Page 5 of Blood Mosaic

After she’d had to move back to Sevastopol, Tatyana had worked from home and gradually given away or sold most of her professional wardrobe save for this ill-fitting pencil-skirt-and-sweater combination.

It shouldn’t matter how she was dressed. Her hair was neatly coiled into a bun at the back of her head. She’d put on a littlebit of makeup, and most importantly, she had paperwork, digital and paper files, and a printed record of her work history along with her former employer’s ties to this firm.

And the laptop.

Zara had been adamant that the laptop Tatyana used for her bookkeeping not be tied to the internet in any way. She’d only gotten the job after she could prove to Zara that no one would be able to hack her computer and that all the information she needed could be stored in paper files.

The woman was paranoid, but she was paranoid with good reason because Tatyana had made numerous backups for her work. She hadn’t told Zara of course, but Tatyana knew that paper could be lost and digital backups lasted forever.

Working for the paranoid woman was the only job that Tatyana had been able to find in her childhood home, and after her grandparents had passed, she and her mother desperately needed money if they wanted to keep their home.

Zara was eccentric, but she’d paid well.

Until she didn’t.

Tatyana took a deep breath and tried not to tap her foot with impatience.

The secretary glanced up and offered a kind smile. “Ms. Beridze is on her way into the office. She was traveling last night and sends her apologies for being late.”

“It’s fine.” Tatyana gave her a tight smile. “I appreciate her time.”

“Of course.”

Beridze was a Georgian name. Since she’d walked into SMO International, she’d met Ukrainians and Russians, of course, but she’d also heard accents from Armenia, Romania, and other Black Sea countries. Muted phone conversations around her were conducted in English, Russian, Chinese, and otherlanguages she didn’t recognize, but all that made sense for an international shipping conglomerate like SMO.

Elene Beridze was the chief financial officer for the labyrinthine corporation that Zara’s company had operated under, which Tatyana had found out once she’d picked through layers and layers of paperwork.

It had taken months to find the connection between SMO International and Zara, even after calling in favors from old friends. SMO seemed to be as archaic in some of their practices as Zara had been, and hardly anything was online. No website. No email addresses listed.

Nothing.

Tatyana cleared her throat. “If there’s someone else I could meet about compensation so I don’t have to take Ms. Beridze’s time?—”

“No, no.” The secretary was quick to jump in. “It’s no trouble. She wanted to meet you personally.”

So you don’t report us to regulators.

It was the unspoken subtext to all her conversations thus far. First she had to convince the receptionist in the front office that someone in Accounting reallydidwant to talk to her. It was only when someone in a suit walked by and overheard Zara’s name that she’d gotten attention.

Then she had to convince the person in Accounting that she wasn’t speaking fiction.

Five people later, she’d ended up on the fourth floor of a luxurious office situated in an old mansion located in the north end of the Prymorskyi District. She could smell the ocean outside, and a deep breath of Black Sea air shored up her confidence.

She had worked for six months without pay.

She deserved her money. Her family needed it.

And judging from the crystal water goblets by the decanter on the sideboard, this company had more than enough funds to pay her.

Muted footsteps sounded in the hallway as Tatyana looked away from the cut-crystal decanter and back toward the door.

An attractive woman with a chic grey bob and a burgundy suit walked over the threshold, accompanied by a tall, dark-haired man carrying a briefcase. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties, and her appearance shouted money in the most low-key way.

In Sevastopol, Tatyana was accustomed to women with money displaying that wealth with designer handbags and jewelry that could blind you. This woman was the opposite of that.

“Miss Vorona?” She smiled graciously. “I’m Elene Beridze, and I apologize for keeping you waiting.” The woman spoke in English with a demure British accent and reached out, offering Tatyana a handshake.

Tatyana took her hand, responding in English. “It’s no problem. I only hope we can settle this. I know it’s a very awkward situation.”

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