If it is, then it certainly is another point in favor of this being a hit list. But there’ssomethingabout it nagging at me and telling me that this can’t possibly be a hit list.
I look closer again at the letters. They’re neat and round in a consistent way that suggests years of practice.
Wait a minute…
I’ve seen plenty of male handwriting in my lifetime—everything from Luca’s chicken scratch, Dad’s blocky prints, and Slava’s skinny script—but not a single one of them looks like this. They’re always straight and hurried.
Not this.
These letters are neat and round in a softer way, with tiny little flourishes that suggest years of careful practice.
This list was written by a woman!
My jaw falls open at the realization. But immediately, a wave of something hot and ugly pours into my belly.
Why thefuckdoes Slava have some woman’s list of names in his safe?
I don’t want to feel this unreasonable jealousy for some unknown and unnamed woman, but I do.
My stomach twists and my heart claws at my chest with green talons.
Who is she? A girlfriend? A lover? Some other trust fund princess who gets to curl up in his bed, kicking her legs while shewrites neat little lists of names that he keeps locked away like precious secrets in his safe?
Does he holdheron his desk and demand her strip in that low, dangerous voice? Did he scoopherinto his arms when she needed rescuing? Did he dareherto kiss him?
And does he lay her down on his bed at night, kiss her into its soft caress, while he makes love to her until the sun rises?
So what if he has some woman?I tell myself viciously.Why should I care? Why do I care?
I don’t. I absolutely don’t fucking care.
But my hands are shaking as I pick up the phone again. There’s a reckless energy building in my chest that feels dangerous and destructive.
I don’t care, and I can prove it right now.
I open up a fresh message to Nico. A few taps and the list of names is attached to the message.
My finger hovers over the send button for exactly one second before I jab it with more force than necessary.
Sent.
Fuck you, Slava.
And fuck you, anonymous woman with the pretty handwriting that he keeps in his safe.
I stare at the message. Sent. Delivered. Read.
But no response. I breathe and wait. One minute turns to five, and then five into ten.
Nothing.
Fucking whatever.
Then, my phone rings, and I nearly drop it when I see the name on it:Slava Romanov.
I don’t want to fucking talk to him right now, so I hit ignore. A second later, his call comes again. When I ignore him again, he sends a text.
Pick up the fucking phone or I’m coming over.
