Page 9
I crept forward on the cold concrete.
Fuck.
The call from Enzo was probably to tell me where the file was hidden. I’d forgotten that he’d still needed to get me that bit of information. It’d take too long to power up my phone and shoot off a text, and there was no way I was risking a call.
My gaze darted across the room, looking for tells. I’d broken into enough places now to know what to look for. Artwork that was slightly askew, scratches on the floor from where furniture was frequently slid out, and walls that were dirtier in areas from being touched often. Or the tried-and-true false bottom drawers. Given that the office had such a flimsy security system, the Russians probably hadn’t gone to great lengths to hide these files—so the desk it was.
Well-worn leather gloves slipped over my fingers like a second skin. I pulled on the drawer, testing to see if it was locked. Wood scraping on wood echoed through the room, making me cringe. Why did men always have ancient office furniture? I yanked the drawer open the rest of the way, taking the rip-the-Band-Aid-off approach.
Yellow file folders hung neatly, and I scanned their labels to see if, by some miracle, there would be one labeled Important shit.
My shoulders sagged as I read through the titles. Of course there wasn’t. That would be too easy. I placed one of my hands on the outer bottom of the drawer while using the other to push all the files aside and knocked.
No false bottom.
The other proved to be as useless, pissing me off even more than I’d already been about doing this damn job. There weren’t any other viable hiding spots. The walls were bare, nothing to cover up a wall safe. Or hell, just hide a fucking folder behind. The only furniture in the room was the desk and two metal folding chairs that sat in front of it. Honestly, it looked like they didn’t spend any time here.
Worry settled in my gut, causing me to gnaw on my lip. I needed to execute this heist tonight, or I’d have hell to pay with my uncle. My attention landed once more on the desk. It had to be there.
My knees hit the concrete, and I worked to position my five-six frame to check the underside of the desk. Relief flooded my body as my fingers met a rigid folder.
A muffled sound sent nerves shooting down my spine. “You’ve got to fucking be kidding me,” I whispered as a voice got closer.
I had seconds to decide whether to make a break for the window or settle in and see if they’d leave. The decision was made for me when the office door opened. My breath hitched at the sound of a man’s deep tenor.
“I don’t fucking care. He’s going to do what he wants, anyway. Tell him that day’s fine. It’s not like I want to even go through with the arrangement anyway. Hey, I just got in the office.” There was a pause for whatever the person on the other line said. “Tell them I’m fuckin’ the blonde in the bathroom. We can’t be too obvious with our moves, or they’ll be on us in a second.”
Who the hell was in here?
My fingers wrapped around the grip of my Sig, dragging it from the bag I’d housed it in. Killing the guy wasn’t an option; it’d be too much of a hassle for me. Plus, I’d already left one body behind in my wake.
But the end of a barrel had a way of motivating people. I repositioned so I was balanced on the balls of my feet rather than sitting on my ass, vulnerable. My heart rate spiked when powerful legs came into view.
“Yeah, he said it’d be under the des…” He paused his conversation when my barrel brushed the family jewels. Figured those were precious enough to him. He’d think twice before making a stupid move.
My voice came out cold and calculated. “Tell him you have to go. Calmly. And keep your hands up where I can see them,” I instructed.
The deep tone of his voice was so delicious it pissed me off. “Sorry, yeah, I’m still here. I’ll see you in a minute.” His words were clipped, but otherwise, he didn’t raise an alarm.
“Slide your chair back out and don’t make any sudden movements.”
He grunted in annoyance but followed instructions. “Do you have fucking hollow points pointed at my balls?” he asked, irritation dripping from his tone.
I duck-walked out far enough to make eye contact. My brows dropped in confusion at the sight of the surly Irishman in front of me.
Caleb Callahan?
I blanked my face, not wanting him to read the surprise in my reaction. Now wasn’t the time to work through why he was in here.
“Of course. Who’s dumb enough not to use hollow points?”
“Who’s dumb enough to break into the Bratva’s offices?” he threw back, his eyes dipping down to where the hem of my dress had ridden up when I stood.
The dress had been too tight for underwear, so literally all that stood between my bare pussy and him was a layer of cheap spandex. Heat from his gaze sent my heart rate soaring, and he arched a dark brow at me, as if he could sense the reaction.
“Seems I could ask you the same question, Caleb,” I responded, keeping the barrel trained on his junk. Shock flashed in his emerald eyes. Glee snaked through me at his reaction. He hadn’t expected me to know who he was. “Lie on the ground, facedown,” I instructed, needing to get out of there ASAP.
His mouth turned down into a snarl, giving me images of what it would be like to trade blows with the handsome mobster. I’d heard about how he fought in the underground fight rings, and the idea of going toe to toe with him, any of them, was thrilling.
