I made my call. They can handle the logistics.
“I’m going to rest,” I announce. “You two can plot your reconnaissance of Thanksgiving dinner without me.”
Wyatt grins. “That obvious?”
“Extremely.”
Chris has the grace to look slightly guilty. “We’ll keep it simple.”
“Sure you will.”
I leave them to it, Nikita trailing behind me. In my bedroom, I can hear their voices continuing—lower now, more technical. Running scenarios, identifying risks, planning contingencies.
I curl up on my bed with Nikita purring against my side.
We never did have that conversation. The one Wyatt promised we’d try again “tomorrow.” Saturday came and went, then Sunday, and somehow we slipped into this comfortable rhythm of recovery and quiet domesticity without ever circling back to what I overheard in the dark.
He broke me down to remake me into something useful to him.
Chris’s words. About Vicente. About whatever happened during those years undercover that he still can’t—or won’t—explain.
I don’t have the full picture. Just fragments overheard at 3 AM, sharp-edged pieces that don’t quite fit together yet. But I have enough to know that walking into Vicente’s home means something different to Chris than it does to me. That when he looks at my client, he sees someone I haven’t met yet.
Someone he’s afraid I will.
Nikita kneads my hip, claws pricking through the blanket. I scratch behind her ears and stare at the ceiling, listening to the murmur of operational planning from the other room.
Thanksgiving should be interesting.
36
Chris
Tatiana picks a parking structure in Burbank. Fourth level, corner spot with clear sightlines to the elevator and stairwell.
She’s leaning against a black Mercedes when I arrive, arms crossed, watching me pull in. Her hair is down, makeup perfect, leather jacket that screams money. Playing the part Vera Volkov expects to see.
Out of county lockup two days and she looks like she owns the world.
I kill the engine, get out. She doesn’t move from her spot against the car, just watches me approach with those sharp, assessing eyes.
“Christopher,” she says.
“Tatiana.”
She studies me for a long moment, taking in whatever I’m not hiding well enough. Then she pulls out her phone, taps something, slides it across the hood of the Mercedes toward me.
I recognize the encryption app, punch in my access code. A file blooms open.
Names. Connections. Money trails threading through shell companies and offshore accounts. Vera Volkov’s name on paperwork—probably signing whatever her father puts in front of her. Her father’s fingerprints all over the actual operation. And threaded through it all—confirmation of what we suspected but couldn’t prove.
“That hit I mentioned Friday.” Tatiana’s voice drops. “On Amador and Flores. It’s confirmed. Active contract.”
My hands go still on the phone.
“How active?”
“Money’s already moved, people are positioning. It’s not just Serbian. There’s Yakuza involvement—old grudge about an art collection. It’s not a matter of if, it’s who gets there first.”
