I bite my tongue to hold back a retort until I taste copper. Reminding him thathe should fucking talkisn’t gonna go over well. He may be my cousin, but he's mypakhan.
"What do you want from me?"
"A reminder of what you promised. And keep her here. If she runs, she's a fucking liability. You know that."
"Of course I do."
He nods. "You do that, and I'll make sure your fucking grown-ass parents stay out of your hair."
"How do you propose to do that?" I ask him.
"Sending them away," he says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Polina’s brother has a place in South Africa. Turns out, he needs someone to house-sit. Free vacation."
The trace of humor on his face vanishes. "While they're gone, you change the locks on your house. Trust me when I tell you, you don't need your parents walking in when you're trying to knock up your wife."
No fucking shit. "Yeah. I'll do that."
He stands, dusts imaginary lint from his clothes, and nods.
I stare at him. "And the Irish?"
He blows out a breath and squares his shoulders. "I'll deal with the Irish."
Her hands movewith a terrifying kind of precision. Not delicate. Not hesitant.Expert.
Like she’s done this a thousand times. I watch the flex of her fingers as she loads a clip, her gaze focused on the task at hand.
“You’re more comfortable around guns than I thought.”
She doesn’t look up. “That’s rich,” she says, her eyes finally twinkling at me. “Coming fromyou.”
The table between us is a graveyard of stripped-down weapons and scattered docs. Forged passports. Burner phones. She crafts identities so easily it’s almost disconcerting.
I don’t like it. It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that she can disappear again at any time.IfI let her.
I won’t. I fuckingwon’t.
I sit back, my arms crossed, studying her. “You know,” she says, in that voice that weaves around me like magic, “If you keep staring at me like that you’ll burn a hole through my skull.”
I snort. “Maybe I’m trying to make you stay put.”
Maybe I’m not lying.
Her lips twitch in an almost-smile. That damned mouth of hers. Always ready to fire back, sharp and dangerous.
“Afraid I’ll run?” she taunts, her eyes sharp.
“No,” I lie, my voice cold and flat. “I know you’lltry.”
I know it.
A comfortable silence stretches between us. She flips a passport closed and slides it across the table to me.
“Paris exit route. Clean as it gets.”
“Excellent. Rafail will appreciate this.”
Her eyes flash hard for a second before she can help herself. She still doesn’t like doing what Rafail asks.
