MARIKA

“He is too interested,” Mila told her, matter-of-factly. Her dark eyes were narrow and angry. “What does he want with you? Who is he working for?”

It had been a long week in the time between Marika’s meeting with Quinton Reid and his skittish assistant. In the intervening days there had been no shortage of fires to extinguish. Bigger threats to both of them than some overeager middle manager at a regional bank.

But mysteries always got underneath Mila’s skin, and Quinton Reid was no exception.

Mari rolled her eyes and switched on her desk fan.

Mila Abramovich had been an absolute in Mari’s life for the better part of thirty years. She was short and slender, with hair as blonde as the day she’d been born. She didn't look like someone to worry about. That was the point, after all.

People liked to underestimate her. 

That rarely went well for them.

The Abramovichs were an old-world, affiliated family from the Cervenas’ time on the continent. Mila was the only one left in her bloodline, thanks to the rest of her brothers deciding to play loose and stupid with the rules years ago. 

They had been close since they were girls, and were more loyal than sisters.

Mila was also paranoid as hell.

It was barely 9AM, and it wasn’t getting any nicer in here, even with the window open. Mila had already smoked her third cigarette down to the filter, pinning the end between her white teeth. She paid a fortune to bleach out the tobacco stains semi-regularly.

They usually went outside to spare the rest of the the staff, but Mila was too anxious to risk Mari’s exposure to the adjacent rooftops. 

The target on Mari’s back had only grown since she officially assumed the mantle of her father’s business, and her security was still in the process of vetting who would stick closest to her. For now, Marika stuck inside, in rooms with defined, known entry points.

In the meantime, she had Mila.

Mila’s black sneakers kicked a steady rhythm against the tile floor, chewing her lip as she crushed the remnants of her cigarette in her ashtray. A black holster hung from her right hip, never more than a few inches from her dominant hand.

Mari had been waiting for hours for Mila to state the obvious, patiently reviewing the records she had been brought from her father’s defunct office, in the interim. She had been on edge since their trip to the bank. It was clear to Marika, and it had been the entire time.

It was about time her second-in-command admitted what had made her so insufferably twitchy. 

Mila didn’t like deviations from the plan. And no matter how you looked at it, a nosy middle manager was a deviation.

“Has he contacted us again?” Mari asked, turning the page with a sigh. Her father’s record-keeping was roughly as impressive as his paternal instincts.

That was not a compliment.

“No, and the loan was approved.” Mila frowned and went to light a fourth cigarette. Mari flicked a glance her way, and Mila hesitated before she tucked the squished pack back in her pocket. “But it should have never happened to begin with.”

“Yet it did.” Mari closed her manila folder and sent it fluttering across her desk. “Short of bugging his office, I see little recourse without arousing the suspicion we’re trying to avoid.”

“We could get rid of him.”

“I am trying not to become my father, remember? I’d prefer our first instinct not be ruthlessly slaughtering anyone who inconveniences us.”

“You may regret that choice.”

Mari quirked a brow and uncrossed her legs. “To my recollection, you were not upset to be rid of the expectation of wet work.”

“Just because I didn’t want my family’s burden doesn’t mean it doesn’t have its place.”

Mari pressed her lips together and fought off a frown. “No killing him. My order on that is absolute.”

Mila nodded once. “Understood. Would you allow the bug?”

It was risky. Bank security was never particularly relaxed, not even at the smaller branches. But Mila had a compelling point, and Mari knew better than to fall victim to the usual Cervena hubris.

It had gotten her brother killed, in the end. Her father, too.

“If you can do it quietly,” Mari said. She pressed a button to buzz Angelica in, and handed off the latest in a long series of contracts awaiting her signature. “Angelica, please postmark this today.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mila waited until they were alone again to continue. “I could send one of the boys out. It shouldn’t take longer than tonight, if I still have the maps.”

“Have they renovated since your father last had them drawn up?”

“No, and the building is old.”

The Abramovich’s had been consummate professionals. At least, before they’d been traitors. Their intelligence was likely still useful, even so many years later.

Mari knew Mila was waiting for the official order. She considered it for another moment, then hummed.

“Do it,” she directed. “Get me the transcripts of whatever it catches every night, unless something urgent comes to your attention.”

“Yes, boss.”

Boss. It was uncomfortable in all of the worst ways. One of the many consequences of her success. Mila was above calling her boss. And yet, tradition demanded it. 

Tradition demanded a lot of things. Mari couldn’t do away with them all. Not unless she wanted a mutiny in her organization, and her feet in a bucket of cement in the bay. She needed to take her time, dismantling this headache.

“Tail him and his assistant too,” she added, like a forethought. “Low profile, please. No threats.”

Mila already had one of her three phones out of her pocket, giving the order. They would be crushed and different by the end of the week. She liked to rotate through stupid, silicon cases in the meantime.

She sent the order off with a muted tap! and nodded once.

“You’ll have results by tomorrow,” Mila promised. “We can never be too careful.”