Page 40 of His Passerotta

My eyes snap open when a door bangs.

My receptionist, a bubbly but occasionally stupid post-sorority girl named Tiffany, squeaks a greeting in her usual friendly tone, although it’s laced with nervousness.

“Is he here?” a deep, masculine voice asks.

“I’m sorry, do you have an appointment?” She pauses only half a second. “Mr. Gruco is very busy today, I’m afraid, sir. If you’d like, I can take your name and?—”

I begrudgingly pull my hand from my pants and adjust myself just before my office door bursts open and Maksim storms inside, Tiffany at his back.

“Sir!” she calls. If there was ever a good time to describe someone as flabbergasted, it would be now.

I click out of the video, then stand, raising a hand up to dismiss my receptionist. “It’s fine. Thanks, Tiffany.”

Her expression turns from agitated to puzzled as I step around my desk toward the door. “Why don’t you take an early lunch?”

Her eyes dart between Maksim and me. Finally, she nods. “Okay… I’ll have my cell if you need me.”

“Thank you, I won’t.”

“How long should I?—”

“An hour will be fine.”

“Okay, do you want me to?—”

“Nope, all good here,” I say, slowly shutting the door on her. I turn to Maksim and wait until the front office door closes before speaking.

“This is my office for legitimate business, Sokolov. If you want to talk, you call to arrange a meet. You don’t just show up here.”

He raises the manilla envelope in his hand, then slams it on my desk. “Did you know?” he growls, his accent coming out heavier than normal.

I glance at the manilla envelope, still closed, and try to contain my anger.

Be the peacekeeper.

The reasonable one.

The one who doesn’t shoot people in the head for barging into their office.

It’s harder than it should be.

“Did you fucking know?” he shouts, banging his fist on the chair in front of my desk.

“Know what, Maksim?”

He stabs a finger at the envelope, his arm shaking like he can’t contain himself. Whatever this is, it isn’t good.

Bailey?

My abs flex when it feels like a physical force punches my gut.

No.

No, he wouldn’t be this unhinged. She’s just a girl. A criminal.

Before my mind can take the thought much further, I pick up the envelope and pull out several black and white photos of a man walking down a street. I don’t recognize the guy in them, nor do I understand the context.

I look up with a brow raised. “Is this supposed to mean something to me?”

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