by Nadia Lee
Once I’m inside an elevator by myself, I pull out my phone and check Lyosha’s social media feeds. I told him not to make those accounts because they’re a spy’s idea of heaven. But my son is too cool and smart to listen to his father.
So I use his youthful arrogance to my advantage. Lyosha has no clue I hacked his accounts, but I need to keep an eye on things to make sure he’s safe until I can cross the last item off my kill list.
There are a couple of selfies of him and his buddies at some restaurant in Berkeley last night. He seemed to be having fun. I screencap the picture so I can check these new friends of his out. I didn’t bring him all the way from a shitty Russian orphanage to California to have him hang out with the wrong crowd. I taught him how to take care of himself, but he’s young and inexperienced. And those two factors can get anybody into trouble. As I know from my own experience.
When I’m on my floor, I walk to my desk. Rhonda and Patrice say hello, and I say hello back to them because that’s what’s expected. And because they aren’t ever going to be a threat. I screen them every six months to make sure nothing odd is going on—no sudden change in their finances, among other things.
If Lizochka finds out, she’ll tell me to quit wasting my time, since Rhonda and Patrice have been with the foundation forever, and they’re loyal and good people. Lizochka doesn’t seem to understand betrayal comes from those who are closest, and Rhonda and Patrice fit that category.
I carry the coffee to the break room. I tilt the cup to pour the contents into the sink, then stop.
Angelika handed it to me…
Only because I’m a customer at the café, and she was doing her job. She’s good at her job, all smiles and bright eyes. She’s also good at running. Eight years is a long time.
But who cares about that? She’s here now. In L.A.
In my domain. In my control.
My innocent little fawn.
I thought she’d be more like an untamed wildcat, but no. There’s nothing feline about her.
Those slim, but leanly muscled, shapely limbs. Plus the thick hair, a glorious mixture of gold, amber, mahogany, cherry and every other shade in between, topping and framing a pixie-like face with a slightly pointed chin. And her eyes—wide, whiskey-colored, curiously expectant and more than a little wary. When I met them, an odd recognition jolted through me, just like it did when I first laid eyes on Lizochka. But with Angelika, it’s different. It aroused every dark and dangerous instinct I’ve hidden deep in my heart to blend in with society at large.
She looked up at me like I were her personal god of vengeance and justice when I sicced my dogs on that pervert in the park. The most intense urge to deliver proper retribution to the pathetic pervert with the limpest dick I’ve ever had the misfortune to see surged through me, which was precisely why I let that trash go.
Still, she smiled at me at the café, like she didn’t mind I didn’t do something more permanent to the flasher, like she couldn’t be happier to see me again. She approached like a fawn that’s lost its sense of self-preservation—and the instinctive fear of predators, which is what I want, but perturbing in a way I can’t quite put my finger on.
Not only that, she doesn’t seem to care that I didn’t do anything to the pervert. He’s still out there, fully intact and healthy. Men like him don’t change. If she keeps to the same routine, he may come back to show her—or any woman he runs into—that shamefully pathetic cock again because that’s how he feels powerful.
Perhaps I should find him. He probably thinks he got lucky and feels smugly safe now, but nobody gets that lucky when I want them located and dealt with.
Will she smile at me again if I do? Will she look up at me with vulnerable adoration?
I clamp down on the train of thought. All this over two brief encounters?
Absurd.
Focus on the goal—the final item on the kill list.
With a flick of my wrist, I dump the coffee and toss the cup into the trash can.
When I’m back from the break room, Lizochka asks to speak to me. She’s the top dog at the foundation. Everyone else calls her Elizabeth, but Lizochka is the name I’ve used since she was a stubborn teenager and I worked for her grandmother.
Lizochka is pacing in her office. She’s outfitted in a magenta Versace dress—one her barely tolerable husband bought her last month—and nude stilettos. As she moves, her golden hair spills forward. I don’t have to look into her eyes to know she’s worried.
