Chapter 14

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. This is how it’s always been—just the two of us against the world. If only my dad—whoever he is, wherever he is—knew what he was missing.

“So,” Mom says, wiping her eyes, “tell me about working for Mr. Gorgeous CEO. Is he as intimidating up close as he is on the front page?”

I laugh, but it comes out strained. “You have no idea.”

“Have you talked to him much? Besides work stuff?”

I think about last night’s disaster. Shipments… no witnesses…

“Not really,” I mumble. “He’s pretty… focused on business.”

“And is he single?” Mom’s eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Mom!”

“What? I’m just asking for a friend. That friend being me.”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, he’s single. No, he’s not interested in me. Yes, there’s a waiting list of supermodels and heiresses lined up to change that. No, I’m not on the list.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, sweetie. You’re beautiful and smart and⁠—”

“And his employee.” I pat her hand. “Let’s not get carried away.”

She sighs dramatically. “Fine. But promise me you’ll wear something other than those baggy pantsuits to work.”

“I wore a green dress yesterday,” I admit.

Mom’s face lights up. “The emerald one? From Christmas?”

I nod.

“And? Did he notice?”

I think of Vince’s parting words. That dress suits you. Green is your color.

My cheeks flush. “Maybe.”

“Ha! I knew it.” She looks way too pleased with herself. “Men might be complicated, but they’re also simple creatures. Show a little effort and they notice.”

“Can we please talk about something else? Anything else?” I beg. “How’s your new roommate?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “She watches game shows at full volume until midnight. But her granddaughter brings homemade cookies, so I tolerate her.”

“Very generous of you.”

We chat for another hour about normal, safe topics. Her doctors. My apartment. The nurse who Mom swears is stealing her pudding cups.

Not once do I mention my growing suspicion that I’m working for the Russian mafia.

Not once do I tell her about the overheard call.

Not once do I confess that, despite all the red flags, despite all the danger signs, I still can’t stop thinking about how it felt when Vince’s eyes lingered on me in that green dress.

Some things mothers don’t need to know.

When visiting hours end, I promise to return in a few days. I kiss her cheek and hug her carefully, mindful of the IV lines.

“Row?” she calls as I reach the door.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful, okay?” Her expression is serious. “I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me about this job.”

My heart stutters. “Mom⁠—”

“You don’t have to tell me. But whatever it is, be careful. I need you in one piece.”

I nod, unable to speak past the lump in my throat.

“And if that handsome boss tries anything fresh,” she adds with a wink, “remember I taught you where to aim.”

I laugh despite myself. “Grab between the legs, twist, and run. I remember.”

“That’s my girl.”

I blow her one last kiss and step out into the hospital corridor, my smile fading as soon as I’m out of sight.

The weight of everything I’m not telling her sits heavy on my chest. But what choice do I have? This job is going to save Mom’s life. It’s going to lift us out of the financial quicksand we’ve been drowning in for years. All I have to do is keep my head down, do my job, and pretend I didn’t hear anything I shouldn’t have.

Simple, right?

As I head for the elevator, my phone buzzes with a text message. Need you at the office. Car waiting outside hospital. —VA

My stomach does a somersault. How does he know where I am?

I glance out the lobby windows, and sure enough, there’s a sleek black car idling at the curb.

My finger hovers over the screen as I consider my options. I could ignore it. Go home. Pretend I never saw the message.

But Mom’s medical bills aren’t going to pay themselves. And if I’m being honest, there’s another reason I can’t ignore that text.

I want to see him again.

I take a deep breath and type my response. On my way, sir.

It’s a deal with the devil, indeed.

But at least this devil has blue eyes that make my knees weak, a smile that turns my insides to jelly, and a paycheck that might actually save my mother’s life.

As far as bargains go, I’ve made worse.

I square my shoulders and head for the waiting car. Whatever happens next, I’m walking into it with my eyes wide open.

Well, as wide open as they can be while I’m deliberately ignoring all the warning signs, anyway.

That’s kind of the same thing, right?

11

ROWAN

The office is eerily quiet after hours. My heels echo down the empty hallways as I make my way back to my desk.

After the impromptu summons to the office this afternoon—which turned out to be nothing more than Vince needing someone to take notes during an unexpected conference call with Moscow—I decided to stay late and try to make sense of his impossibly complicated schedule.

Call it professional dedication.

Call it brown-nosing.

Or call it what it actually is: me trying to prove I actually deserve this job that tripled my salary and might just save my mom’s life.

“Just a couple more hours,” I mutter to myself, settling into my chair. “Then you can go home, have a glass of your finest chilled Franzia, and pretend you don’t work for the Russian mob.”

The truth is, I can’t stop thinking about that phone call I overheard. More importantly, I’m thinking about all the things I’m not thinking.

Like, for example, why did it take me this long to consider involving the police? I haven’t even told Nat about it, for crying out loud! I’m the dumbest accomplice in history. Whoever plays me in the true crime Netflix doc is just gonna be a blank-eyed bimbo with a room temperature IQ.

The audience will be hurling popcorn at the screen like, This dumb bitch! Why didn’t she go to the cops? The FBI? The press? Hell, go find a stranger on the corner and scream in their face that the sexiest man on the Forbes 40 Under 40 list is secretly a mafia boss!

Instead, I’m reorganizing Vince Akopov’s calendar like a good little assistant, color-coding his appointments and trying to find patterns in the chaos.

What does that say about me?

Nothing good, probably.

I pull up the digital calendar on my computer and compare it to the paper version Diane reluctantly handed over before leaving. There are discrepancies—appointments that appear in one but not the other, blocks of time marked simply as “private” or “offsite” with no further details.

“This makes no sense,” I grumble, flipping through the pages.