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“That’s . . . crazy.”
“Felix doesn’t think so. He says that you’ve managed to snap Sergei out of his episodes. Twice.”
“I didn’t do anything. I just babbled some nonsense. Anybody can do that.”
“Do you know what happened the last time someone approached Sergei while he was in that state, Miss Sandoval? The man ended up in an ICU for a month.” He gets up, takes the cane leaning against the desk, and comes to stand in front of me. “You help my brother, and I help you.”
“Or I’m getting sent back to Diego?”
“With a bow.” His lips widen in a wicked smile.
“It’s not like I have a choice, is it?” I sigh. The fact that I don’t find the idea of staying repulsive should be seriously concerning. Stockholm syndrome was right on the money. “Did something happen to Sergei? Why does he have those episodes?”
Petrov grinds his teeth, turns toward the set of drawers on his right, and takes out a thick yellow folder, which he throws on the desk in front of me.
I pull the folder toward me, open it, and start leafing through the stack of papers. There are dates on each corner, starting eleven years ago. The last one is four years old. At first, I don’t understand what I am looking at. It seems like they’re some kind of reports, but most of the text is blacked out, and only parts of sentences here and there can be read. One thing that’s common on all the documents is the signature at the bottom. Felix Allen.
“What’s all this?” I ask, trying to grasp the meaning. I see some locations listed, mostly Europe, but there are some in the US and Asia as well. “Almost everything is redacted.”
“The reports on black ops missions usually are.”
My head snaps up. “Sergei was black ops?”
“A special side unit. An experimental project where they took in teenagers no one would miss, usually homeless, and trained them into becoming operatives for the government’s special missions.”
I look down at the stack of documents, flip back to the first page, and look at the date. “How old is Sergei?”
“Twenty-nine.”
I do a quick calculation. “This means he started working for them at eighteen.”
Roman waves at the papers. “Those are from when they started sending him on the missions. They took Sergei in when he was fourteen.”
I stare at Petrov. That’s not possible.
“What did he do for the government, exactly?”
“Whatever they needed that they couldn’t achieve using regular channels. But, mostly, it was termination of high-level targets,” he says.
Chills rush down my spine. “You mean . . .”
“Sergei is a professional hitman, Miss Sandoval.”
I gape at him for a few moments, then drop my eyes back to the folder in front of me. There are dozens of reports there. The man who’s been teasing me, who carried me around because I was tired, who bought me nine different body washes because he didn’t know which scent I would like... who saved my life... is a professional killer?
Petrov leans in, takes the folder from my hands, and puts it away in the drawer. “It’s not my intention to scare you, but I need you to understand what you’re dealing with. I don’t believe Sergei will hurt you, especially after what Felix told me, but if something happens that makes you think he is losing it completely, you need to pull back immediately. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you? Really?” He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t look like someone who could deal with Sergei’s shit.”
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “And how do I look, exactly?”
“Like a librarian. You’re only missing the glasses.”
“What a coincidence.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I applied for a librarian position at Atlanta University two months ago. Still waiting for their answer, though.”
“Are you shitting me?”