“I already hired a private security team for Thomas,” I say, referring to her four-year-old son. No need to add that I saw to their screening myself because that’s a given. Lizochka and Thomas are two of the Four—the four people I’ve sworn to protect at all costs. And such protection doesn’t simply mean their lives. That’s so basic, it’s embarrassing to bring up. Protecting their innocence is the ultimate goal, although it isn’t as easy as it sounds. “Nobody’s getting close to him.”
She sighs, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands clenched tight. “I know, but it just feels wrong that he’s okay, and Jason isn’t.”
“They’ll find the boy soon.”
Jason was kidnapped yesterday afternoon during a play date with Thomas and a couple of other boys. Police questioned their nannies because that’s what the manual says you should do. A complete waste of time. If they’d seen anything, the kidnapper would’ve failed.
Lizochka’s husband Dominic’s decided to hire the best bodyguards money can buy to make sure Thomas is safe. The man doesn’t understand that’s akin to placing a Band-Aid over a cancer lesion and hoping for a miracle.
The child cried over his missing friend, asked me if Jason’s going to be okay. Thomas deserves more than some lousy bodyguards. He needs his world to be safe again. And I’m going to give that to him tonight.
Lizochka stops and looks at me, dead in the eyes. “You already found him, didn’t you?” she whispers, her gaze full of hope.
A small nod. “I’m leading cops to him.” Anonymously, of course. It’s never a good idea to get on anyone’s official radar, even for doing a good deed. I work best in the shadows.
“Is he…” She swallows. “He’s okay, right?”
Another nod. “He’s fine.” I made sure of it. For Thomas.
“Who was it?”
I shake my head. “Can’t tell you. I want you to be able to act genuinely shocked when you find out. But the boy will be rescued.” Today. Unless the cops are dumber than I expected. It never pays to underestimate human capacity for overlooking the obvious.
Thankfully, this particular kidnapper fits the standard profile and all the usual biases.
“Thank you, Tolyan,” Lizochka says with a wan smile.
“My pleasure, Lizochka. Is there anything else?”
“You tell me. Is there?”
Yes. “No.”
Protecting her innocence means keeping my mouth shut. Nobody wants to know how the sausage is made. And I’m going to make sure she enjoys her metaphorical breakfast in blissful ignorance.
Chapter Four
Angelika
My shift at the café continues, as distasteful as in the morning. I hope, wish and pray Tolyan comes back for more coffee…but he doesn’t. A lot of people come in for a second shot after lunch, to stave off the sluggishness that follows a midday meal. What kind of person forgoes that?
The kind who’s annoyed at how he was treated?
I give my meanest death glare to Eric, who’s talking to Sean about something he saw on Twitter. If he hadn’t been so rude…or typed out the name on the cup as T , rather than TEA , Tolyan might be coming by again.
Except for his first name, I don’t know anything about him. Not where he works or where he lives, which means I may never run into him again. Actually… He might live somewhere around my new place. He was out with his dogs in the morning. Maybe I’ll get lucky again on the trail. Or maybe he’ll come by tomorrow for coffee, because he suddenly developed partial amnesia and
forget that Eric called him TEA.
My phone pings with a text.
–Courtney: You okay?
Should’ve known. I tighten my mouth, trying to contain a sigh over her stubbornness. She’s a friend from high school, the only one who still bothers to get in touch with me every now and then. I told her she shouldn’t. Roy has a nasty habit of hurting the people around me, but she keeps on texting. She says she just wants to make sure I’m okay, and swears she’ll never tell anybody we still talk.
–Me: I’m fine.
–Courtney: Just wondered because you had to leave Cincinnati so fast. Did you find a good place to settle down?
–Me: Yeah. In L.A. now.
–Courtney: Nice! It’ll be good to live in a sunny, warm area for once.
And I’m paying through the nose for the sun and the warmth. But I don’t tell her that.
