Page 48 of 10 Days to Ruin

“The car?”

“Crushed and melted down at Igor’s junkyard. No trace.”

“Security footage?”

“Wiped clean.”

“What about their phones? Computers?”

“All handled.” He arches a brow. “I’m not a sensitive soul, boss, but you’re starting to hurt my feelings today. It’s almost like you don’t trust me to do my job anymore. Or…” He grins shyly. “Is there something else on your mind?”

He’s dangling bait, hoping I bite. But I wasn’t born yesterday, and Feliks has been screwing with me since the day I dragged him out of that fucking Moscow ditch, so I’m used to his tactics.

“You keep saying they’re clean, but I know a hole in the ground hiding a Serbian boy’s body that might say otherwise.”

Feliks has the gall to look offended. “Now, I really am gonna get my feelings hurt. Brian is—was—clean in that department, Sasha. Peter, too. They were crooks, but stupid, isolated ones. No Serbian influence whatsoever. We don’t gotta get paranoid about this one.”

“Paranoia keeps us alive,brattan.”

Feliks hesitates. “You sure you’re okay, man? You seem…”

“I’m fine.”

“Because if this is about?—”

“It’s not.”

“But if it was, you know you could tell?—”

The stapler I hurl misses his head by inches.

But, as reluctant as I am to admit it, he’s not wrong. I grip the arms of my chair until my knuckles turn white and make myself exhale to calm down.

Because the stapler’s not the only thing that missed by inches.

I had her there,right fucking there,moaning and mewling on the floor. A thin scrap of lace was the only thing keeping me from her.

Fuck knows her reluctance wasn’t involved. She wanted it. She fucking wanted it just as bad as I did.

So why pull back? Why play these games?

And why can’t I stop thinking about her?

I’m saved from having to answer those questions when a knock sounds on the door. “Come in,” I call.

It opens and a man who looks utterly out of place in this prim and proper office building slips in. His face is haggard and tattooed, and his bald scalp is splashed with more of the same ink. He’s not fit for polite society.

Bratva society, however, is exactly where he belongs.

“Something wrong, Yannik?” I ask.

He gulps and folds his hands behind his back. I’ve always appreciated that reaction. Something about cold-blooded killers tucking tail between their legs in front of you makes a man’s inner warlord pleased.

“There’s been a… a problem, sir. At one of the processing facilities.”

I lean forward. “Which one?”

“Skillman Avenue, sir.”

---