Page 24 of Sweet Deception
In my rearview mirror, I spot an empty shopping cart on the street corner, abandoned near a shop window.
Perfect.
I exit my car and stalk over to the cart. Depositing the gym bag inside, I flick one canister open so that it’ll start leaking smoke into the road. As I walk the cart into the street, back past my car, anticipation bubbles inside me.
I love this moment.
The calm before the chaos.
Smoke spills from the cart, wafting upward until a fire alarm begins to bleat. The car alarm I trigger joins the mayhem, each distraction working to my advantage.
Nearby pedestrians shout in confusion as I weave toward Troy and his posse. They haven’t noticed me yet, despite the purple fog trailing in my wake.
Once I position myself just right, I shove the cart, sending it careening toward Troy’s crew. They leap out of the way, but as soon as the cart connects with the side of one of their SUVs, the smoke bombs explode.
A purple cloud erupts, filling the air with a thick, opaque haze.
In the ensuing pandemonium—civilians screaming and coughing, Troy’s men cursing, car horns blaring—I curve right, unseen, toward the door to Veronika’s apartment building, my guns tucked away against my chest.
I hum along with the chaos below—music to my ears—and ascend the stairs.
Vaulting up the steps three at a time, I reach her door in seconds and kick it the fuck in.
Chapter Ten
I gave myself permission to take a break from the world of decryption hell, to rest my sore eyes, grab dinner, and stop by Mrs. Guseva’s shop to get a brief update on how things went with Maya.
Mrs. Guseva is a mothering, life-saving goddess who owns a tearoom about ten minutes from me on foot. She tames her wild white hair into a neatly combed braid that always rests on her right shoulder. Several stubborn, wispy strands refuse to remain tucked in the braid, so she often wears richly patterned silk scarves on her head to hold them down. Those scarves are the only splash of color she’ll allow.
She almost exclusively dresses in black. When I once asked her why, she told me she’ll be in perpetual mourning for the rest of her days. Like me, she’s lost many of her loved ones, the light of her life among them. Her only daughter.
Neither of us has ever said so, but I know that’s the reason why we’ve connected like true family. She reminds me of my mother and my grandmother, and I remind her of her only child. We both do the work of protecting vulnerable women, and we’ve become allies in the years since we’ve met.
I found her small uncut gem of a teashop—all stained glass, antique furniture, incense, and massive rugs—while looking for someonewho could prepare Russian tea as well as my grandmother. And almost as soon as we met, we became comrades in arms. Together, we’ve been providing women with the means to escape danger as best we can.
But I never imagined we’d one day need to use our powers to help Maya.
Once inside the safety of my apartment, I fall back on my bed starfish-style and stare up at my blank white ceiling, mulling over the expression Mrs. Guseva wore when she told me how Maya had come to the shop, terrified and alone and on the brink of a breakdown.
Shaking. Suspicious. Her big brown eyes full of fear and peering over her shoulder every few seconds. My heart breaks to think of my friend at risk. The anger comes next, vibrating in my chest like an engine raring to go.Whoever abducted Lucy, whoever’s threatening Maya, I’m going to do whatever it takes to bring them down. Getting Lucy back to Maya is worth any price…even my life.
Paying the ultimate price…I close my eyes.
In the darkness of my mind, my parents appear, my grandmother sitting alongside them. Seeing my loved ones again will be my reward for all the struggling I’ve had to do in this life.
Especially since there won’t be any other love or family for me before I die.
On that bleak note, I open my eyes.
Time to return to the decryption from hell.
Before I get up, Piro climbs over my ankles, settling himself into a tiny orange ball on the lower left corner of my mattress. My white walls, decorated sparsely with reprints of famousimpressionist paintings, close us in, but I think we both enjoy the comfort of small safe spaces.
I hook my index finger around the handle of my favorite Russian teacup and bring it to my lips. Peppermint tea with milk and honey greets my tongue and soothes my frazzled nerves by a few tiny percentage points. Even cold, it’s the best. I won’t fully relax until this is all over, but in the meantime, there are worse vices than tea and yoga to take the edge off.
I set my teacup back on the bedside table. Instead of grabbing my laptop, I reach for the carved wooden music box perched next to the antique clock.
Stroking the worn edges with a lump of nostalgia in my throat, I think of my grandmother again. This music box was her last gift to me before she passed. When I open the lid, a porcelain ballerina pops up, frozen in preparation for afouettéturn. I can never resist rubbing her gauzy blue skirt between my fingers.
