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There’s literally no need for me to leave my home except for Friday evenings when I stop by Matianna, the restaurant where I meet my father for a weekly shot of vodka and a quick round of chess.
Dimitri likes to joke that I’m agoraphobic. Dickhead.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Speaking of dickheads, Dimitri has sent me a text.
No known last location.
Apparently goes by Dani.
[Download picture attached, 45 mbs.]
I click on the image to open it. The face that fills the screen is surprising.
She’s breathtaking. Just shy of thirty, if I had to guess. Her raven black hair is pulled back into a slick ponytail. Her eyes are dark black onyxes, intense and determined. Her full lips are pressed into a thin line, her expression neutral. Hard, serious, and poised. I can only make out the stiff collar of her white button down, which makes me wonder if this photo was taken for her ID badge and internal records.
I stare at her face for a little too long, strangely mesmerized by the slight curve of her nose and the beauty mark just below the corner of her left eye.
“Hello, Dani,” I mumble to her picture, as if she can hear me. “What rotten luck you must have to end up dealing with the likes of me.”
I sigh and sink back further into my chair. Am I seriously talking to an image right now? Even if tracking this woman down seems next to impossible, at least it’ll get me out of the house. But it’s not like I can step out onto the street and start calling her name. I need a plan, and the sooner I find her, the sooner I can walk away from all this nonsense for good.
Dani Harper, it’s time to play.
Chapter 3
Dani
Matianna.
It’s a fancy, exclusive restaurant specializing in Russian cuisine. When I tried looking up their website online, it was all in Russian even though it’s smack dab in the middle of New York’s Iron District. There are only a handful of tables, and guests have to book a reservation well in advance just to eat brunch here. Had it not been for Gomez’s help, I probably wouldn’t have been able to get Pritt, who I’ve assigned as our undercover point woman, through the door in the first place.
Our unmarked surveillance van is parked across the street, wedged between a large orange traffic barrel and a pickup truck with several parking tickets jammed beneath its windshield wiper. The back of the van has been stripped of its seats, replaced with the best surveillance equipment my operation budget could afford.
I’m wearing headphones, listening to the shuffle of Pritt’s clothes. I roll my eyes as I watch her reach down to adjust her blouse again. She’s got a small, downright undetectable camera hidden beneath the brooch on her lapel. I can see everything in front of her, but not if she keeps fiddling with her damn shirt.
“Stop fussing,” I mumble into my microphone.
Pritt has an earpiece tucked into the canal of her right ear. The only way anyone’s going to realize it’s in there is if they go digging with a pair of tweezers.
“But it’s so itchy,” she complains under her breath.
“Quit whining and get in there. We can’t afford to miss him.”
Pritt grumbles something in Russian. I’m sure it wasn’t polite. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to include her as a part of my operation, but her proficiency in the language could come in handy.
Beside me, Gomez chuckles. “She’s going to be a handful.”
I groan in agreement. “Nothing we can do about it now.”
“Would you two shut up?” Pritt hisses. “I’m going in.”
Sitting on the edge of my seat, I watch her hidden camera feed as she enters the restaurant. It’s quaint inside. Cream walls, warm white pendulum lights hanging over the tables, a brick backsplash and plenty of homey decor. It feels like I’ve walked straight into a babushka’s personal kitchen—the seventeen-dollar starter salad aside. The front section of the restaurant is full of dinnertime customers, but the back is strangely empty.
Save for the furthest table in a corner.
My heart skips a beat when I see him.
Luka Antonov.
