Page 71 of Sexting my Bratva Daddies

I’d shaken hands with the women who ran the loan desk.

Whatever scorched debris sat on that corner, it had once meant more than numbers on a spreadsheet.

I would not forget that, even as every instinct I possessed pivoted toward Anton and away from grief.

“Anything else, sir?” That bored tone pushed me forward.

Good.

I would take bored over the shitshow this day had become. “Is there anything left?”

“No, sir. The hit was clean. Perfect.” He paused. “There is no physical evidence of Anton’s presence, but I cannot fathom anyone else with the balls to attack in broad daylight.”

Of course. Anton was bold as always, but also cautious enough not to reveal his hand.

His people had set my bank on fire.

One of my legitimate businesses. And he’d done it in the middle of the day. “Thank you.” I ended the call and crossed my arms. The building across from us held office spaces filled with people who hurried back and forth all throughout the day. They reminded me of ants, always scurrying and working.

I pressed the button to call Peyton’s desk. Four rings and the call ended without an answer. She’d never been gone from her desk this long except for lunch. I flipped my wrist over to check my watch. Two p.m.

I hadn’t seen her since this morning. Turning, I scooped my phone into my pocket and stalked from the office, checking Peyton’s desk as I passed.

Empty except for a bag of what smelled like teriyaki chicken from a local grocery. The same bag that had been sitting there before lunch.

I knocked on Viktor’s door, then walked on down to Misha’s, pushing my way inside after three sharp raps.

Viktor followed me in, his hair tousled like he’d been running his hands through it.

“Have either of you seen Peyton?” I didn’t bother waiting to ask the question.

Misha’s brows furrowed. “No.”

“Me either.” Viktor perched on the edge of the couch arm, one leg pulled up so his foot dangled. “Why?”

“Maybe nothing.” I filled them in on my meetings and the bank fire.

Viktor pushed to his feet and headed straight for Misha’s liquor cabinet. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” I rubbed my chest, the ache there demanding attention. “It might be nothing.”

“Do not discount your gut.” Misha paced between Viktor and me, taking a glass from Viktor and passing it to me.

“Check the cameras. I’m going to talk to her friend. Elena.” I tossed back the whiskey Misha handed me and made my way to Elena’s department.

People here sat behind computers and read reports. The quiet but persistent clack of fingers on keyboards created a decent amount of background noise that mingled with an orchestra soundtrack playing overhead.

Several heads lifted when I walked in, and a few gulped and the clicking intensified. I wound my way around the desks until I spotted Elena’s dark head.

She watched me approach, seemingly nonplussed by my appearance.

Her head dipped in a nod when I stopped at her cubicle. “Mr. Petrov. Is there something I can do for you?”

“Have you seen Peyton?” No need in hedging around the question. “She’s been away from her desk for a while. Work is stacking up.”

The flimsy excuse came out plausible enough that no one looked at me oddly. Not even Elena.

She shook her head at first, then gasped. “Oh, no. She did not say anything about leaving, but she did mention that she was not feeling well. Perhaps she went home, after all.”