Page 4
The simple affirmation lands harder than it should.
In the eight years since I took my place in the family business, I learned how to interpret the silences and subtleties in my brother’s responses. This one speaks of progress acknowledged, patience rewarded, trust reinforced.
“Continue as planned,” he says.
The line goes dead.
I pocket the phone and bury every trace of emotion. The mission is progressing. Contact was made.
But as my fingers brush the jewel at my throat, the memory of Orien’ pale, assessing eyes returns.
The file described him as an emotionless tool. It failed to mention the way he studies you, stripping you apart layer by layer in search of what makes you tick.
Shivering, I pull my cardigan tighter and head for my apartment.
For now, I check the street behind me, ensuring no one from the Blue Note can connect “Lee” to the Vartanian family.
2
The steel gate slides open with a mechanical hum, triggered by the recognition chip embedded in my ID card.
As I guide my car onto the gravel drive that curves toward the main house, my spine straightens and my jaw firms, the deliberate charm I cultivated for “Lee” sloughing off like an ill-fitting jacket.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I park in my assigned space. No dust rises to dirty my undercarriage or threaten to besmirch the suit I wear. The grounds crew keeps the drive immaculate, even in winter, with the rocks washed and raked weekly to prevent telltale tracks.
The security cameras mounted in the trees around the Vartanian compound track me as I emerge into the cold night air, my breath fogging white before fading away.
My brother’s head of security dips his head in greeting as I cross the threshold into the house. “Welcome home, sir. He’s waiting in the study.”
I murmur acknowledgment without slowing my pace.
The polished marble floors reflect my silhouette, and a single painting hanging on the deep burgundy walls is worth more than most people’s houses. My dress shoes clip down the corridor as I pass two more staff members, who acknowledge me with quick dips of their chins.
Alexei’s study sits at the end of the east wing, and a single lamp lights the room beyond in amber.
A massive mahogany desk dominates the center, with dark wooden shelves lining the walls, filled with leather-bound books that no one reads and digital storage devices holding the encrypted heart of the family business.
The scent of cedar hangs in the air, along with expensive cigar smoke, though Alexei doesn’t smoke.
My brother occupies the leather chair behind the desk, but when I enter, he rises to come around to meet me halfway.
As his hand settles on my shoulder, the years between us collapse, and the head of the Vartanian family and his subordinate vanish, leaving only two brothers.
“Lev. How have you been?”
“Fine, brother,” I say. “I’m hardly out on the streets, starving.”
“It appears that living in Ashford Heights agrees with you,” Alexei says, a dry note in his voice. “You look… softer.”
“Lee Espasito is meant to,” I reply. “As a graphic designer, new to town, who landed a remote contract that lets him afford a studio, he’s supposed to appear harmless.”
“And the background?”
“Clean. A history of contract work for shell companies they’ll never trace back to us. He’s a ghost. But living alone… You were right to be concerned. It’s different.”
Alexei gestures to a chair angled toward the desk instead of across from it, a placement that avoids opposition. It sits close enough to his chair for us to speak without raising our voices.
I sit, hands on my knees, my posture perfect.
