Boris lifts a brow. “You want to keep this from thePakhan?”
“I want to keep it controlled,” I correct. “We don’t feed Igor anything until we have facts. Not guesses. Not panic.”
He studies me for a beat, then exhales through his nose. “You think Mary’s connected?”
“I think someone tried to kill her in a fucking laundromat. Hours after she flagged something at that bank. You tell me.”
He doesn’t answer. Just pulls a burner out of his pocket and starts tapping.
“She’s not the type to know what she’s involved in,” I say, eyes on the elevator screen as it ticks toward the penthouse. “But someone clearly thinks she is.”
Boris nods once. “I’ll backtrace the file. See who had eyes on it. I’ll also need to grab your laptop. Or you wanna keep staring at paper like a grandpa?”
I grunt. “Just get it done.”
The elevator chimes. We step out into silence; floor-to-ceiling glass walls, shadowed furniture, air that smells like money. Everything is soft beige and hard lines, too clean to feel real. I don’t even know where the damn bedroom is.
Boris scans the space like he’s seen it before, which he probably has.
“I’ll get the cleaners to bring up towels and supplies,” he mutters, still typing. “She’s gonna need water, maybe something for shock. You got meds here?”
“No clue. Check the cabinets.”
He pauses, glancing back as I lay Mary down across the long couch near the window.
“You want me to keep an eye on her?”
“I want you to make sure her grandmother’s safe.”
Boris blinks. “The old woman?”
“She lives alone.”
He blows out a low whistle. “So this is what we’re doing now? Extending family protection to civilians who smell like meatloaf and prescription ointment?”
“She’s all Mary has.”
His jaw works, but he doesn’t argue. “Fine. I’ll post two men discreetly nearby.”
“Three. And make sure they rotate. No patterns.”
“Jesus. Anyone else you want tucked in tonight? Her coworkers? Her fish?”
I shoot him a look.
He raises his hands in surrender. “Got it. Grandma first. Then the Viktor shitshow. Anything else while I’m saving the world?”
“Yeah,” I say, walking toward the hallway, searching for a bedroom door. “She’s going to need clothes. Go to her place. Grab what you can without making it obvious.”
Boris tilts his head. “Clothes.”
“Nothing stupid. Basics. Whatever women wear when they’re… recovering.”
A beat of silence. Then: “Copy that. I’ll bring cozy socks and trauma pants.”
“Boris.”
He smirks. “What? I have a sensitive side.”
