MARIKA

There was a lesson Mari’s father had taught her a long time ago — one of the few he had that was worth listening to — that had really spoken to her since she had taken over his empire:

When you’re the boss, girl, you don’t get to have a day off.

So when Mila showed up to Marika’s swanky apartment at three in the morning, dripping with cold rain and wearing her most dour frown, Mari knew almost exactly what she was about to hear.

She sighed and gestured Mila in.

“Tell me what went wrong with the bug,” Mari said with a furrow in her bro. She grabbed one of her long coats from the closet to cover her knee-length chemise and pocketed a small umbrella. There was no time to change if Mila was tapping her fingers on her bicep like that. It was a tell of hers, one Marika never planned to tell her about.

It was convenient, to know things before anyone said them out loud. For Mila, a nervous twitch like that meant things were bad.

“Quinton Reid was at the office after hours.”

Mari hummed, and tied her hair back and out of her face. She knew Mila was waiting for her reaction. She wouldn’t have one — it wouldn’t make a difference, on way or another. “I’m assuming that your crew didn’t find this out until they had already committed several crimes he bore witness to?”

“They did not.” Mila quickly typed something into one of her many ugly, disposable phones and waited for Mari to get her shoes on. “He is being detained right now by my men.”

“Please tell me he is still in possession of all of his limbs. Forensics are a pain.”

Mila typed something again, paused for a response, then nodded. “Yes. He came willingly. He is definitely tied up, though.”

They took the elevator from Mari’s penthouse to Mila’s car to save themselves the conspicuous sound of their footsteps in the stairwell. No ear witnesses, if they could help it. Mari didn’t recognize the vehicle that Mila pulled around, but that didn’t surprise her. She typically didn’t recognize any of Mila’s cars. This time, it was a sporty, gray rental secured under a fake name. 

It was the sort of thing Mila did every week like clockwork, just like changing her phones. 

It was the sort of thing that kept them both alive.

They took the long way to the warehouse to check for any tails. The drive was on a winding, two lane residential road with plenty of turn offs. When they were both satisfied that they were alone, they did their final loop and pulled into the crunchy gravel driveway.

The old warehouse was just another mess she’d inherited from the Cervena patriarch. It had too much history and evidence to offload to anyone outside of the family, but it was too conspicuous to be of use for most of their operation. There were neighbors, and there were people who would ask questions if they tried to move anything through here.

It could probably handle one too-curious-for-his-own-good mortgage loan officer, though.

The air was chilly to the touch as they exited the car and Mila fumbled with one of the outer locks. 

This place was always going to be one her right-hand hated. One with too much history. Mari had suggested that they retire it in full. They could hire private security to keep things quiet, let it crumble and return to nature — but Mila saw that as the coward’s way out. It was her Abramovich pride, in the end. She proved something, to herself, to Mari, if she did business in the same place the rest of her family was mercilessly cut down.

“Boss?”

Mari recognized the voice right away as the metal gate slide open. Adam. He was one of the longest-serving men under Mila’s command, and the solid sort. She instantly felt a swell of relief flood through her — Adam wouldn’t have been reckless. If he was there, the scene was clean. There wouldn’t be evidence to tidy up in the aftermath.

Well, other than Quinton.

“I hear there was a problem,” Mari said softly. She didn’t need to raise her voice the way her father always had. Needing to yell meant you were weak and insecure. She would not follow in his flawed image. “Bring me to him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They’d taken Quinton Reid to huge, spacious basement beneath the main floor. It was the sort of place that someone plucked out of childhood nightmares and placed on Earth like a cruel joke, dank and wet and sunless, even in the afternoon. She knew hundreds had met their ends here, the low keening whine of their final moments etched into the foundation of this place. It was eerie. Or it would have been, if she could still feel those sorts of things.

Mr. Reid sat, resigned and immobile, in one of the many folding chairs they kept down here. He seemed lost. His eyes were wide and unseeing, staring, empty and vacant, at the staircase Mari and Mila came down. Dissociating, then. Not his first time in a situation beyond his control.

The chair he was tied to had come from some old church auction. Her father had thought that sort of irony was absolutely hilarious. She mostly found it tasteless.

“Mr. Reid,” she began. She knew she must have looked terrifying, then, even as haggard and impatient as she was so late at night. It was a gift of her bloodline — the nonchalant, chilling expression of so many criminals before her hanging from her features without effort. She thought perhaps it had been carved into their very bones over the generations, a curse and promise in one — killers. “I have been told you were perhaps a little overly interested in our affairs.”

His eyes focused, just a fraction — his gaze caught and hanging on the sharp planes of her face.

“And if I was?” He asked. He sounded tired and afraid, but he didn’t seem interested in giving her what she wanted. “It’s obvious now that I was right.”