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The guy next to Roan leaned in and said something. From my position, it looked like his mouth actually grazed Roan’s ear. Roan bit his lips and shook his head, keeping his attention on Feodor. The guy kept whispering anyway, until Roan’s composure started to crumble. He laughed and shoved the guy’s shoulder.
It took every bit of self-control I had not to leap onto that stage and break someone’s fucking arm. Whoever this new guy was, he was in for a world of hurt if he didn’t learn his fucking place. He’d getonewarning from me, and that was only for Roan’s benefit.
Visions of punching the new guy in his fucking throat were interrupted by Ilya’s quiet voice.
“That’s him?” Ilya asked, scooting forward on the edge of his chair and folding his arms across the back of the seat in front of him.
“Mhmm.” I was happy to see he zeroed in on Roan since my attention was fixed on the mystery man standing next to him, the one who seemed so intent on making Roan laugh, like it was his fucking job and not whatever Feodor was paying his ass to do.
“What else do I need to know?” Ilya asked, tossing a glance at me. “Anything that wasn’t in his file?”
“No. That was all.” It wasn’t. Not by a long shot. But for his purposes, Ilya had everything he needed to do his job effectively.
Ilya nodded, tracking Roan as he moved across the stage and hopped down into the orchestra pit, chatting with his fellow musicians. His jovial mood lessened the further he got from the mystery man, morphing to a professional one that could best be described as a mix of teacher and musician. It was the same persona he had when he gave music lessons in college, equal parts patient and perfectionist.
Slipping my phone out, I searched the stage for Roan’s new friend and snapped a quick picture. I texted it to Eduard with one simple instruction.
Get me everything.
Eduard texted back a thumbs-up emoji.
Less than an hour later, an email popped up with a complete breakdown on this asshole.
Samuel.
Thiswas Samuel?
First the text, then that fucking display of intimacy right in front of me?
Mindful not to break my goddamn phone, I kept scrolling. According to the file, he was a little older than Roan, single, and brought home a pittance compared to my salary, even before the raise. Apparently he was Feodor’s lighting director since the other one decided to go work for a TV show or something.
His social media was a mix of theater bullshit, stupid selfies, and some shitty attempt at edgy, urban photography. Over the past month, it seemed, Roan appeared in more and more of the photos, whether it was in the background or as the sole focus.
There was one of Roan sitting at the piano, playing, oblivious once again to the fact he was being stalked. It pained me to admit it was a good picture of him. The guy was lucky there was no fucking caption, other than tagging Roan’s all-but-inactive account and a stupid smiley face with sunglasses.
I tapped Ilya’s bicep and handed him the phone with Samuel’s driver’s license picture blown up. “Watch this one while you’re at it.”
Ilya studied the picture and glanced at the stage, but Samuel had disappeared. “Is he a threat?”
He sure the fuck was now. “He’s new. I don’t trust new.”
“I’m new,” Ilya replied with a lopsided grin, handing my phone back.
“You’re different.”
“Because I’m related to Misha?”
“Because you know what will happen if you cross me. I told you — I don’t give a fuck who you’re related to.” I wasn’t bluffing. At all. And after the shit I saw this morning? I was just hoping someone would cross that line.
Ilya wisely stopped smiling and inclined his head in understanding.
When the musicians took a break, Roan finally acknowledged I was still in the theater. He murmured something to the small group he was chatting with before climbing out of the orchestra pit. He approached us warily, his eyes darting between Ilya and I as we rose to meet him. “Is he the new one?”
I cleared my throat and gestured to my side. “This is Ilya Chernyshevsky. Ilya, Roan Sinclair.”
Roan cocked his head at the last name, extending his hand nevertheless. “As in...?”
“He’s my uncle,” Ilya replied, shaking Roan’s hand firmly.
