Page 2 of Unbreakable Vow

And now I have information that the Petrovs might want, might need.

It’s no secret that information is power.

Expensive power.

I chew on my bottom lip.

It will take at least thirty days to get the Medicaid system to reverse their decision. Nothing happens quickly when it comes to them shelling out money.

I don’t need a lot. Just enough to pay Mom’s fees. I can recoup the money I lost when they drained my account and get enough to pay her fees for next month just in case they slow walk the paperwork.

A quick search gives me an address for the main offices for the Petrov business. They work primarily out of Kraze, one of their clubs.

I sip my hot coffee, considering my options.

I’d be dealing with a man who could crush me just as easily as help me.

But I have information.

It’s not like I’m asking for a loan.

I’d be getting money for information.

A trade.

As I’m thinking, a notification on my computer pops up. A reminder I set for myself that my rent is due next week.

If I don’t take this chance, Mom could end up kicked out of the facility and I might not be able to get the rent together in time. We’ll both be without a place to stay. And how will I take care of her then?

I glance back at the card.

There are worse things I could do than sell a little bit of information to the Russian mob.

Another notification blips on the screen.

An email that my deference has been rejected and my student loan payments are due to begin this month.

My heart sinks into my stomach.

There are worse things I could do.

Spiced leather.I’m hit with the scent the moment I step into his office.

I take a shaky breath.

I’m in Sergei Petrov’s office.

There’s a casual setup of a leather couch and loveseat in the back of the office, and a more formal desk with brown leather chairs facing it. Paintings of cities in Russia hang on the walls. I recognize Moscow and St. Petersburg from history class, but I’m stuck on the third painting.

“Kazan.” A deep voice cuts into my thoughts.

I spin around on my heel, nearly tripping over my feet, and find Sergei Petrov standing only a few steps behind me. The door to the office is shut, and we’re alone.

How did I not hear him come in?

“I’m sorry?” I barely squeak out, my face flooding with heat. He’s bigger than I thought he’d be.

“The painting you were looking at is of Kazan. It’s a city in Russia.” He moves his eyes over my shoulder to the painting.

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