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“Loose lips,” Alan commented cryptically. Victor chuckled.
“Fortunately, there are no ships to sink, but as long as it’s only vague things like that, I have to live with it, I guess,” he said.
“Do you want to stop somewhere on the way home? Get something to eat?” Victor shook his head.
“I’ll order in when I get back to my place,” he said. He settled in for the relatively short ride to his apartment building and looked out the window, trying to figure out how upset he should be about the questions the journalist had asked him. Someone had said something about him visiting Vagabond; someone had seen him with Danielle—it had to be her, since he hadn’t gone anywhere with anyone else in months—and had learned about her job, even if they hadn’t learned that it was her doing it.
He sighed. There was someone he could call, he knew, who would get to the bottom of it, but did he really want to bring a private investigator into the situation? Victor shook his head, dismissing the thought. It was nothing—at least for the moment. He should just let it go.
Chapter13
Danielle hurried to her door when she heard the knock, her heart already beating faster in her chest. She felt the way she had the time she’d been called to the principal’s office in fourth grade, accused of flashing one of the boys in her class during gym class; except this time, she actually was guilty.
Sam had sent her a text about thirty minutes prior. Where you at? And she’d replied that she’d just left work. No, because I’ve been here for 20 minutes, and you haven’t come out. She’d had to stall then, and told him she’d see him at her apartment, to give her ten minutes to get changed out of her work clothes first and then come over.
Danielle took a deep breath and closed her eyes, reminding herself that, after all, she hadn’t done anything wrong: she’d taken a better job, and her sex life with Victor wasn’t any of Sam’s business at all. Just tell him enough to make him understand, and then don’t tell him any more, she reminded herself, opening her eyes to get the door as Sam knocked a second time.
“Okay, so I’m not going to yell at you,” Sam said as he came into the apartment. Danielle rolled her eyes.
“If you did I would tell you to get the fuck out of my house and if you didn’t do that I’d call the cops,” she countered, plucking up her courage in the face of her guilty conscience.
“You wouldn’t call the cops on me,” Sam said dismissively.
“If you didn’t leave after I kicked you out? You can bet your black ass I would,” Danielle confirmed. She took a quick, deep breath.
“Just tell me what’s going on,” Sam said, seating himself at her kitchen table. “I go to your work to surprise you, and they tell me you haven’t been working there for a month.” Danielle shrugged.
“I got another job,” she said simply.
“Obviously—but a month ago? And you didn’t tell me?” Danielle sat down across from her brother at the table.
“I did tell you I got a raise,” she said slyly. Sam rolled his eyes.
“You can’t take that cop-out with me,” he said. He shook his head.
“I got a job with someone I met the
night of the raid at Vagabond,” Danielle said, thinking about how to phrase what she was doing, how her life had changed—so as to reveal as little as possible to her brother.
“You’re with the Sokolovs?” Danielle shook her head sharply.
“No,” she said. “I got out with a guy before the cops could get to me, and it turned out that he was looking to hire somebody for a job—he’s not connected to the Sokolov family.”
“At least you’re not betraying your own brother that much then,” Sam said dismissively. Danielle sighed.
“I’m not betraying you at all,” she countered. “You don’t need to know every single detail of my life.”
“So what’s the job?” Sam held her gaze, hands folded on the table, and Danielle knew her brother was going to try and mine for as much information as possible, that he was going to push—not physically, but mentally. She took a quick, deep breath and tried to make her heart slow down. She’d grown up with him: she knew how to manage him.
“It’s a job working for a rich guy,” she said slowly. “I’m coordinating his charity efforts.” Sam snorted.
“Sounds legit,” he said sarcastically.
“It is,” Danielle countered, her pride a little piqued. “I’m making a hundred thousand a year and since my job includes talking to charity organizations, I have a clothing stipend. It’s a good job, Sammie.” Sam’s eyes widened slightly at that and he looked a little more respectful—but skeptical at the same time.
“You get a clothing stipend? What the hell kind of job gives you money for clothes?” Danielle shrugged.
“One where the clothes I’m wearing when I meet with charities are important,” she replied.
