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I kicked my feet off the bed, grabbed a T-shirt, wore it over my bra, and slid on a pair of black shorts.
As I tied my hair in a bun, I padded my way to the living room. I wasn’t surprised to find Anatoly already present and lying on the gray sectional sofa. Today, he wore a brown shirt and had a black leather jacket hanging on the arm of the sofa.
He was busy with his phone when I walked in.
“Good morning.”
I tried to sound chirpy, but the man’s presence always set me on edge, reminding me that I was held hostage in a penthouse somewhere in Moscow.
His role was very simple: to keep an eye on me while the big boss was away.
“Morning.”
Ugh.
“Do you have to be so gruff?”
Anatoly dragged his eyes away from his phone and gave me a deadpan look that should have meantscram. But I stayed put.
“What do you want?” he grunted. “A smile and a breakfast offer?”
“Maybe? You’re human, after all. Doesn’t matter how much of that I-am-impenetrable attitude you keep up. At the end of the day, you have a beating heart.”
He scoffed and returned his attention to his mobile device.
“My beating heart died the day my mother and sister got raped in front of me and had their throats slit. As for breakfast offers, that’s Anna’s job. I’m here to keep you in line.”
My jaw dropped.
The way he’d summarized his experience like it wasn’t the most horrific thing anyone could possibly bear made me feel…sorry for him?
“I am…so sorry to hear that. You didn’t deserve—”
“Keep the speech for the brat with the trust fund who thinks the world is unfair because he was denied a lollipop. I, on the other hand, won’t think twice about fucking shooting you in the legs if you try anything stupid.”
My sympathy was short-lived.
Although I pitied him for his traumatic backstory, I wanted to shove his superiority complex down his throat.
He sounded a lot like the kingpin himself—rash and aggressive. But I knew better. The harder they projected themselves, the softer they were on the inside.
Sometimes.
Idly, I dawdled for a while and thought of asking him a bothering question that plagued my mind the past week.
“Anatoly?”
He shut his eyes and exhaled like I was nothing more than a nuisance, a thorn in his side.
“What?”
“Why doesn’t he talk to me directly? I don’t think I like the notes and memos from you or Anna all the time.”
His laughter was mocking. “He doesn’t owe you anything, Detective. Enjoy the privileges you have.”
I should have expected that: the strong reminder to stay in my place and remember that the only reason I was here was for information—to know how many more people knew of his crime. That I was disposable. But I hadn’t expected it, and hearing the truth actually stung a lot more than it should have.
I turned around and walked away, wishing I could give him the middle finger without feeling bad afterward.
