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“Nope.”
He sighs and squeezes his temples. “Perfect. I just hired a fucking librarian to watch over a trained killer.”
“Looks that way.”
“Well, it is what it is.” He shakes his head. “There’s a fundraising party next weekend, and Sergei will have to go in my place. You will be going with him.”
“I don’t do parties.”
“You do now. There will be a lot of important people there, and I need Sergei to behave. He never loses it when on business, but I don’t want to risk it.”
“I don’t even know how to walk in heels.”
“Then wear flats.” He pins me with his gaze, which clearly says the discussion is over. “If you have questions, talk to Felix.”
“Do you plan on sharing our agreement with Sergei?”
“No. I’ll tell him what you told me, and say we agreed for you to stay until the situation with Diego is resolved.”
“Okay. But I have a favor to ask.”
“I’m listening.”
“My nana stayed at the compound in Mexico. Can you try to get some information on her? To see if...” I take a deep breath. “If she’s alive? I’m afraid Diego might have killed her because she helped me escape.”
“The name?”
“Guadalupe Perez.”
“If she’s alive, do you want us to try bringing her here?”
“Yes.”
He nods and extends his hand. “You help my brother. I get you your papers, and your nana.”
I stare at his hand for a moment, feeling like I’m making a deal with the devil, then take it. We shake hands and I start pulling away, but his fingers tighten on my hand in a viselike grip.
“If you go back on your word,”—he leans forward until his face is right in front of mine—“you better pray Diego Rivera finds you before I do, Miss Sandoval.”
He releases my hand and nods toward the door. “Let’s go find Sergei. I’ll walk you out.”
As we leave his office and head down the hallway, the big double doors on the far side fling open and a petite, dark-haired woman runs out, holding a pot in her hands. She sees us coming and rushes toward us on bare feet.
“Roman! Help!” she shouts as the door behind her opens again and a rotund, bearded man in a cook’s apron bursts out. He yells something in Russian, throws a kitchen rag onto the floor, with frustration apparent on his face, then turns and stomps back into what I assume is the kitchen.
The woman reaches us, laughing all the way, and halts in front of Petrov. “You want some Bolognese sauce, kotik?” she chirps.
Kotik? I blink. It means kitten in Russian. Did she just call the Russian pakhan kitten?
“Give me that!” Petrov barks and takes the pot from her hands. “What have I told you about carrying heavy stuff and running around?”
“It’s five pounds, max!” She reaches to grab the pot back, but Petrov lifts his arm, holding it out of her reach.
“Angelina, this is my wife,” he says, and I stare at the woman in front of me who is currently jumping up and down, trying to reach the pot.
“Stop jumping, damn it,” Petrov snaps, “You’ll give my child a concussion.”
“Thief!” She scrunches her nose, pokes him in the ribs, then turns to me and offers me her hand, smiling. “I’m Nina.”
