Page 12 of The Devil's Thorn
That’s the trick.
I’m a nobody. And a nobody doesn’t gets noticed.
Not unless someonewantsto notice you.
I smooth down the front of my coat as I approach the information desk. A tall woman with sleek blonde hair and red lipstick barely glances up from her tablet.
“Name?” she asks, her voice as flat as her expression.
“Natasha Orlova,” I say.
She scans her screen, taps something, then nods toward the left corridor. “Take the private elevator to the fifteenth floor. Office 15B. Don’t be late.”
I nod once and turn.
Each step toward the elevator feels slower than the last, like the floor is dragging me back.
Or maybe it’s me. Maybe a small part of me knows what I’m walking into.
Not the interview.
Not the job.
Him.
Even if I haven’t seen him up close yet, he’s already in this place. In the silence. In the eyes of the staff. In the chill that doesn’t come from the air conditioning.
Rafael.
His name sits heavy in my chest, tighter than it did on the rooftop.
The elevator dings softly, and I step inside, pressing the button for the fifteenth floor.
The ride up feels like forever, and I use the time to breathe. One breath in. One breath out.
Natasha Orlova isn’t scared. Natasha is calm. Elegant. Quiet. A girl who never held a rifle. A girl who never lost everything.
The doors open to a quieter hallway—softer lighting, plush carpet, dark wooden doors with gold-plated numbers. The air smells like cedar and money.
I find 15B and raise my hand to knock, but the door opens before I touch it.
A man steps back to let me in.
He’s tall. Mid-thirties. Dressed in all black. Not just tailored—weaponized. His hair is dark, slicked back, and his jaw is carved with cold precision. The only thing sharper than his posture is the look in his eyes.
I know a killer when I see one.
This man has bled for someone else’s sins.
He gestures to the chair in front of the desk without a word.
I sit.
He walks around the desk slowly, like he’s sizing me up from every angle. When he finally lowers himself into the chair opposite me, he rests his forearms on the desk and steeples his fingers like he’s bored already.
But I know he’s not.
He’s watching.Studying.
