“Never heard of him.” But I’ll definitely be asking around.
She studies my face, as if I’m an object worthy of scrutiny. “I can see that you are terribly wise for your youth. And loyal. I appreciate that.”
“More like I like breathing,” I mutter through a sip. The drink was meant as a prop, but I’ll be ordering another to fill my sweaty palm soon.
“So, it is fear that keeps you with him. A need for self-preservation.”
The last decade of my life has been all about self-preservation.
Despite my veil of suspicion, I pity this woman. Whoever Malachi is, he sent her here on a fool’s errand. I lower my voice. “Maybe you should take some lessons, then, because dropping Korsakov’s name around the city like this? It’s a bad idea.”
“Mais oui, I understand he is a dangerous man.” She waves her hand dismissively, and my eyes catch the gold ring on her finger. The band is chunky and ornate, the finish antique, and the sizable white stone held within the claws holds no sparkle. I might dismiss it as a bubblegum-machine prize if this woman weren’t wearing it.
“You don’t want to get mixed up with him, believe me.” Maybe she thinks her beautiful face will buy her grace, but Korsakov is an equal-opportunity killer when someone threatens his empire.
She peers at me again with that measuring stare. “And why are you mixed up with him, then?”
“Because I don’t have a choice.” The words come out unbidden. I quietly chastise myself for allowing them to slip so easily. It makes me appear weak and fearful—nothing more than a pawn, a piece to play in someone else’s game. And I suppose I am, to some degree, though I have my own game in play too. An endgame out of this life.
“You have a binding agreement with him.” Sofie’s eyes don’t reflect any pity. If anything, I see genuine interest.
“More like a debt I’ll never be able to pay off.” I was eighteen when I lifted that diamond bauble off the wrong hand at a nightclub. I took it to the pawnshop the next day, where I hocked everything I stole, knowing Skully would pay me a fraction of its worth, but he wouldn’t ask questions. That bulky wad of cash in my pocket had me literally skipping out of the shop. It would keep me afloat for months if I was thrifty.
The next day, three men tracked me down and dragged me into a black SUV. Turns out the ring I stole belonged to Viggo Korsakov’s daughter.
I still remember standing in the warehouse office in front of the Viggo Korsakov himself, a man with pinched eyes and a cruel smile. One of the fluorescent lights above blinked, ready to give out, making the whole scenario more ominous. It took every ounce of composure to keep my limbs from trembling and my bladder from letting loose as I sang apologies and excuses, begging him not to use the meat cleaver that waited idly on a nearby table. How would I survive without my hands? Stealing was what I was good at—and I was excellent at it.
He offered me a deal instead. Skully had told him about my eye for quality, that the “merchandise” I’d been delivering over the years far outvalued the typical trinkets and trash he bought from others. Korsakov had need of a thief of my talent and profile—young, pretty, unexpected, and most surprising, without fingerprints in the criminal system. If I agreed to work for him, he would forgive me for my grievous mistake.
I’d heard enough whispers on the street about the man to know it wasn’t a choice, not if I wanted to walk out of that warehouse with my hands, so I accepted his offer.
That was three years ago, and while I don’t have my freedom, my life hasn’t been bad. Gone are the days of sleeping in youth shelters and vans, on couches, or tucked into an alcove at the public library when a night guard took pity. I now have a quaint studio apartment in Chelsea, with an exposed brick wall and south-facing window where basil and rosemary grow in pots on the sill, and my fridge is always filled with fresh fruit and meat that I paid for.
Korsakov tasked his daughter—the very one I had stolen the ring from—with transforming me from a scrappy street kid who loitered in dark corners to the pedigreed woman who could stroll into high-society charity events without earning a blink of suspicion. I no longer spend my days in search of valuables left in cars and careless fools who don’t guard their wallets and purses. Now, I lead a relatively typical life, relying on my talents only when Korsakov taps my shoulder with a ticket to one of these parties, where I blend in like a chameleon long enough to appropriate well-insured jewels from rich assholes. That’s what he calls me: his chameleon.
But in the end, I’m still a thief, one who feels more indebted to Korsakov now than I did three years ago. Short of disappearing into the night and spending the next however many years watching over my shoulder, I don’t have options. I’m stuck with him until he’s six feet under or he no longer sees value in me—which could mean I’m six feet under.
Sofie tips her glass to polish off the last of her wine before gingerly setting it on the counter. “Forgive me. I can sense that you are anxious. I shall not keep you from your task any longer. Do not do something silly, like get caught.” She winks, and as quickly as she appeared at my side, she vanishes into the crowd, leaving me rattled to my core.
“He’s pissed.” Tony drums his thick fingers against the passenger door to the tune of the sweeping windshield wipers. “Two major screw-ups in a row. My brother’s little lizard isn’t worth his trouble anymore.”
I roll my eyes at the back of the big oaf’s head, knowing he’s watching me through the side mirror and will catch it. Tony is enjoying my empty hands far too much for someone who’s supposed to be on the same team. I’m not surprised, though. He was the one safeguarding Anna the night I stole her ring. It earned him a smashed nose that healed crooked and three broken ribs, as well as a demotion in rank that he hasn’t gained back yet. He has despised me ever since, made worse on nights like tonight when he’s assigned to babysitting duty.
Tony’s opinion doesn’t matter, but I know Korsakov will not take lightly to a second miss—especially not this one. He already had a buyer lined up, and he hates reneging on a deal.
I’ve learned not to show fear around these guys, though. Assholes like Tony will feed off it like a rabid coyote until there’s nothing left of me but bones. “It’s late. Drop me at home and I’ll go talk to him tomorrow.” Korsakov’s temper is scalding, but it cools quickly. It’s best not to be around him until it does.
“Nah.” Tony’s grin is wide and obnoxious. “He called before you came out. Said to bring you in tonight.”
“Fine. Whatever.” I feign indifference but my stomach roils. That doesn’t bode well for me. He couldn’t have known I’d failed by that point. But maybe he’d made a decision about my fate in case I did.
I focus on my breathing as our SUV meanders along the city streets, the hazy glow of brake lights and relentless blast of taxi horns oddly therapeutic. My target left before I could make my move, but it would’ve been too risky, anyway. I have to assume Sofie is somehow tied to the feds, and if those cuff links went missing tonight, my studio apartment door would be the first they kicked down.
“What’s with the souvenir?” Tony asks.