Page 54

Arthur catches up to me, wraps an arm around my bicep, and yanks me out of the way of two more joggers. “Get it together,” he mutters gruffly.

“You didn’t tell me you were promoted,” I say, rolling my eyes. “From hallway escort to street escort. Hope that came with a raise.”

His lip almost curls. I’m not sure what has happened, but over the last week or so Arthur has made it clear that he doesn’t like me. And he isn’t afraid to let Vasily see that, apparently. My own digging around in the records has revealed that Arthur is actually Vasily’s head of security; his Avtoritet, if I’m remembering my Bratva hierarchy accurately.

It makes sense. He’s massive, but cool-headed and deceptively inconspicuous despite his size. Even though I hate the way he looks at me, I can’t say I don’t feel safe knowing he’s nearby.

“Does Vasily ever explain anything?” I ask impulsively. Maybe this beautiful, foggy morning will create a sense of camaraderie and get Arthur to share some secrets.

“No.”

“Does he tell anyone where he’s going?” He was supposed to be my escort today, from what I was told yesterday. Not Arthur. So why the change?

“No.”

“Does he enjoy being impossible?”

Arthur glances at me. “I wouldn’t know.”

Of course he wouldn’t. I sigh and adjust the strap of my purse.

I’m supposed to be meeting Isla at a café, which means I am technically being allowed out of the lake house. Supervised, naturally. Vasily didn’t even tell me himself that he was handing me off to his lackeys. I found out from one of the kids guarding my door, and the explanation was that Vasily was “unavailable” for the foreseeable future.

Why, exactly?

Arthur won’t say. I’ve asked twice. His answers have been variations of Mr. Borisov is occupied.

Which tells me absolutely nothing. And I’m still irritated about last night.

I needed him. Not in the way my brain occasionally likes to interpret that sentence. Professionally…mostly.

I’d found an invoice buried in the renovation records that looked badly botched. Not suspiciously complicated or cleverly disguised, just wrong, which was concerning. Numbers didn’t match and dates were off; a vendor name appeared twice under slightly different corporate registrations.

It was the kind of mistake that could either mean someone was sloppy or someone wanted me to think they were sloppy.

The invoice in the prosecution’s packet wasn’t quite the same as the copy in Deep Waters’s approval file. Same number, different vendor registration. It could be a correction. It could also be the first useful thing I’ve found, if I can establish which version Mikhail actually saw.

I’d asked to speak with Vasily and then spent another three hours staring at that damn invoice before finally giving up. Now I’m supposed to smile at him when he eventually reappears?

Absolutely not.

The annoying part is that I know I’m going to.

Because despite everything, I’m actually a little worried about him…or—the business, not him specifically.

Yeah. Definitely that.

Art doesn’t say much as we get closer to our destination, and that feels intentional.

He keeps half a step behind me, eyes moving constantly between storefronts, intersections, parked cars. He’s not watching me so much as everything around me, but there’s no mistaking the distrust in his posture.

Maybe he’s the first smart man in the Bratva.

Moose Bits Coffee & Pastry appears ahead; its sign painted in cheerful lettering above a narrow storefront. The name alone makes me question every life choice that brought me here. There’s no way Isla is going to believe that this was all a voluntary choice.

Art stops two blocks away. “You’ll be fine.”

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk, which seems to irritate him. “That’s reassuring.”