Page 31 of The Payback

But he doesn’t hold that intensity back from me. Instead of being distant, he finds every opportunity to sit closer. Instead of keeping his hands to himself, he often brushes his fingertips along the top of my back or down my arm before settling that same hand possessively on my hip.

Sometimes, I even catch him simply watching me. His eyes on my skin feel like a brand—like he owns me. And every fucking time that sensation slides over me, my skin turns electric and all my nerves stand on end. Like having his eyes on me alone is enough to charge me up, setting my entire being alight.

And if all that isn’t enough, Nik adds to the torrent of sensation and pure loathing Dimitri pulls from me by staring at the two of us with heat simmering in his dark eyes. He makes absolutely no effort to hide the unmistakable looks of desire and scepticism.

In a moment of quiet whispers last night, I asked Dimitri if Nik had said anything yet. He just clicked his tongue and shook his head.

Either Nik thinks I’m an Interpol plant in the same way he was, or he thinks Interpol is here for Dimitri and isn’t warning him.

Which leaves me toeing both lines without knowing which version he believes. I have to overcommit to my role as Dimitri’s wife, and while the part of my brain that is here to do my job and prove I’m a damn good agent is recoiling at the idea, my coochie is waving her hands in the air in celebration.

Thankfully, today, the apartment is quiet and devoid of Bratva members.

There’s a shipment that the two of them had to deal with, and Dimitri’s wearing the standard equipment to record it for our case while I wonder what exactly this shipment is. He was cagey about the contents, but it brings in a hefty sum for their organisation, therefore nothing can go wrong to prevent them from receiving it.

While they’re gone, I snoop like any good spy and finish setting up several listening devices in Dimitri’s office space. The room is inviting, even with all the dark colours, hardwoods, and stiff chairs on the opposite side of his desk. I sit in Dimitri’s chair, lean back, and cross my feet at the ankle as I prop them up on his desk. It’s not as if he’s here to punish me, and my petty act of defiance brings a smile to my face.

I look around the office, wondering what Dimitri sees when he sits in his little—and quite fucking comfortable—seat of power. The opposite floor-to-ceiling windows provide a panoramic view of the New York skyline, and the desk is bare of personal effects. In fact, aside from the paintings hanging on the walls, the whole apartment feels like a model home.

Whoever chose the paintings matched them perfectly with the rest of the home. Most of them are done in dark colours and have a distinctive hopelessness. They’re chaotic in their strokes and smudges, and most of them have a black hole at the centre, painted so dark it feels like looking into an abyss.

I swivel in the chair and look towards the walls on either side of the space. The wallpaper is dark with cracks of lighter colour coming through, like marble on the walls, and two paintings that make me feel like someone has reached into my soul and splashed my darkest secrets on the canvases. It’s abstract, but the emotion is there—the anguish.

Filled with nervous energy and unable to stop fidgeting, I decide I can’t sit here any longer. I get up and walk around the desk, heading to the door at the back of the office space. There’s a hallway and a bathroom here, but as I pass the more potent of the two paintings, a glint of metal flashes in my periphery, and instinctively, I duck and roll.

When no gunshot goes off, I peek up and see the painting is slightly skewed. That’s when I notice, just to the left of the frame, there’s a sliver of metal reflecting in the overhead lighting.

Feeling stupid but grateful there were no witnesses, I cautiously stand and make my way over. I slide the painting along the wall until it’s hanging at a precarious angle.Come on, Ellie!What spy doesn’t check for safes behind stupid paintings? That’s like espionage 101!

There’s a small rectangle of brass, maybe two-by-two inches, with a little button in the middle like a doorbell.

Peering over my shoulder into the silent apartment, I check the coast isstillclear and touch the protrusion. I press down, and nothing happens. I try wiggling it, twisting it, then pressing it inward repeatedly like a semipro Bop It player.

After it does nothing but cause my index finger to cramp up again—thanks, Dimitri, you asshole—I go to the kitchen and make myself lunch, mulling over what it could be. Some kind of panic button, probably.

When no one comes busting through the foyer with guns drawn in response to my button pushing, I settle more into my seat at the kitchen table. I avoid the spot where the Irishman bled out the other day. Dimitri’s cleaning crew did a remarkable job. There isn’t even a speck of blood left anywhere, and I’m confident the table and chairs have all been replaced, but I have no idea when.

I take my burner phone from my pocket and call Olivia. The line rings three times before she answers.

“How are you, bitch?” Olivia shouts.

I laugh and spear a piece of fruit from my bowl, prop up my phone on the vase in the centre of the table, and switch it to speaker.

“I’m fine,” I say too loudly, convincing my cut-up strawberries more than her.

“Yeah, that’s not your ‘I’m fine’ voice. That’s your ‘I’ve done something and don’t know how to feel about it’ voice,” she deadpans. “Are you alone?”

I roll my eyes. “You think I’d call you if I weren’t? Sorry it’s been a while. How’s my girl?”

Despite my best efforts to keep Bella off my mind while I focus on the job, my mind runs to her in those quiet moments.

“She’s good. We can video chat. She’s still awake.”

“Yes,” I plead, clicking the camera icon on my screen. Olivia’s face fills the space, and she has a coy grin on her lips.

“Oh, girl, I know that look,” she says with a chuckle. “You got fucked. Also, sweet digs.” She waves her hand at the apartment behind me.

There’s no point in lying to Olivia. The woman knows more than she really should about every topic under the sun. And considering we’ve known each other since we were sixteen, there’s not much I can do to hide my face or my sins from her. “Would you keep your voice down? I don’t need my daughter learning that word from you.”

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