Because she’s beenconditionedto nod and smile while someone steps on her throat in heels she can’t afford.
Bratva girls don’t survive like that. Vegas girls sure as hell don’t. But she—
She just folds.
Smaller. Quieter.
Like if she minimizes enough, they’ll stop noticing her altogether.
Pizdets.
That’s not weakness. That’s survival. Learned helplessness wrapped in polite customer service.
But it still pisses me off.
A twitch fires down the side of my jaw, tight, involuntary. My molars grind once, hard enough that I feel it behind my eyes.
Calm the fuck down.
You’ve seen worse. Heard worse. Stepped over worse.
But it wasn’ther.
My phone vibrates once. Message from Lev:
Kozlov’s second drop didn’t happen. Our guy tailed a silver Camry to The Strip, but it looped twice and lost him. Means he’s not running solo. Someone’s covering his tracks.
I don’t answer.
Not because it’s unimportant.
Because Mary’s voice is in my ear again.
Low. Whispered.
“Okay… going into Dave’s office now. Gonna try the USB.”
She says it fast. Like if she gets the words out before fear catches up, she can pretend she’s not about to commit corporate espionage in heels.
I hear the soft sound of keys jangling.
A click. A door creaking open.
Footsteps.
Then—
“Mary Sullivan.”
Male. Calm. Confident.
My spine straightens.
“I can call you Mary, right?”
Mary doesn’t answer right away.
I sit forward.
