Page 26 of Santa Daddy
I stared at the ceiling for a long moment, trying to remember how to breathe without his weight pinning me to the mattress.
He was wrong.
It had already changed me.
5
PLAYING DRESS-UP FOR THE DEVIL
DANI
Snow-bright light punched through the floor-to-ceiling windows and straight into my skull.
I rolled toward the other side of the bed on instinct, reaching for a body that wasn’t there. My mind felt relief this killer wasnt there, but my body felt something else I couldn’t admit. In his place was a rectangle of folded paper lying where a six-foot-plus Russian menace should’ve been.
Of course he was gone. Again.
The note was written in sharp, decisive handwriting that somehow managed to look elegant and threatening at the same time.
Be dressed. You have twenty minutes.
That was it. No “good morning.” No explanation. No emoji.
Be dressed for what? A funeral? Mine?
I was still staring at the paper, trying to decide if I was insulted or terrified, when a hard knock ricocheted through the penthouse.
I jerked upright, clutching the sheet to my chest. “Uh?—”
The door opened anyway.
A small army swept in like they were storming a castle instead of a kidnapping crime scene.
Leading the charge was a woman who looked like she charged by the ounce. Ice-blonde hair in a sleek chignon, cheekbones that could probably cut glass, red lips painted with military precision. Behind her: three more people dragging wheeled cases and garment bags, all black-clad efficiency and dead eyes.
“Ms. Morales,” the blonde said in accented English, her smile razor-thin. “I am Svetlana. We are here to prepare you.”
Prepare me?
Not ominous at all.
“I’m sorry, there’s been some kind of mistake.” I gripped the sheet tighter. “I didn’t order?—”
“No mistake.” Svetlana’s smile didn’t move, but her eyes flattened. “Mr. Zverev’s orders.”
Zverev.
File under: Things That Might Be Helpful If I Survive This.
Before I could protest, they were on me. Someone thrust a bundle of silk into my free hand. Another snapped a portable mirror open on the dresser. A third started laying out traysof makeup like this was a Vogue shoot and not my hostage makeover.
“Really, I can do my own makeup,” I tried. “I mean, I’ve been using eyeliner since middle school. I’m basically a professional disaster.”
No one cared.
They moved around me like a pit crew at the world’s most high-stakes race. Russian and English ping-ponged over my head—brands, color codes, something about undertones and winter palettes.
Fine. If you can’t beat them, spy on them.
