I keep looking, finding nothing.
Not in his bedroom, not in his closet, not in the very promising-looking nightstand drawer where I was half-hoping to find something scandalous like rope, or maybe even a gun with a scratched-off serial number.
But no.
I sigh and move to the office, and it’s immaculate.
Like frustratingly immaculate.
Everything in its place.
Not a single loose paper, not even a junk drawer full of tangled cords, dead batteries, and mysterious keys to unknown locks.
It makes me suspicious.
Not just because he’s a man, and men, even my perfect ones, always have at least one disaster zone in their living space, but because…
What the fuck is he hiding?
He eats like a man raised right, not like some savage animal with no sense of manners. I already knew that despite his name…
Volkov.
I whisper it under my breath as I trace my fingers over his neatly stacked receipts.
Flour.
Flour.
More flour.
I exhale sharply, flipping through them.
It’s fancy fucking flour, imported from places I don’t even recognize. Better than the kind Elliot and I use.
But still.
It’s flour.
No coded messages. No suspicious orders. No weird anomalies in the ledger.
Just carbs.
I sit in his desk chair, scowling at his disgustingly organized existence.
Nothing locked. Nothing suspicious.
I open his contacts book, expecting… I don’t even know what.
The Bratva payroll?
A secret hit list?
Nope.
Bank contacts. Contractors. Suppliers.
I’m disgusted.
