Page 131 of Nemesis

Shit.

“Of course.” My throat bobs. I was hoping to get further into the building before being disarmed.

“What is your business here?” he asks.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a guy this big. The behemoth appears above me, plucking my guns from either side with a frown. He looks about five seconds away from throwing me out on my ass. There’s no way I could take him unarmed.

So I play my Hail Mary. I face the woman, still standing by with a squirming toddler in her arms.

“I need to see the Pakhan,” I plead, feeling the weight of my knives tug free from my pants. “Please.”

Grey eyes shine back.

Two sets, actually, because the little girl is still wriggling in her mother’s hold, trying to free herself once more.

“And what business do you have with my husband?”

The Pakhan’s wife. My luck shifts. Something flickers in the center of my chest. Not the usual, predictable anger.

Hope.

“A matter of life and death, ma’am,” I respond, sinking to my knees before her. Cold from the linoleum presses into my pants. The head of security could take my life right here and now. Would they kill me in front of the child?

It wouldn’t have stopped Vasiliy’s uncle.

Pakhans don’t beg. Leaders don’t bend. But I am not a leader right now. I am drowning in frozen depths, pleading for a liferaft.

The woman hasn’t turned away. Her inspection feels incredibly analytical, and I can’t tell which way she’s swaying. Then she glances down for the briefest moment at the chaotic bundle of joy in her arms.

“She’s unarmed?” she asks her head of security.

He nods.

“Alright. Follow me.”

She turns toward the elevator, and I stumble after her, pleased when the big guy doesn’t topple my bones back down to the hard floor. Thank God. The elevator flies past numerous levels, rising much higher than I’d anticipated. Manhattan Ballet is only a handful of blocks away. I often walked past the large glass doors of this place on my way to the studio, but I never bothered to look up.

A ding sounds through the air as the doors slide open, revealing a massive office space with floor-to-ceiling windows. We’re so high that hazy clouds float around the surrounding buildings.

“Daddy!” the child squeals, and that one word tries to knock over the precariously stacked blocks of my mind. The woman sets the girl down, allowing her to run off towards the two men sitting at a desk on the far side of the room.

“I thought you two were headed home, menace,” one of them calls out as he scoops the tiny child into his massive arms and plants a kiss on her forehead.

The woman beside me folds her arms stubbornly across her chest. “Yes, well, it seems that a certain uncle has turned my child into a monster. She runs from me as soon as her feet hit the ground.”

The other man, a tall, blond guy who looks oddly familiar, laughs. “That’s because we’re going for gold, Cass. She’s gonna be an Olympian one day.”

“Fine. You catch her then!” The woman, Cass, throws up her arms. “I’ve brought you something else as well.”

My stomach clenches.

“Oh?” The man’s eyes glitter. Then he looks over to me with stark curiosity. “And what would that be?”

I’m grateful for the woman stepping closer, a casual show of backup in front of a predator I’ve spent hours preparing to die at the hands of.

“A pro bono,” she says simply.

The dark-haired man tilts his head at a disconcerting angle, stepping forward. “What is your name, pro-bono?”