He leans back, studying me. “I’ve got a job for you.”
That makes me blink. I straighten a little, suspicious. Gabriel’s only jobs for me is clean, cook or kill. “What, you need your toilet scrubbed? Want me to cook for the boys like a good little housewife? Or you don’t have anyone willing to kill and you’re hoping I get killed trying to take out the target? Either way, can’t. I’m busy.”
He glares. “You’re not too fucking busy for the syndicate. I need you to get a job.”
“I got more than enough jobs,Gabe.” I stretch the name out on purpose, just to see that vein in his neck jump.
“I told you not to fucking call me that—unless you want a knife across your throat.”
I go still. My jaw locks. I feel my breath catch for a second too long.
I pushed too far.
“What’s the job?” I ask, voice low.
He smiles, and I hate it. “A bakery.”
My eyes narrow. “A what?”
“Smash and Sugar.”
The name slams into my chest like a bullet. My spine stiffens. “That’s Korsakov’s.”
“Exactly,” he says, tapping his finger on the desk. “I need you to get in. Get hired. Get intel.”
“You want me to do what? Grab some files? He launders money through there, what else is there to know?”
“I got intel thatthatis where his Obshchak Vaska haunts,” he says like it’s nothing. “Get close to Vaska, you’ll get closer to the information I need.”
“Vaska is his Sovetnik, his right hand, not his book keeper.”
“He’s both,” Gabriel snaps. “And I need to know where Korsakov stashes his inventory and cash.”
“Why?” I ask my chest pounding at the thought.
Vaska Moronov’s a knife artist. Always flipping one in his hand like it’s an extension of his damn fingers. He’s dangerous. A Bratva executioner.
Gabriel’s eyes flash. “Because I’m done playing nice with the Russians. They’ve been fucking with my shipments for months. Took out three of my runners last week. Now they’re moving in on my territory.”
“You’re insane,” I mutter. “Do you even know how big the Bratva is? You’re not taking them down, Gabriel. They’re not just muscle. They’ve got alliances—Italians, remember them? Oh, and rumor has it, the Don just married into the fucking cartel. You think you can take them down with a few bakery shifts and a fucking clipboard?”
“Shut the fuck up.” He slams his fist on the desk hard enough to rattle the lamp. “I know exactly what I’m doing. And I’m not asking you. I’mtellingyou.”
My chest rises, falls. My ribs feel too tight.
“You’re going tonight,” he says. “You’re gonna walk in, smile real nice, and get the job. Or you’re done.”
I shake my head. “That’s a death sentence.”
“You’re smart,” he says, leaning forward. “You’ll figure it out. Besides, you’re nobody. Just some girl looking for work. They won’t suspect you.”
Nobody.
The word settles in my chest like a stone.
He’s right, though. I am nobody. That’s always been my advantage.
“And if I say no?” I ask.
