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“Probably,” he agreed, taking a deep breath. “If it helps, logically, I have no reason to want to hurt you,” he said. “My interest is in the Russians and their business dealings. I was watching them today and saw what they were about to do. That’s why we are here. I just wanted to know why they wanted you dead.”
“Did you really think I’d be involved with the Bratva?” I asked, unable to stop my lips from curving up.
I mean, no one would ever have accused me of being something quite as exciting as involved in organized crime.
Growing up, I’d always been a glass child—invisible to my family because my older brother required so much more attention.
In school, I got the reputation of a goody-goody because I had perfect attendance, because I got good grades, because I never got in trouble. And, later, because they thought I was a complete prude since I had no interest in dating.
I’d been too busy trying to get into a good college, so I could get a good career, and get the hell away from my dysfunctional family.
In college, it had been more of the same. My roommate hated me because I didn’t want people in our room. Eventually, we ‘compromised’ with me spending pretty much all of my time in the library while she did whatever the heck she wanted in our room.
Sure, I dated here and there then. But I never took it seriously. It wasn’t in my five year plan, or even my ten year plan to get serious with anyone.
I mean, I’d never smoked weed, had a one-night stand, or even gotten stupid drunk.
So the idea of being involved with crime was both a little flattering and hilarious.
“In my defense, I had no idea who you were,” he said, giving me an odd look as I tried to flatten my smile.
“Sorry,” I said, a little laugh escaping me. “It’s just funny to think someone like me would be involved with crime.”
“Someone like you,” he repeated.
“Oh, you know. Someone who pays their bills on time, is nice to telemarketers, tells the stores if they forgot to scan an item…”
“Good people get involved with shady shit all the time.”
“I’m not offended,” I told him, “I’m actually kind of flattered, in a weird way.”
“You—“ he started, but was cut off by his phone ringing in his pocket.
“Excuse me,” he said after checking his screen.
He stood, moving closer to the door as he answered.
“Yeah, I saw. Up close and personally,” he added. “I got the target out of Dodge. Yeah. I know. No. It’s… somewhat what we thought,” he said, choosing his words carefully, aware that he had an audience.
My gaze slid down, catching sight of the blood on my shorts, darker as it dried.
I jumped up, worried for the chair fabric, but had lucked out. I moved down the hallway, going into my room, then my closet, sliding into a pair of yoga pants, then taking my shorts to the bathroom sink, wondering how ruined the dry-clean-only material would be if I spot-treated the blood.
It was probably a silly thing to focus on when someone had literally tried to kill me just a few hours ago, but, well, I had a very small wardrobe of nice items I mostly got secondhand. The idea of losing an important part of that wardrobe rotation made me anxious.
There was a soft knock at my door.
“Elizabeth?”
I moved back out, finding Elian waiting for me, Kevin slamming his little body against his pant leg, leaving a trail of black hairs on his gray slacks.
“You alright?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
“I just wanted to get changed,” I said, moving back out of my bedroom. “So, do you have any more questions for me?”
“I guess I should ask what you plan to do now.” “What do you mean?”
“Sweetheart, someone tried to kill you today. Things can’t be business as usual.”
