Page 118 of One For my Enemy

“Fine. You’re just as much use to me dead.”

Eric hissed his frustration. “What do you need the money for? Are you really that loyal to Baba Yaga?”

There was no possible way Eric Taylor could not have known how much Lev Fedorov hated to consider the answer to that question, and yet he seemed satisfied at having hit a pressure point.

“Fine. You can keep the penthouse,” Lev said after a beat. “I’m moving in.”

Eric made a face. “Really?”

“Mr. Taylor?” Baron cut in, glancing irritably at Lev. “Is everything okay in here?”

Lev gave Eric a warning glance.

“I don’t need you alive,” he warned under his breath, “but I don’t need your death on my conscience, either. I’m here to serve a purpose. When I’m done, you can have your life back.”

“And when will you be done?”

“When I’m fucking done.”

“Mr. Taylor?” Baron asked again.

A pause.

Eric pursed his lips, scowling briefly at Lev. “You can have the smaller bedroom.”

“Fine,” said Lev, who’d been in a tomb until not very long ago.

Eric rose to his feet, satisfied.

“Everything’s fine, Baron,” he said, flashing Lev a sidelong glare. “We’re fine.”

Lev clapped a hand on his shoulder, prompting Eric to flinch.

“Good choice,” he said in Eric’s ear. “Now smile, look pretty, and tell your little friend to run along.”

“You’re dismissed, Baron,” Eric said, gritting his teeth.

Baron hesitated. “Sir, are you—”

Lev conjured a surge of power, letting it dance over his knuckles as he dug his hand into Eric’s shoulder.

“Go,” Eric said, wincing, and Baron nodded.

“Yes, sir,” he said, glancing at Lev. “Should I add this gentleman to your approved list, then?”

“Why, thank you, Baron,” Lev supplied on their mutual behalf. “That would bemuchappreciated.”

V. 6

(Solnyshko.)

“I see you’re considerably less dead,” Marya noted, taking in Lev Fedorov’s glowing look of health as he dropped into the seat opposite her.

“You really have a way with flattery,” Lev informed her drily, and Marya shrugged.

“It’s what I’m known for.”

Lev’s mouth twisted with half a laugh as he pulled a black leather satchel from the pocket of his coat. “Here’s the money from the latest sale,” he offered, sliding the thick stack of bills across the desk without preamble. The position suited him, Marya thought; he had an ease with money that was essential to business, in her opinion. He didn’t worship it, nor did he fear it. Money was neither torment nor idol. It simply was what it was: a means to an end. “Though, while I’m here—any idea how long I’ll have to do this for?”

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