Page 4 of Boardroom Mask

I pause for a millisecond to check my reflection. Not that Doug would ever notice or care. After all, he shaves once a blue moon and always forgets that his ear and nose hairs need trimming, too. But a girl likes to feel composed when she’s talking to the higher-ups.

Things look mostly as they ought to. My red hair is long, smooth, and glossy, parted on the right. Freckles scatter like spilled cinnamon across my nose and cheeks. The blouse I picked out this morning, emerald to match my eyes, is neatly tucked into high-waisted black trousers. Gold studs in my ears. Mascara unsmudged. Nude lip gloss intact.

But there’s something strange underneath all of it today. No one else would ever be able to spot it. Lord knows I usually bury it too deep for that.Isee it, though. A tightness around my eyes. A guardedness in the set of my mouth. The Fear, that old, familiar friend, is lurking right below the surface.

It doesn’t belong here. I’m in broad daylight, surrounded by colleagues, fluorescent lighting, and the comforting hum of a busy newsroom. Fear shouldn’t be here.

I blame the Man on the Train.

It’s his fault I’m unpleasantly stirred up this morning. Things are surfacing that should be buried deep. Locked rooms should stay locked, but because of him, the door cracked open and a little trickle of The Fear has slipped out.

With a stubborn stomp of willpower, I shove it all back inside and deadbolt the emotional door firmly.

I smooth my hair one more time, fix a confident look on my face, and step into Doug’s domain.

Doug’s already back in his chair, scrolling through something on his monitor, thick brows furrowed together into one big, hairy caterpillar marching across his forehead. He’s mid-fifties, stocky, bald on top with a gray fringe that Weston very rudely calls his “toilet bowl ring of hair.” He wears the same rotation of three rumpled, white oxford shirts and has never once, in the two years I’ve worked under him, expressed an emotion stronger than mild irritation.

He’s the best editor I’ve ever had.

“Close the door,” he barks without looking up.

I close it and sit down in “Doug’s electric chair,” as some of the staff refer to the uncomfortable, plastic visitor’s seat Doug keeps in his office.

“Your Lazarev thing,” he begins without preamble. “Where are we?”

I flip open my notebook even though I don’t need it, seeing as how I know every detail by heart. “Okay. So. Lazarev Global. Massive conglomerate, headquarters in Midtown. Import-export, real estate, shipping, finance, everything under the sun. If it can make a buck, they do it. The head honcho is Lukas Lazarev—he’s chairman. His son is Kirill, goes by Kir. He’s the CEO. On paper, they’re clean as a whistle. Philanthropic, even. Galas, hospital wings, the whole nine yards.”

One end of Doug’s unibrow rises up. “Butoffpaper…?”

“Off paper is where it gets interesting.” An excited flush rises to my cheeks. “There’s been talk for years. Rumors,mostly. Message boards, anonymous posts, disgruntled former employees. The word that keeps coming up isBratva.”

Doug grunts. “I’m familiar. Russian mob. Nasty group. Ran across ‘em a few times back when I worked your beat in the 1980s.”

“Right. Specifically, the allegation is that Lukas Lazarev isn’t just some billionaire with a shipping empire; he’s the big dog. Thepakhan. Mob boss of mob bosses. Runs one of the last old-school Bratva families still operating out of New York.”

“And you got this from…?”

I clear my throat. “An unsavory character named Giovanni Ochoa. He’s a morgue attendant at the city medical examiner’s office. He reached out to me a couple weeks ago on Signal and said he’d had something come through his office that triggered a lot of alarm bells in his head. But…”

“Don’t ‘but’ me, Pierce,” scowls Doug. “I hate ‘buts.’”

I refrain from the obvious joke. “But… he wants cash.”

Doug rubs the bridge of his nose. “How solid is this guy? Is he worth it?”

I nod affirmatively. “I think so. He seemed solid. Nervous, sketchy, but solid in the ways that matter. I haven’t been able to verify everything he said yet, but what Ihavebeen able to check so far tracks. Lazarev Elder—that’s Lukas—was married up until eighteen years ago. His wife died. They kept it all very hush-hush, said it was an illness, and everyone was happy to leave it at that. Ochoa is saying,Not so fast. He’s gonna give me more info next time we meet, so long as I promise?—”

Doug raises a broad hand. “Pause right there. You said Ochoaseemedsolid. Past tense.”

I take a breath. This is the part I’ve been dreading. “I haven’t heard from him in four days.”

At that, he raises his doleful eyes up from his pockmarked desk to glare at me. “Elaborate. Quickly.”

“He was supposed to meet me last week,” I explain with a cringe. “But he didn’t show. I called, texted—nada. Tried again all week long, but his phone goes straight to voicemail now. I went by the ME’s office this morning before work and talked to the front desk. They said he called out sick on Monday and nobody’s heard from him since.”

“So,” Doug summarizes, “your key source ghosted you before delivering proof that any of the outlandish accusations he’s made against one of New York’s most prominent, powerful, and allegedly mob-connected families are true. Pierce…”

“C’mon, Doug!” I cry out, leaping to my feet. “People get cold feet, sure. It happens. But I swear, Doug, this guy was... he wasready. He wanted this story out. That’s not the profile of someone who just changes his mind and disappears.”