–Me: For sure. Hey, listen, I gotta go back to work. Stay safe.
She knows that’s the end our chat. I always end it with “stay safe” because that’s my wish for her. For everyone who’s ever crossed paths with me.
–Courtney: I will. Don’t worry, my lips are zipped!
When my shift is finally over, I clock out and go to the hotel where I have a gig in their catering department. I’m supposed to “work around the edges” doing odd jobs—including serving people at whatever fancy event the hotel happens to be catering.
I loop around the tall, glittering building until I find a lot in the back marked “Employee Parking.” I park and hit the bell on the employee entrance. A huge man in a white kitchen staff uniform opens the door.
“Yeah?” he says, looking me up and down.
“Hi. I’m Angelika Wilks. I’m here for my first day.”
“Your first day, huh?”
“That’s right.”
“Cool.” He motions with his chin to go in.
“Thanks.” I walk into the hall. To the right is a huge industrial kitchen, full of people busy chopping, slicing and dicing. My mouth starts watering at the smell of seared meat. I haven’t had meat in… Well. Basically forever. When you don’t make much money and there are no real career prospects, you tend to eat whatever’s cheapest.
“Which way is Mina’s office?”
“Straight down, fourth door on your left,” the man says before disappearing into the kitchen.
The office turns out to be small and cramped. There’s a towering stack of black folders on a squat desk. Mina, the catering supervisor who hired me, is a few inches shorter than me, and stockier. There are crow’s-feet at the corners of her dark eyes, and a few lines on her forehead and cheeks. Her long, bleached hair is pulled back ruthlessly and tied into a knot.
“Good, you’re early,” she says. “It’s going to be a busy night.”
“Okay.”
“Come with me. Gotta get you dressed for your shift.”
She takes me to a locker room and gestures at the rack in the back. Black-and-white uniforms hang there.
“Pick one that fits and change into it,” she says, then hands me a nametag with the hotel’s logo stamped on it. “And put this on the vest. Like this.” She points to her chest.
“Got it.”
She looks me over and clucks. “You tiny thing.” Like she’s worried I’m going to faint in the middle of my shift.
“I’m sturdier than I look.” All that running isn’t for looking slim, but to be strong and fit.
“Uh-huh. Did you eat anything?” she demands in a brisk tone. It almost makes her sound angry.
“Not really,” I say in a tiny voice. I ate a cookie and a brownie from the café for lunch, mainly because Sean gave them to me, saying they were leftovers from the day before. I have my doubts about that—he did it while Eric was in the bathroom—but I didn’t turn the free food down.
“What’s ‘not really’? You either ate or you didn’t.”
Then it’s really more on the “didn’t” side, but I say nothing, in case that’s the wrong answer. One of my previous bosses hated it when I came in without having eaten, whining it wasn’t his job to feed me.
Mina sighs loud and long. “There’s a vending machine outside. Grab yourself a candy bar or something for some energy. And make it quick. The fundraisers the Pryce Family Foundation hosts are really important. They’re one of our biggest clients.”
“Okay.” The Pryce Family Foundation sounds familiar. Then I remember: Eric was talking about it earlier.
Hmm. If Eric likes it that much, it’s probably a terrible, snobbish place. They might even have a team that goes after people for saying Erik with a K.
I change in record time, then buy a chocolate bar and shovel it down fast. It’s probably more sugar than I need, but it’ll tide me over until I’m done with today’s shift. Then I can go home and enjoy a bowl of mac and cheese.
With the last bit of chocolate melting away in my mouth, I follow the signs to the main ballroom. Once I’m outside of the industrial-looking employee-only area, the full opulence that the hotel reserves for its paying customers practically smacks me in the face. Gleaming, polished marble. Giant chandeliers glowing from the cathedral ceiling, their crystals fracturing the light. Even the air is different: lightly scented with a fragrance that hints at wealth, power and exclusivity.
