CHAPTER 16

PIPER

FIFTEEN MINUTES EARLIER

Timofey's office isn't quite so intimidating without him sitting behind the desk.

The desk chair is warm, worn leather and massive like an emperor's throne. I can see the imprint of his broad shoulders on the back and similar wear and tear in the seat that I do my best not to think about. It's a challenge, though.

The man is a dick.

But he's got one hell of an ass.

"Temptation has to have some sparkle," Grandma used to say. "Otherwise, it wouldn't be tempting."

Timofey Viktorov definitely qualifies as tempting. "Or maybe he's glistening with other people's blood," I murmured to myself.

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I check the corners of the room for cameras or any obvious recording devices. I don't see anything.

Which I suppose makes sense. Whatever business Timofey is conducting here, he probably doesn't want a record of it.

Then again, I wouldn't put it past him to keep some personal, secret archives. The easiest way to control people is to have dirt on them. What better way to get dirt than to catch them when they think they're alone?

I pinch my lips closed, silently promising myself I'll control my tongue. Timofey has enough to hold over my head without me offering up more.

I walk around his desk and drop down into the chair. My legs dangle a couple inches off the floor. I reach under the seat and adjust the height to suit me, mostly out of spite. When Timofey sits down later and his knees hit his chest, he'll think of me.

A little thrill wiggles through my chest at that thought. Not that I care what he thinks of me. Or how he thinks of me. Or when he thinks of me.

"God," I groan, dropping my face into my hands. "How am I going to survive here?"

I did my best to hold my own in the meeting with all of Timofey's men sizing me up, but the moment I stepped into the hallway, I wanted to collapse. It took all I had to make it back to this office and close the door.

My entire childhood was me scanning for incoming threats and then knocking them down or avoiding them before they could take me out. It took me years to stop assessing every situation for signs of danger, to stop assuming the worst about people.

Forty-eight hours with Timofey and I've reverted back to my most basic, trauma-based instincts.

Another forty-eight, and I might be in the fetal position on the floor.

Or dead.

I shake my head. "No. No, you won't. You'll be fine. You'll…" I look across his desk in search of something. A weapon or collateral or a secret lever to open an underground escape tunnel.

Even if I had a bazooka, I don't think I could take Timofey in a physical fight. And where would I escape to? My apartment is compromised, he's already broken into Ashley's place, and I'm sure he knows where Noelle and my grandma each live.

There's nowhere to go.

"So I have to stay here and fight in the only way I can." I roll the chair away from the desk and start opening drawers.

Maybe it's a bad idea to fight fire with fire, but I've never heard any adages about fighting blackmail with blackmail. That can't possibly go wrong, right?

But Timofey's drawers are surprisingly boring. Mostly office supplies and sheets full of numbers that Wayne the forensic accountant might understand, but are absolute gibberish to me.

When the drawers prove to be a bust, I shift to the bookshelf. The few books that are there are in Russian, so I amuse myself by pretending they're all on self-help topics.

"How to Make Friends: Advice for Aggro Assholes."I snicker and point to another book. "Overcoming Your Micro Penis."

I'm being childish. I can admit that.

It doesn't mean it's not fun.

There is a crystal paperweight and a gold desk lamp with a green glass shade, but it's all impersonal business-y decorations. Like Timofey hired an interior decorator and gave her the direction,"Make sure people know I'm rich."

As if the mansion wouldn't be clue enough.

I climb hesitantly onto the thin ledge below the shelves, stretching onto my toes to see up to the highest shelf. It's probably pointless, but there's no point in leaving a stone unturned. If I have to be stuck in this office waiting for him, I might as well make use of the time.

It's more of the same. Dusty books, a reed diffuser that I can only assume is loaded with the scent of leather, new hundred-dollar bills, man musk, and a gilded cigar box. I reach for the box and tip it out, expecting contraband Cuban cigars or the fingers of his enemies to spill out.

Instead, a gold locket tumbles onto the shelf.

"God forbid he wear jewelry." I grab the necklace and drop down onto the floor. "Can't even let anyone see he owns a necklace. They might take away his man card."

I roll my eyes and flick the locket open. I expect it to be empty, like his heart.

But I freeze when I realize there's a picture inside.

A tiny color image of a young Timofey stares up at me. His hair is shorter, cropped close to his head, and I don't see any tattoos on his exposed arms. Everything about him is leaner, younger, less scarred. He can't be older than twenty.

More than any of that, though, I notice the woman at his side.

She has thick blonde hair that curls around her shoulders and a wide, red-lipped smile. She's gorgeous.

Jealousy I have no right to feel twists in my gut. I snap the locket closed and it flips in my hand, revealing an engraving I hadn't noticed before.

