“I’ll need a copy of your working visa. You have one, right?”
She nods. “I have a student visa.”
“Right, you moved to New York for school. Let me guess…” I tap the pen against the desk, my gaze drifting over her. “Are you studying performing arts? Dance? Maybe design. You seem like the creative type.”
Her mouth twitches. “Hate to disappoint you, but I’m studying boring computer stuff.”
A computer nerd? With the tattoos and the attitude and the way she moves, I expected creative, not coding and algorithms.
But the contradiction appeals to me. Beauty and brains, wrapped in a woman who can hold her own in every way that counts.
“I’m not sure I could find anything about you boring,” I admit.
“Oh, trust me, you’d be surprised.”
“Columbia or NYU?”
“Neither.” Her teeth catch her bottom lip. “MTI.”
My head snaps up. Manhattan Tech Institute doesn’t accept just anyone. You have to be fucking brilliant to get through the door, let alone land one of the coveted international spots.
I set down the pen and give her my full attention. “You intrigue me, Ms. Panova.”
And I want to know far more than these questions will give me.
She glances at the clock behind me. “If that’s all, I should get back downstairs. I’m on my training shift.”
I scrawl my signature across the bottom of the form. “We’re good … for now.”
Once she leaves, I reach for my phone and call Miron. He’s a former counterintelligence officer I pulled from the FSB, Russia’s Federal Security Service, three years ago to work for me directly.
He doesn’t do small talk, doesn’t kiss ass, and he’s never once complained a job is impossible.
“What do you need?” he asks by way of greeting.
“I need you to find everything you can on one of my employees. Evelina Dmitrievna Panova. I’ll send over her info.”
“Done,” he says, before hanging up. Like I said, no small talk.
First, I’ve got a Ghost to hunt. Once he’s handled, once Ruslan’s off my back and Katya’s future is secure, I can deal with this maddening attraction.
I’ll fuck her until the hunger burns out, then we go our separate ways.
I don’t do relationships. I know better. Because every man in our world eventually breaks the woman he claims to love or gets her killed.
Better not to get involved at all.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
KIRILL
I pullopen the rear door and slide into the backseat of the armed Land Rover parked deep in the shadows behind Apollon. Matvey’s behind the wheel, Dem riding shotgun. From here we have a clear view of the exit Elio will use to get to his Maserati.
“Look who decided to show up.” Matvey turns, giving me a shit-eating grin. “We were about to send out a search party.”
“Traffic sucks in this city,” I drawl. “You know how it goes.”
