Page 56 of Claimed By the Bratva Brothers

“Yeah. We’ve had eyes on the building since the last volunteers left a couple of hours ago,” Max confirms. “I’m not sure what she’s still doing up there.”

“She’ll tell us,” Ivan replies.

“You’ll make sure of it,” I chuckle dryly.

We make our way up the steps and through the front doors, stopping by the night guard’s desk first. I flash the guy a fake badge—one of the many we use for more covert operations such as this. “We’re here to speak to Miss Sullivan. I understand she hasn’t clocked out yet,” I say.

“Fourth floor,” he replies, not giving us a second thought.

I give him a thankful nod and lead Ivan and Max to the elevator, occasionally glancing back to find the chunky guard with his feet up on the desk, flipping through a smut magazine.

“If only all our missions were this easy,” Ivan mutters as we step into the elevator.

“We haven’t gotten to the hard part yet,” Max warns.

The elevator doors slide shut. A minute later, we walk into the bullpen of Matthew Phelps’s campaign office. Posters of him hang everywhere, his white plastic smile plastered over every damned wall.

He appears charming and handsome at first glance. No wonder he’s got the support of the middle-class so tightly in his grasp. He looks like the friendly next-door neighbor who will water your plants for you while you’re on vacation.

To my dismay, however, the place isn’t as empty as we’d thought.

“Shit,” I mumble as I see Phelps’s secretary coming out of his office. She’s not alone. Two men in dark suits accompany her, and they’ve spotted us. “Guys…”

“It’s cool. I’ve got this.” Max takes the lead.

We keep walking but I’m no longer sure what we’re walking into. Four FBI agents come out of an office to our left. Four more from the right. My heart starts beating faster, my eyes zooming all over the place to register every possible detail. Beads of sweat bloom on my temples.

“I thought the place was empty,” I whisper.

“Our guys were clearly wrong,” Ivan replies, a muscle twitching in his jaw. He’s pissed off. “This isn’t going to end well.”

“Keep cool,” Max mutters.

Director Smith is one of the two men with Phelps’s secretary, and the grin slitting his face is enough to make me feel nauseated. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get here,” he says with a casual and unconcerned tone. “We’ve been waiting for you, gentlemen.”

“Waiting for us?” Max asks.

We meet halfway across the open area in the middle of the bullpen. Stacks of flyers and manila folders cover almost every workspace. Dozens of phones. Computers. Stickers with Phelps’s mug everywhere.

“What are you doing here?” Max asks Smith.

“I could ask you the same question,” Smith replies. “Actually, my first question is how’d you get up here?”

“The night guard let us through,” I calmly cut in with a nonchalant shrug.

Smith gives me a hard look. “Hm. Guess somebody’s getting fired tonight. I told that idiot not to let anybody in.”

“What do you want, Director Smith?” Max draws his focus away from me, while the secretary watches our exchange with tense and weary interest.

“Are you deaf? I’m asking the questions here,” Smith shoots back. “What do you want?”

“We were hoping to speak to Councilman Phelps. Alone. I take it he’s not here?”

His agents inch closer, almost unnoticeably so at first glance. They have their hawk-like eyes fixated on us, hands on their holstered weapons. They can’t be stupid enough to open fire in the office, so my guess is they’re going for good old-fashioned intimidation.

“You know he’s not here,” Smith says. “And we both know it’s not the reason for your visit.”

“What other reason is there?” Max asks with a raised eyebrow.

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