Page 97 of Santa Daddy
I could live with her anger.
I could not live with her dead.
19
THE SERPENT’S VISIT
DANI
The first knock sounded like confidence with a manicure.
Three sharp raps. Not a neighbor. Not a delivery guy. The kind of knock that assumed the door would open.
I was on the couch in one of Konstantin’s shirts curled around a book I hadn’t turned a page of in twenty minutes. The nausea sat low and mean in my gut. The crosshair photo lived behind my eyes. The pregnancy test lived in the bathroom trash.
Three more knocks. Same rhythm. Same certainty.
“Use the intercom like a normal creep,” I muttered, and slid off the couch.
The floor was cold under my bare feet as I walked to the foyer. The small monitor above the lock blinked on the second I stepped under it.
Not a guard.
Maksim.
Coat open over an expensively cut suit, snow still melting on his shoulders. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a bottle of wine by the neck. His smile was already in place.
Every muscle in my body went tight.
I hit the intercom, not the release. “We’re not taking visitors.”
His gaze lifted toward the camera, like he could see right through it. “Dani,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “Open the door. We need to talk.”
“No, we don’t,” I said. “Whatever you want, tell Konstantin.”
“He is busy,” Maksim said. “Council has him in meeting. They are… anxious. Photo with crosshairs, wife trying to run, cousin at door. Too much excitement for old hearts.” His tone dipped, amused. “They ask if you are stable. Safe. Worth trouble.”
My grip on the console tightened. “My stability isn’t their business.”
“Oh, it is,” he said lightly. “They see you in lobby yesterday with bag. They see you ignore me now on camera. They start saying words likeliability.” He tsked softly. “You know how they fix liability,printsessa?”
Bullet. River. Closed casket.
“If they’re that worried, they can call me,” I snapped. “I’m not opening this door.”
He smiled, sharp. “You think locks here are for you?” he asked. “They are for show. For comfort. For pets. The men downstairs have codes. If they tell security to open, it opens.”
As if on cue, the wall panel beeped.
The small status light over the latch flipped from red to amber.
Text flashed briefly on the tiny screen:
REMOTE OVERRIDE – SECURITY ACCESS
I hadn’t touched anything.
Cold slid down my spine.
