Page 35 of Savage Lies
“I need to check something in my office.” I watch her reaction carefully. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take all the time you need.”
I walk down the hall to my home office, making my footsteps purposefully audible so she knows where I’m going. Once inside, I close the door and check my personal computer.
The login history shows unauthorized activity at 2:47 PM. Someone accessed my private files while I was in meetings across town. I scroll through the detailed access log to find which files were opened and viewed.
Financial records for the organization. Personnel files on my key lieutenants and their operational histories. Detailed accounts of territory disputes and their violent resolutions. Information about shipping routes and cargo manifests.
Shit.
Whoever went through my computer knows everything about the Kozlov’s Bratva operations. They know what I do for a living, how much money we move through various channels, and how brutal we are when crossed or betrayed.
I lean back in my desk chair and consider my options. I could confront her, but that would reveal that I know she’s not as helpless as she pretends. I could increase security measures, but that would only make her more suspicious.
Or I could test her reaction carefully and see how much she understands about what she discovered.
Katya’s still sipping on her coffee when I return to the kitchen, but her posture is subtly different. More alert, and more ready for trouble. She’s expecting a confrontation.
“Everything okay in there?” she asks without turning around to face me.
“Fine. Just checking messages and emails.”
“Anything particularly important or urgent?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
She turns to face me then, and I catch something new in her eyes that wasn’t there this morning. Knowledge. Understanding. The look of someone who’s seen behind the curtain.
“Are you sure about that?”
The question sounds innocent enough, but the way she asks it makes my blood run cold. She knows something. The question is how much.
“Sure about what?”
“Just that we’re married, aren’t we? Your business should be my business, too, shouldn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. I try to keep you separated from the more stressful aspects of my work.”
“How thoughtful and protective.”
There’s that sarcasm again, but stronger now.
“Katya, is there something specific you want to tell me?”
“Such as?”
“Such as how you spent your afternoon. What you did while I was gone today.”
She sets down her coffee mug and leans against the counter, inspecting my face with uncomfortable focus and attention.
“I told you already. Reading and resting. Very boring and uneventful.”
“You didn’t go anywhere else in the penthouse? Didn’t explore any rooms you normally don’t use or visit?”
“Should I have done that?”
The deflection is smooth and professional. Too professional for someone suffering from brain trauma. This is her training peeking through. Even in her state, her operative training has taken hold.
