“What happens to liabilities?” I ask, though I already know.
Anton’s eyes are steady, merciless. “They get handled.”
Like Rodriguez.
They’ll kill me.
They’ll throw my body into Lake Mead, probably. Right next to Jimmy Hoffa, a bunch of stolen casino chips, and at least three Elvis impersonators who crossed the wrong guy.
I picture it now: me, bloated and tragic, floating face-down in knockoff heels and last night’s mascara. A cautionary tale for drunk girls and bank tellers everywhere.
Lev’s phone buzzes. He glances at it, then at Anton. “Food’s here.”
“Finally,” Boris mutters. “I’m starving.”
Twenty minutes later, the penthouse smells of cheap Chinese takeout. The containers are spread across the kitchen island like a greasy buffet, and everyone’s digging in except me.
I pick at the fried rice, my stomach still twisted in knots.
“You’re not eating,” Anton observes.
“I’m not hungry.”
“When’s the last time you ate?”
I try to remember. Yesterday? This morning? Time has become meaningless.
“I don’t know.”
He studies my face, then pulls out his phone. “Boris, order something else. This is garbage.”
“It’s fine,” I protest.
“It’s not fine.” His tone brooks no argument. “You need to eat.”
The casual care in his voice catches me off guard. He’s worried about my appetite after orchestrating a murder. The contradiction makes my head spin.
While we wait for better food, the hacker-looking one disappears and returns with shopping bags.
“Your wardrobe,” he announces, setting them on the coffee table. “Courtesy of Nordstrom and educated guessing.”
I stare at the bags. “You went shopping for me?”
“I went to your apartment,” Boris says, like that’s a normal sentence to say to a woman he just met. “I know your style.”
He grins, all proud of himself. “Plus, I have three sisters. I know what women need.”
Wait. “You went to myapartment?”
“Yups.”
“You broke into my apartment?” My voice jumps a full octave.
Boris shrugs, completely unrepentant. “Picked the lock. You need better security, by the way. Those deadbolts? Cute, but ineffective.”
He pauses. “And your wardrobe?” He makes a face, like he just swallowed a thumbtack. “I considered grabbing a few things, but honestly? Nothing felt worth rescuing.”
My jaw drops. “You judged my closet?”
