“Boss—”
“Feelings get you killed.” My knuckles whiten around the glass. “Or worse—they make you wish you were.”
Dmitry’s jaw locks. His chair scrapes back.
I don’t watch him leave. Instead, I pull up the weapons shipment data from 2017. Work. Death. Power. This is what matters.
Not some dead kid’s sister.
Not some living kid’s tears.
The door shuts with a soft click.
11
Clara
SNRKKK-PFFFTTT
What the—?
My eyes snap open, mortified by the foghorn that just erupted from my face.
Good job, Clara. Real femme fatale material right here.
Nothing says “deadly assassin” like snoring loudly enough to wake yourself up.
Wait.
I blink at the ceiling, mind fuzzy. This isn’t my ceiling. Too many fancy-ass crown moldings. Too much… everything.
The events of last night crash back like a hangover.
Kidnapped. Check.
Enemy’s house. Check.
Probably drooled on thousand-thread-count pillowcases. Double check.
Something’s not right, though. The room’s too quiet, missing that soft little whistle-snore that usually—
My heart stutters.
“Elijah?”
Silence answers. Not even a rustle of sheets.
I bolt upright, head spinning. The massive bed stretches beside me, empty except for a squished Pikachu plushie. No tiny limbs sprawled everywhere. No kid-sized blanket cocoon.
No son.
My heart slams against my ribs. I throw the covers off, bare feet hitting cold wood. “Elijah!”
The walk-in closet’s empty. Just rows ofhisdesigner clothes.
Why can’t he hang his clothes in his room like a normal person?
The bathroom door’s wide open, no tiny figure brushing his teeth or playing with the fancy soap dispenser.
