The operation isn’t waiting for us to figure out our relationship.
31
Chris
Tatiana got herself arrested.
That’s the only explanation that makes sense as I pull into Twin Towers Correctional Facility at seven in the morning. She’s too smart for a legitimate fuck-up. This is operational, and she didn’t clear it with me first.
The attorney-client meeting room they’ve approved is a glorified closet—metal table bolted to the floor, two plastic chairs, walls thin enough to hear the drunk in the next room still protesting his innocence. No cameras though. Attorney-client privilege, even the fabricated kind, has its uses.
I’m playing lawyer today. The performance comes easier than being myself.
I drum my fingers on the table, checking my watch. They’re taking their time bringing her up from holding. Making me wait. Or maybe making her wait—depends who’s trying to prove what to whom down there.
My phone vibrates against the metal table. I flip it over, expecting operational updates. Instead, two messages that stop my drumming fingers.
NINA: Thank you for this morning. For last night. I’ll fill you in on what you missed after you left—if you’re not too busy playing spy.
WYATT: Glad we finally got past the bullshit last night. We should talk, just us. Also—Nina’s procedure is tomorrow at 10. You should be there.
The words blur for a second. I pocket the phone.
You should be there.
My body still carries evidence of them, even after the rushed shower at the hotel, the quick change into the suit I keep for exactly these occasions. Nina’s scent lingers on my skin despite the soap and hot water. The memory of her mouth on me this morning while Wyatt fucked her, the way she moaned around my cock when he?—
The door bangs open.
Tatiana enters, county-issued blues hanging loose on her frame, a guard’s hand on her elbow until she’s through the doorway. Her pale eyes sweep the room once before landing on me. A bruise darkens her left cheekbone. Her knuckles are split.
“You look like shit,” I tell her.
She drops into the chair across from me. “You look like you got fucked within an inch of your life.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I keep my expression neutral.
“Ah.” She leans back, studying me. “So the good doctor forgave you for whatever stupid thing you did. How touching.”
“You got yourself arrested without clearing it with me first.” My voice comes out steady. Professional. “This better be operational.”
“So serious now.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Though when I walked in, I thought maybe someone finally pulled that stick from your ass.”
“Grand theft auto, evading arrest, assault on an officer,” I say, reading from the intake sheet they gave me. “You stole a car to get yourself in here?”
“A Maserati from the valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Made it halfway to downtown before I let them catch me.” She inspects her nails, casual as discussing weather. “Vera Volkov was getting transferred next week. My window was closing.”
I wait.
“Mikhail’s precious daughter. Twenty-two, thinks she’s untouchable because daddy launders money for serious people. Got herself picked up on possession charges last week.” Tatiana examines her split knuckles. “The Armenians inside had different ideas about her status. Thought they’d teach the Russian princess a lesson about territory.”
“You protected her.”
“I broke one’s arm, another’s nose. The third one ran.” Her smile is all teeth. “Vera was very grateful. Started talking about daddy’s business, his new connections.”
“Your arraignment’s set for tomorrow afternoon,” I tell her. “Judge Kowalski. Two o’clock.”
She nods, unconcerned. “Fine.”
