Olga's voice cut through from behind Harper. The old woman pushed past her would-be protector, smoothed her hair with practiced elegance, and fixed those sharp gray-blue eyes on me.
"How generous of you to grace us with your presence." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten all about your grandmother rotting away in this nursing home. Guess ittakes a gun to my head—or maybe my funeral—to get the great Pakhan to show his face."
I holstered my gun and raised both hands in surrender. She was the only person alive who could make me do that.
"I'm sorry, Olga. We've had some... complications with a shipment." I reached for her arm. "This place isn't safe anymore. If they got in once, they'll come back. You need to come home. Now."
"I'm not going back to that tomb." She slapped my hand away. "That manor's dead as a graveyard. Not a soul to talk to. You want me back there? Get married. Otherwise, I'd rather die here."
"Can we discuss this later?" I rubbed my throbbing temples. "Right now, for your safety—"
"For my safety, you should be checking on her!" Olga jabbed her cane toward Harper on the floor. "This girl threw herself between me and a gun. Without her, you'd be planning my funeral right now instead of lecturing me about security. Where the hell are your manners? Did you lose them somewhere?"
I paused. Followed the line of her cane back to Harper.
She'd curled into herself on the floor, trying to disappear. That reckless courage from moments ago had burned off with the adrenaline, leaving behind the timid nurse I knew.
Her clothes were torn. Her neckline gaped open. With each ragged breath, the soft curves she usually kept hidden moved in a way that made my mouth go dry.
I let my eyes linger on that strip of pale skin. Two seconds too long.
I'd never really looked at her before. Just registered "decent body" and moved on. But seeing her like this, broken and terrified... I realized this fragile woman had just done what half my well-paid guards wouldn't dare.
In this city of backstabbers and mercenaries, loyalty was goddamn rare.
I found myself softening. Crouched down to her level.
"You're hurt." I studied her swollen cheek and kept my voice gentle. "Canyou stand?"
Harper's head snapped up. Those wide doe eyes filled with panic.
"I'm fine, Mr. Orlov. Really. I'm okay."
"Boris." I stood, ignored her protests, and called toward the door.
Boris's massive frame appeared instantly, followed by a team of "cleaners" in black suits. They carried toolboxes and worked with practiced silence, erasing the bodies and blood from the scene.
"Take Miss Evans next door. Patch her up."
Boris moved toward Harper, but she scrambled to her feet, hands up, backing away.
"No! That's not necessary!" She was trembling. "Really, I'm fine! Just a scratch. A band-aid, that's all I need."
She clutched her torn collar closed, eyes darting everywhere, desperate to escape this crime scene.
I frowned.
As a businessman, I solved problems the practical way. She saved Olga's life. She didn't leave here empty-handed.
"Wait."
I stopped Harper mid-escape.
She froze. Turned back. Her eyes screamed please let me go.
I pulled out my checkbook, voice neutral. "Miss Evans. You did well tonight. As compensation for your... trauma—"
I uncapped my pen, held it over the check, and looked up at her.
