Page 22 of Nemesis

My heart thumps faster, dutifully ignoring my gaslighting.

“Well, hello there.” His words are a low echo through the quiet room.

An American, then. Not Russian like my cellmate. Maybe there’s a chance.

The man leans to the side in an effort to meet my gaze, but Vasiliy steps to block his sight.

“You can talk to me,” he says, his voice icy and colder than I’ve ever heard.

“Is that right?” A soft chuckle rumbles through the cool air. “And why would I talk to you, kid?”

“Maybe because your poorly trained men couldn’t wait five seconds for me to be alone before launching your attack. I will warn you,” he says, taking a menacing step toward the bars. “Many have tried to pull something useful from me. None of them are among the living.”

Another low laugh. I don’t like it one bit.

“Well, isn’t that cute. You’re trying to protect her.”

What?

“I’m not sure who you answer to,” Vasiliy starts, head tilting left. “But involving an innocent was incredibly foolish, even for your shitty little team of misfits.”

“An innocent?”

Something about the way our captor parrots the word sets off my nerves.

He releases an exaggerated sigh before crossing his arms. “This is getting tedious, so let’s just rip some bandages, shall we?”

The man slowly walks to the center of the room before resting an arm on the lone chair below the light. To my surprise, those dark eyes jump right over Vasiliy, cutting straight to me. Holding his attention feels like licking a flame.

“I know who you are, Octavia,” he says in a strange tone. “We’ve been following your pathetic life for years now, waiting for a confirmation of your family ties.”

Is there a gas leak in here?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I murmur slowly, trying to make sense of his words. What does he mean he’s been following me?

Vasiliy flexes his hand back towards me. I read the signal loud and clear. This creep’s enjoying my reactions, and I shouldn’t be entertaining him. I need to calm down.

“I’ve got to admit, you’ve certainly tickled my curiosity, princess.”

I wrap my arms around my chest protectively, shivering in the cold. When I don’t immediately respond to his goading words, he frowns.

“Let’s start at the beginning. Why did you lure the Morozov boy out of the theater last night, Annika Siderov?”

Siderov.

I’m careful not to show a single flicker of surprise when our captor name-drops the infamous Chicago syndicate.

I may specialize in pulling information out of people, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have methods of stowing said intelligence away for a rainy day. The last time I heard that particular name was nearly two years ago during a visit to Belarus. One of Uncle’s business partners had a project in his basement that was refusing to crack open. He spilled for me in less than three days, blubbering something about Siderov arms deals drying out the local market. I fed our ally the details and sauntered right back to the private jet, never giving the syndicate another thought until today.

I look over to the unassuming woman beside me, heavy with reassessment. A bad feeling roves over my flesh with the same discomfort that accompanied every other foolish mistake of my own making. The woman looks so confused. So cold and small and delicate. Is that a play too?

The man tries to gaze past me to Octavia again, but I step into his path, the action causing a slight sneer to tug his upper lip.

I may not know what’s going on, but one thing is crystal clear. This guy has an unhealthy obsession with the woman behind me, and I’m not letting him get within spitting distance of her.

If I’m being double-crossed, I’ll deal with her myself.

“I know who you are, too, Vasiliy Morozov,” the guy says with a cheeky grin.