There’s a brief knock before the door opens and our receptionist leans in. “Sorry to bother you, but there’s someone here to see you, Sonya.”
“Me? I don’t have any appointments today.”
“I don’t think this is a client.”
My boss and I look at each other, then at the receptionist.
“Does he look—” I drop my voice— “dangerous?”
Our unflappable receptionist has faced down her fair share of angry, vengeful, and abusive husbands, as well as the occasional wife. When she bites her lip, I know something’s up.
“He’s very calm and courteous,” she replies, which means he does indeed look dangerous.
My boss reaches under his desk for his baseball bat before he nods and follows me to the door. An enormous bull of a man looks up as I approach.
“Can I help you?”
“You are Sonya Wallace.” It’s a statement spoken in a thick Russian accent, not a question.
“I am. And you are?”
Instead of answering, the man rises. “Mr. Volkov sent me for you. You have a dress fitting appointment for the wedding.”
My head whips around to my boss and the receptionist, both of whom are looking at me with wide eyes. I wave my hand at them, feeling myself flush. “I’m just someone’s date for a wedding,” I tell them. “It’s not my wedding.”
The two relax slightly.
“I don’t have an appointment with him,” I tell the big man. “Mr. Volkov might be able to take off in the middle of the day, but I have clients who rely on me. I can’t just leave.”
“Do you eat lunch?”
“What does that have to do with anything?—"
“Do you take a lunch break?” He cuts me off.
“I usually work through?—”
“Then this counts as your lunch break.” Again, it’s a statement, not a question. “You can say no now, but Mr. Volkov will not be happy if he has to come here himself.”
It’s obvious this guy is not taking no for an answer, and neither will Matvei—not that I’m surprised. I sigh and look at my boss, who shrugs as if to say it’s up to you.
“Fine. But it’s only a lunch break. You bring me right back here after we’re done.”
“I will,” the man promises solemnly.
“What did you say your name was again? And can I see some ID?”
Annoyance flashes across the big man’s face, but I’m not about to get into a random car with a random stranger just because he says Matvei sent him. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his ID, and hands it to me.
Evgeny Fedorov,State of Illinois. It looks legit, and Matvei mentioned this man’s name more than once in Prague, enough for me to understand he’s important.
I hand back his ID and turn to my boss. “If I don’t text you or if I’m not back in an hour, call the police.”
I’m only half joking, and everyone in the room knows it. Even Evgeny, who, as he holds the door open for me to step out into the late summer warmth, murmurs, “You don’t have to worry. Mr. Volkov will have more than my head if I let anything happen to you.”
“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better,” I admit.
Evgeny doesn’t say anything more as he leads me to a late-model luxury sedan with the windows blacked out and opens the door for me. He remains silent the entire time we drive to wherever we’re going.
