“And you know how to disable the security feed?”
“I know how.” My last case involved a breach of a system like this. The expert we consulted with had explained to me exactly how it was done. “Any word about Mika?”
“Not yet, but it’s only been a day. They’re working on it. Don’t worry. They have the resources necessary to locate the boy. How is your friend?”
I hesitate. Is Stepanov jealous?
No, that’s ridiculous. He’s just looking for a full report.
“I appear to have won his trust.”
“Good work.”
I end the call and, restless, head downstairs. Perhaps I can explore the building before it’s dark. Pretending to be turned around for the cameras watching, I take the wrong turn off the elevator and come to what appears to be a retail space.
A sign reading “Kremlin Clay” hangs over the doorway. I try the knob, and it opens.
Inside a young woman dressed in short plaid flannel shorts despite it being winter straddles a spinning pottery wheel. Her wet hands lovingly guide a lump of clay into a bowl shape.
Her dark hair hangs in two long braids. Short bangs frame her eyes. She tosses an easy smile my way. “Hi.”
This scene is such a far cry from anything I would ever find in a bratva stronghold back in Moscow that I stop and stare, transfixed.
“Are you lost?” she asks. She speaks English but with an accent that isn’t American. I don’t know English well enough to identify it. I also don’t think it’s her native language.
“Oh. Um, yes. I mean, I saw the sign and wondered what was inside.”
The young woman keeps molding the clay, pulling the lip of the bowl higher and wider. “You’re Russian. Who do you know here?”
“Maykl.” I jerk my thumb in the direction of the front desk. “I’m staying with him.”
“Are you?” She stops the wheel, and the pile of clay collapses in a disappointing heap. I almost gasp at the loss. “He didn’t mention it.” She gets up from the wheel. She wears a smock over some kind of adorable rounded-collar fitted blouse. She’s sexy in that ingenue way.
She goes to the sink and washes the clay from her hands. I use the opportunity to tuck a bug under one of the cabinets that line the wall.
“I’m Kat. Adrian’s girl.”
I stare blankly.
“Adrian and Maykl are friends. How do you know him?”
I’m tempted to lie but know that would bite me in the ass. “Oh. Um, we met recently. My sister died, and he’s helping me with the arrangements.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Kat walks over and extends her hand.
“I’m Kira,” I offer, realizing I hadn’t reciprocated the introduction.
“Are you and Maykl…” She lifts her brows.
“Yes,” I say but only because I’m playing a role here. Normally, I would deny I had intimacy with any other human.
“Well, it’s great to meet you. Welcome to the Kremlin.” Her smile is infectious. She’s captivating. Nothing about her resembles the kind of women who consort with bratva members in Moscow. Nothing screams drug user. Or sex slave or anyone tortured, used, or owned by the bratva.
On the contrary, there’s a vibrancy about her that I’ve never seen before. It’s…stunning. It suffocates me. Like I lived my entire life without realizing that kind of vibrancy was possible. And now that I know, I don’t want to crawl back into my own bleak existence.
I sort of hate this beautiful young woman as much as I want to drink in her vitality.
Once again, this anomaly in a bratva-controlled building throws me off my game. Shows me just how little I know about the enemy I’ve come to infiltrate.
“Are you interested in pottery?”
“I…yes,” I say, even though I’ve never given pottery even a passing thought. It’s so far away from my life. “I was fascinated watching you. Please don’t let me interrupt. I mean, I know I already have.”
Kat laughs lightly. “Do you want to try it?”
“Me? No,” I say quickly. I don’t like to do things I’m not good at.
“Come on.” Kat’s smile is warm. “I think you do. It’s fun.”
She opens a drawer and pulls out a clean smock, which she hands to me. I pull it on over my head and tie the strings in the back, even as my brain protests this insane idea of me trying to make a pot.
Kat leads me back to the wheel. “Have a seat.” She hands me the lump of clay that crumpled when she stopped. “Get your fingers wet and make this into a ball.”
I dip my fingers in the cup of muddy water and mash the clay. It’s more satisfying than I would have expected. Responsive. Easy to mold.
She points at the foot pedal. “You start the wheel down there, and you can control the speed.”
“Start slowly,” she laughs when I gun it. “Okay, now place the clay right in the center, but keep your hands around it.”