Page 5 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Kathryn sends three skull emojis and one eggplant because she is a menace.

Dmitri looks amused. “Good news?”

“My best friend is checking whether I need extraction.”

“Do you?”

I glance at the party. Patrick’s smile is bright. The Russians by the windows are watching the Irishmen near the bar. Everyone here wants something, and most of them would sell their grandmother for a cleaner route through customs.

Then I look at Dmitri. Bad idea, my brain says. Unfortunately, the rest of me has formed a committee and voted to ignore governance.

“Maybe,” I say.

His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Heat slides through me, and I hate his guts a little for managing that in public. “Cara,” he says.

I really, really like how my name sounds in his accent. This is a character flaw, and I will be addressing it never. “What?”

“You should decide soon.”

“About extraction?”

“About whether you’re leaving because of this party or because of me.”

My pulse misbehaves and does a little tap dance right under my throat. “That line work often?”

“I don’t use lines.”

“No, you just stand there looking like someone’s last mistake and wait for women to develop poor judgment.”

He laughs again, softer this time. “Is that what’s happening?”

“I haven’t ruled it out.”

His phone lights in his hand. Cyrillic flashes across the screen before he turns it over. I notice because I notice everything, and because a woman who doesn’t notice things around Patrick ends up surprised by subpoenas.

“Your freight calling?” I ask.

He doesn’t check the phone again. “Something like that.”

“You can answer.”

“I don’t want to.”

For a moment, the party fades to movement and noise around us. Dmitri is close enough now that I can smell soap, clean fabric, and something sharper underneath, metal or winter or my own imagination making poor choices. His hand rests near his glass. Big hands. Scarred knuckles. No ring.

Because I am apparently determined to speedrun my own bad decision, I say, “If I leave with you, is this going to become one of those stories where I wake up missing a kidney?”

“Not from me.”

“Comforting. Very specific.”

“If someone takes your kidney tonight, I’ll find them.”

“I didn’t realize we’d reached organ-level commitment.”

His expression changes. The humor stays, but something serious slips in beneath it. “I don’t like thieves.”

“Well, you’re at the wrong party.”