She ducks her chin with pride, and a curtain of dark hair falls across her face.
Then we hear footsteps from somewhere deeper in the house.
The girl’s eyes snap toward the sound.
I stand up quickly. My chest tightens.
I’m not supposed to be here, not in this room, not in this part of the house, and definitely not having a conversation with a child who almost certainly belongs to the family that is about to reject me.
“Well,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “I should probably go. But it was really nice meeting you.” I pause. Smile at her. “I’m Ellie, by the way. What’s your name?”
She’s quiet for a moment, but the footsteps are getting closer. Her fingers wring the rabbit’s remaining good ear.
“Anya,” she says, so low that it’s almost a whisper.
“Anya.” I let the name settle. It fits her, small, both delicate and strong. “Well, Anya. Thank you for showing me your drawing. That bird is the best thing I’ve seen all day.” I scan around. “I’m a little lost, actually. Can you point me to the way out?”
She lifts one small hand and points toward an archway on the far side of the room.
“That way?” She nods. “Thank you.”
I move toward the archway. Fast but not panicked. Just a woman walking through a house. Nothing to see here.
At the arch, I glance back. Anya is still sitting behind the curtain, watching me with those enormous blue eyes, the rabbit pressed against her chest, the sketchbook balanced on her knees.
I wave.
She doesn’t wave back.
I turn the corner, follow the corridor, and by some miracle — or by Anya’s excellent directions — I find the foyer with the front door. I step out into the cold air, and relief washes over me.
That was more… interesting than expected. My heart sinks. Doesn’t mean I’ll get the job, though.
I look out and see the same gruff, darkly handsome driver from before. He doesn’t say a word, but I can tell he’s tired of waiting for me.
I tip my head down and shuffle into the car, happy to get out of that beautiful, monstrous not-home… And a little sad that, in all likelihood, I’ll never see that special little girl again.
6
ROLAN
The meeting is about money.
It’s always about money. Construction permits for the development on West Randolph. Laundering timelines. A city alderman who’s getting greedy and needs to be reminded that his campaign contributions come with expectations.
Yuri drones through the numbers on my laptop screen while I sit in the back of the Escalade, saying “da” at the appropriate intervals and thinking about none of it.
My mind has been elsewhere all day, which is unusual. I don’t allow myself the luxury of distraction. That’s how men in my position end up dead.
My father taught me that. Then someone proved it by putting three bullets in him while he was reading the newspaper.
But today my mind keeps drifting north, toward the estate.
Toward the interviews I couldn’t attend. Because a Bratva Pakhan doesn’t sit in a room and ask schoolteachers about their qualifications.
That’s what Mikhail is for. He knows what I want. He’s conducted this process before.
Background checks so thorough they border on surveillance. Questions designed to reveal not only competence but character. A final assessment based on instinct as much as evidence.
