe I am losing it.
The distant clang of pots from the kitchen snaps me out of it. I need to focus. I need a plan.
But first, I need to get her situated.
I stride toward the elevator, my footsteps echoing in the vast living area. As I step in, I command, “Penthouse.”
