Page 23 of The Bratva King

“We’re checking it now.”

I look at my deathtrap companions. Catherine has both hands pressed over her mouth. Her eyes are wide. She’s on the verge of a panic attack.

“How long?”

“Twenty minutes. Maybe an hour.”

“Call the fire department. Get them here and get us out.”

“Yes, sir.”

I hang up and pocket the phone.

“Fire department?” Catherine’s voice climbs another register. “I have to get out! I don’t do well in small spaces. I can’t be here.”

“Breathe.” Pasha bends to gather the papers from her portfolio. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. We’re not in any danger. The elevator is locked on its cables. It’s not going anywhere.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because that’s how elevators work.”

She makes a sound that could be a laugh or the beginning of a sob. Hard to tell. If she starts screaming, I might open the doors and jump.

I move to the opposite corner and lean against the wall. I cross my arms and keep my breathing even.

The generator should have kicked on. This isn’t a coincidence or a mechanical failure. Someone interfered with it. Which means someone got onto my site today, slipped past the additional security, and sabotaged me.

“Nik.” Pasha’s voice is quiet.

I look at him. He’s watching me. Checking in. Making sure I’m not about to lose my shit with Catherine.

I give him a slight shake of my head.

He nods.

“How long have you been in Vegas?” he asks Catherine, smooth as anything, like we’re in a conference room instead of a stalled box thirty stories above the ground.

She blinks at him. “What?”

“Vegas. How long?”

“I… four years.”

“You like it?”

She looks at him like he’s lost his mind.

“Yes,” she says. “I like it.”

“Hot,” he observes.

“Very hot.”

Pasha’s most underrated quality is that he could make small talk in a burning building and somehow make people feel better.

He does the same for me when things get tense.

My phone buzzes with a text from Frank.