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She got to her feet and strode over to me with the grace of a catwalk model. In a shift dress with a high split, she looked the part. Everything about her spoke of money. From the cut of her hair to the style of that dress.
Red nails drifted down the lapel on my jacket as my cell buzzed: Misha, most likely.
Ignoring the call, I stared down at those claws and studied the peculiar silver tips that adorned her little fingers.
I’d seen women wear crazy designs on their nails, but these came with the sharpest of points on them. More weapon than decoration…
Maybe that was fitting for a woman of her reputation.
"I need you to lend me your arm," she murmured, breaking into my thoughts.
"What?" I demanded, confused.
"You can get me into places that I can't access alone. At least, not without raised brows."
"What do I get in return? Sex?" I sneered.
Her top lip curled at that. "No. You get to live." Her hand was suddenly at my throat. It was brittle, shaped differently to the rest—the silver tip on her pinkie. "I scratch you with this and a neurotoxin enters your bloodstream. I’m sure you’ve heard of novichok."
I didn’t bother tensing up.
This wasn’t my first death threat of the day.
She pressed her mouth to my cheek so that her words were whispered into my ear—she clearly knew the place was bugged to the hilt. "I'll also help you with theKrestniy Otets. I know the brotherhood aren't certain if they want a street rat leading their most lucrative gang in the States. I can be a very, very good friend if you play nicely with me." She pulled back to look me in the eye as she asked, "Do we have a deal?"
