He stands.
“Close it,” he says.
I log out, pull the drive, power the laptop down.
One of the guards steps forward to take the device. Sergei gives him a look. The man stops, hand still in the air.
“I’ll take it,” Sergei says.
He picks it up himself and slips it into his pocket.
Then he holds out his hand to me.
“Come upstairs,” he says. “We’ll see if we can keep you from that bunk.”
His office doorcloses behind us with a soft click.
Up here, the city sits around us in glass. The river. The bridges. Blocks of light and shadow. It’s late, but the streets never sleep.
He pours two vodkas from a crystal bottle. No label. He sets one in front of me.
“Drink?” he says.
I pick it up. The glass is cold and clear. The vodka burns cleanly on the way down. My chest warms.
He watches my face.
“That bad?” he asks.
“That strong.”
“Good,” he says.
He sits on the edge of his desk. Not behind it. In front. Closer.
“You’re twenty-three,” he says.
“You pulled my school records,” I say. “You know how old I am.”
“I pulled your records,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I believe them.”
“Believe what you see, then.”
“I do,” he says.
His gaze runs over my face. Not rude. Assessing. My pulse jumps anyway.
“If I hire you,” he says, “you’ll live under my roof. Not out there.”
“That sounds safe and dangerous at the same time,” I muse.
“It is both,” he says. “You’ll eat at my table. Work in my house. My enemies will know you’re under my protection. They’ll know you’re a way to hurt me. You’ll be watched. You’ll be guarded. You’ll be tested.”
“By you?” I ask.
“By everyone,” he says. “But my word is final.”
“And you think I’m worth that risk?” I ask.