And the milling guests have all three. Silk and other lustrous materials I can’t begin to guess at drape bodies that are kept in shape by the most up-to-date personal trainers and nutritionists. Jewelry and watches that look priceless sparkle, letting everyone know how well off the wearers are.
I bet they never had to shop clearance racks or give something up because they couldn’t afford the price tag.
Suddenly, I feel small. And just a tad pathetic.
I probably don’t belong here. I…
I stop. What the hell am I thinking? I’m not here to mingle. I’m here to serve these people. Two very different things. They don’t care that I can only afford items on sale or that most of my dreams have price tags I can’t afford.
Come on, pull yourself together. Mina didn’t hire you to feel sorry for yourself.
A sumptuous dinner is served. I check my table, making sure I have everyone’s drink correct—every guest seems to be getting their own thing. The aroma of the rich soups, grilled veggies and meat cuts into my belly like a knife, intensifying the emptiness. I should’ve had two chocolate bars.
Meanwhile, a gorgeous blonde woman who seems to be in charge gets on the stage and makes a speech about helping the poor. People clap and say all the appropriate things, like how they’d love to help. They could’ve just sent the money they’re spending at the hotel to a soup kitchen, and they would’ve done more good. But that would mean no cool selfies for their social media profiles.
After the dinner is over and the guests are milling around, I take a tray of white wine and start working the room. One of the women—a redhead—stops me with an indolent roll of her wrist, which is glittering with diamonds.
“Is that Chardonnay?” she asks.
I look at the wine glasses. There’s no note saying what they are.
Before I can answer, she plucks one and takes a sip. Then, almost immediately, her face scrunches like she just took a mouthful of Kool-Aid. “Ugh, gross. This is Riesling, not Chardonnay.” She spits the words like the glass was served on a picture of me pegging her significant other with a strap-on.
“I didn’t say it was Chardonnay,” I point out professionally.
The redhead lets out a sound of annoyance. “Did you just talk back to me?”
“I just wanted to clarify. If you’d like some Chardonnay, I can get it for you.”
“So you can bring me a white Sauvignon instead?” She sneers. “It isn’t like you’re going to know the difference anyway,” she mutters, her eyes on my name tag. “They don’t serve wine coolers here, Angelika W.” Her tone says I’m trash, just like my name and everything else about me. She cocks an eyebrow, one end of her lips quirking up. I
sn’t she superior?
I fantasize about taking the Riesling and pouring it all over her prettily styled hair and expertly made-up face. But since I need money—and don’t we all need money, other than the people invited to this fundraiser?—I bare my teeth in what I hope passes for a friendly smile and take the glass from her. “I’ll take this subpar vintage off your hands and go see if there’s a Chardonnay I can bring out for you.”
“Make it fast. And make sure it’s dry and crisp,” she adds, snapping her fingers at me. “With the right aroma!”
I need to eat, I need to eat, I need to eat. “I’ll get right on that.”
“Please do.” She looks up, beseeching the heavens. “So inconvenient.”
I turn around and leave before she can whine about being microaggressed because I gave her the wrong white wine. If her attitude reflects the foundation’s in any way, Eric will fit right in. I sincerely hope he gets an internship so he and the redhead can put their heads together and complain about all the ways things can go terribly wrong in their lives.
I go to the kitchen. Mina sees me and frowns. “Why are you back already? Your tray’s still full.”
“Somebody wants a dry and crisp Chardonnay. She was insulted I had Riesling on the tray.”
Mina rolls her eyes. “Fine. Here, take this to her.” She hands me a glass.
I take it and point at the tray I put down. “Apparently, the Riesling’s subpar.”
“We don’t serve subpar wine! She has the palate of a cocker spaniel.”
Well, well, well. I laugh at her outrage. “I should’ve told her that.”
“Oh God no!” Mina flings her arms up. “You never say that to the guests. They can’t handle the truth. They think they’re so smart and clever. So you just think it. To yourself.” She gently taps her temple a couple of times. “That’s it.”