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I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fuck. When?”
“He didn’t have details. Top level only. Zakharov said there has been chatter ever since the Tekstilschiki incident. Guess a building has to have a working gas line to actually explode that way.”
I growl, not in the mood for jokes. I’m mentally weighing the risks. Everything stored in the Savyolovskaya warehouse is untraceable. The building itself is owned by a shell company that leads down a rabbit hole of fake names, none of which can be traced back to me. Leaving everything there will mean losing out on a payday and scrambling to replace the stock for buyers. Moving it will mean tipping off we have a mole feeding us information—something I’m sure the CKP knows, but I’d rather avoid confirming it.
“Move it. And redirect the liquor shipment. Let them test two hundred bottles of Beluga Noble.”
“Got it, boss.”
Taras lingers on the line, and I sigh.
“What else?”
“Alarms went off at Penthouse an hour ago. They shot out the cameras, but nothing is missing.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s been checked over twice.”
“What about surrounding cameras?”
“Nothing clear,” he replies.
“Did you let Roman know?”
“Yes. He’s worried Dmitriy had plans in motion.”
I rub my temple, certain he’s right. “Double the security and sweep it for explosives.”
“Will do.”
Taras hangs up, and I’m left staring down the street. The sun has dropped even lower, partially covered by the tall buildings downtown. Warmth fades with the light. It feels fitting. The closing of a chapter.
Leo has climbed into the front seat. He’s fiddling with the center controls when I climb into the driver’s seat. Kid has a thing for cars in addition to animals, both living and extinct. As soon as the door opens, he’s clambering into the backseat like he’s worried I’ll scold him.
I smile at him in the rearview mirror. “The driving age is eighteen in Russia, you know. Living here, you’ll be able to drive at sixteen.”
That’s eight years, I realize. A time that sounds long but will feel short.
Leo smiles, but it has a forced edge to it. He’s smiling to make me feel better, and it has the opposite effect.
I start the car and pull away from the curb. Rather than head toward Rittenhouse Square, I turn in the direction of UPenn’s campus. It’s quiet, even for a Saturday. I realize it must be the university’s winter break.
The empty parking lot serves its purpose exactly.
Leo looks out the window, confused. “What are we doing here?”
“Climb out of the car,” I tell him, shifting my seat back and opening my door.
Leo listens, an adorable furrow appearing between his eyebrows.
“Come on,” I tell him. “This is your first driving lesson.”
Confusion turns into elation as Leo settles into my lap and grabs the steering wheel with his smaller hands.
If my own father had ever suggested doing this, I would have felt rife with worry. It would have been a test—or worse, a trap.
Leo’s lack of hesitation eases some of the worry I’m fucking up the parenting thing. The weight and warmth of his body in my lap is comforting, not claustrophobic. Not many people touch me. My immediate family begins and ends with my mother, who is far from affectionate. Unless I’m training or fucking, no contact is made with anyone. I’m hard to land a hit on, and I’m not a snuggler—with one exception, I guess, considering how I woke up this morning—so those are brief occurrences.
