I don’t dare look up. Not at Lev. Not at Boris. Definitely not at the six-foot-three Bratva enforcer sitting across from me.
Too late.
Anton watches me like he’s trying not to. Like if he stares too long, he’ll say something he can’t unsay. He doesn’t, though. He reaches out without a word. Pulls a clean napkin from the stack, and passes it to me.
Lev throws a look across the table. “We save her, she feeds us. That’s how this works, right?”
I snort and lift my water bottle to my lips, only to choke halfway through when Boris suddenly pulls something from his hoodie pocket—a tiny black disc no bigger than a coin.
“For your next shift,” he says, setting it gently on the counter in front of me. “Stick it in the baseboard of Caleb’s office. Anywhere behind a cabinet or shelf will do. Wireless, auto-triggered, encrypted. Cleanest line of access we’ll get.”
I blink at the thing, apprehension unfurling.
Boris drums his fingers on the counter. “It’s safer than the laptop plan. Fewer moving parts. If they catch you, just say you got sidetracked on the way to the bathroom.”
“You think they’ll believe that?”
“You’re a woman in corporate America. No one questions bathroom detours.”
Anton doesn’t say anything. Just watches me. Like he’s memorizing my face in case something goes wrong.
Lev breaks the tension by tearing open a bright orange plastic container with bold red letters that say “Mango Surprise (???)” in Comic Sans.
“What the hell is this?” he says, poking the jiggling mound inside with the corner of his chopstick. “It’s like Jell-O and flan had a baby and then abandoned it.”
Boris leans over, squints. “It’s dessert. Be grateful.”
“I’m insulted.”
“You’re dramatic,” Boris mutters.
Dima ignores all of them. He’s nursing tea now—probably steeped for exactly four minutes—and chewing a plain fortune cookie with the emotional expression of drywall.
Lev’s still making faces at the pudding when he glances my way. “So?”
“So …what?”
“You gonna tell us how you did at the range today, or are we just pretending that wasn’t your villain origin story?”
I freeze mid-bite, chopsticks halfway to my mouth.
Anton’s brow lifts like he’s curious too, but trying not to be obvious about it.
I shrug, a little defensive. “I hit a few things. Mostly air.”
“You flinched less by the end,” Anton says, still watching me. “Your aim was shit, but your breathing was better.”
“Wow,” I say. “Thank you for that stirring motivational speech. I feel so empowered.”
He smirks. Just barely. “You should.”
And God help me, I do.
Dima sips his tea.
The silence settles for a beat. I pick at a corner of a napkin.
Anton leans back slightly, lifts a bottle of water, and drinks. Then—without warning—he unbuttons the top of his shirt.
