Maksim’s voice crackles back. “Affirmative, boss. She’s slipped through, but we’re still on her trail.”
I grunt in acknowledgment. We’ve been tailing her for the better part of an hour, letting her think she’s lost us. Amateur move, really. You don’t steal from Leonid Kuznetsov and just ride off into the sunset.
“Any ID on ourmyshkayet?” I ask, using the Russian word for “little mouse.” Feels fitting, watching her scurry through the city streets.
“Negative,” Dmitry says, his voice steady. “But she’s ditching the bike. Looks like we have all eyes on her now.”
I park across the street, killing the engine. The woman—still nameless, still a mystery—climbs off my Ducati, her movements stiff after the long ride. She glances around, paranoia evident even from this distance. Satisfied she hasn’t been followed, she heads for the building’s entrance.
I ease off the throttle, hanging back as we enter a residential area. Rows of aging apartment buildings loom on either side, their faded brick telling stories of better days.
“She’s walking into the apartment on your left,” Maksim reports. “Eden Apartments.”
I see her from across the street, her fucking gold dress so short it might as well be a shirt, her bare feet slapping against the pavement. She looks relieved but scared—wild, like she doesn’t give a shit. And damn, if it doesn’t make me hard, watching her like this.
“I want everything on this place,” I order. “Tenant lists, security footage, the fucking custodian’s shoe size. You get me?”
“On it, boss,” Dmitry responds.
I watch as she disappears inside, a strange mix of emotions churning in my gut. Anger at the theft, sure. But also… curiosity.Admiration, even. It’s been a long time since anyone’s had the balls to cross me like this.
“You gonna go in after her?” Maksim asks.
I consider it for a moment. But no. This game’s just getting interesting. Why rush the endgame?
“Nyet,” I reply. “We wait. Watch. Let our little mouse get comfortable in her hole.”
I light a cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke into the evening air. “She thinks she’s won. Let her enjoy it while she can.”
I flick the cigarette butt onto the sidewalk, grinding it under my heel. A few doors down, the neon sign of “Le Petit Café” flickers, its attempt at Parisian charm an unexpected find in this quiet residential area.
“Might as well get comfortable,” I mutter.
I stride toward the café, pushing open the door. A bell chimes, too cheerful for my mood. The handful of patrons inside pause, their eyes darting to me before quickly finding their cups fascinating.
Smart.
I settle into a window seat with a clear view of Eden Apartments across the street. The waitress approaches, her steps hesitant.
“Chay,” I order, not bothering to look at her. “Black.”
She scurries off. I pull out my phone, pretending to be engrossed while keeping an eye on the apartment building.
The tea arrives, steaming and better than expected. I sip, my eyes sweeping the street for any hints of trouble. Well-dressed professionals hustle by, heads buried in their phones. It’s a nice neighborhood—far from what you’d expect an assassin to call home. The Eden building looms, a concrete eyesore nestled among surprisingly lush greenery.
The bell chimes. Maksim strolls in, iPad tucked under his arm. He slides into the booth across from me, eyebrow raised at my barely touched tea.
“What, too good forLe Petit Café?” he asks, smirking.
I roll my eyes at Maksim’s quip. “Just give me the intel,mudak.”
Ignoring me, Maksim reaches for my cup. He lifts it to his nose, inhaling deeply like some pretentious wine taster.
“Ah, the aroma of overpriced leaf water,” he says with a dramatic sigh.
Before I can stop him, he takes a massive gulp. His eyes go wide, and he starts coughing and sputtering.
“Blyat!” he chokes out. “It’s fucking hot!”