For Emily.

Possibilities fire in my brain one after the other. Emily could be a friend—but what kind of man buys a locket for his (extremely attractive and definitely female) friend?

She's probably a girlfriend. An ex, or…

God, is there any chance they're still dating? Is there a chance they're married?

"I haven't done anything wrong," I say aloud, talking myself back from the emotional ledge I feel like I'm approaching. "He showed up in my room in the middle of the night. I'm a victim."

Okay, then why do I suddenly find myself hoping he hasn't seen Emily since this picture was taken?

My decision is swift. Before Timofey can walk in and catch me snooping, I pull out my phone and text Noelle.

Weird request. Use your Google-fu and find out if Timofey Viktorov has any connection to a blonde woman named Emily.

Noelle may be dating an FBI agent, but she's the one with the super sleuth skills. The woman can find dirt on anyone using nothing but her keyboard and a search engine.

She's at work right now, though. Rule follower that she is, she probably won't see my text until her lunch break.

I tuck the locket back where I found it and am about to flop into Timofey's desk chair to wait when I hear his voice in the hallway.

He says my name, but nothing else is clear. I creep towards the door.

"Not Ms. Quinn," his butler says. I think his name is Fyodor, but I've met too many people to keep track. "Another guest. One who would like to remain…discreet."

A guest who would like to remain discreet?What does that mean?

Timofey doesn't ask. "Where?"

"The south entrance. The cameras are on a loop."

My eyes widened. I knew he had to have cameras somewhere. But whoever he is about to talk to, he doesn't even want his own personal recording of that conversation.

That means it has to be something serious.

Something serious—as in, something I could use to get myself out of here and make sure the child in his care is removed as well.

The voices are gone, but I wait for a few more seconds before I crack the door open.

The hallway is empty. I open the door fully and poke my head out, just in time to see Timofey turn a corner and disappear.

Without pausing to think it through, I slip out of his office and follow after him.

Maybe if I walk with my head held high, no one will notice I'm wandering around without permission. Timofey did tell everyone to stay out of my way, after all. If anyone stops me, I'll just tell them I'm running an errand for Benjamin.

In a way, I am. If I can hold something serious over Timofey's head, it could be the key to get me and Benjamin out of here.

This is for him.

I turn the corner and glide down another hallway. It feels like wandering through a maze. I've never been in a house this big. If Timofey doesn't give me a proper tour, I'm liable to get lost.

I'm approaching the end of the hallway when I hear Timofey's voice again. I freeze and press my body flat against the wall.

I can't see who he's talking to and they're whispering so low that it's hard to make out the words. In small, sliding steps, I sneak closer to the hallway intersection, hoping I'll get lucky and their voices will carry.

I hear something about a body, and my heart constricts.

Does that have something to do with the blood I saw on Timofey's neck? Did he kill someone?

My heart is thundering. I blow out a silent breath to try and stay calm. I won't learn anything if I descend into a panic.

Breathe, girl. Focus. This is for him.

I lean closer with my eyes closed like that might help me pick up their words better. Weirdly, it works.

"I don't know how you do it," an unfamiliar voice says. "Kill people."

I swallow down a gasp, biting my lower lip so hard I expect it to split. Timofey kills people. He's a killer. I knew it, and yet somehow, I'm still surprised. That might make me dumb. At the very least, it makes me a sucker.

"Probably the same way you look your brothers in blue in the eyes after you doctor up a crime scene to make me look innocent," Timofey snaps back.

He's talking to a police officer right now. An officer who is clearly working for him.

That's corruption. Or bribery. Probably both. Whatever the name, they could both go to prison for a long time if it was reported. It's exactly the kind of information I need.

I just need to know the man's name.

The men keep talking. I inch closer and closer to the corner of the wall.

One glimpse. That's all I need. One peek at the officer's badge or his face or something that could at least help me identify him in a lineup. I just need one good look and then I'll run back to Timofey's office and pretend this never happened.

Their voices are tense, an argument simmering between them, and it seems like the best opportunity I'm going to get.

I poke my head out slowly and take in the scene.

Timofey is standing with his back to me, facing a man in all black. The cop is fit and well-built, though he's nothing compared to Timofey. He has a hoodie on, zipped up to the neck. If he's wearing a badge, I can't see it.

But I can see his face.

I catalog him, imagining describing this exact man to a sketch artist later. Square head. No chin to speak of. Small, dark eyes…

Eyes that land right on me.

"What the fu—who is that?" the man splutters.

My heart leaps into my throat. I pull back as quickly as I can, but it doesn't matter. I already know it's too late.