by Nicole Fox
Even as I say it, I remember the calls from men who refused to tell me who they worked for, asking about this and that package or rendezvous. I remember the training that Kostya’s outgoing secretary gave me—Never confirm or deny anything over the phone. At the time, overwhelmed by nervousness, I figured that every billionaire’s secretary got the same spiel when they started. But it didn’t take too long on the job before I started to get a little suspicious.
Not that I’d mention any of those thoughts to this asshat.
“Christ, you are naïve. Do you really think a man with money like him doesn’t have a couple corrupt cops in his pocket? Maybe even an assistant DA?” He bites his lip, and I really want to smash my purse on top of his head. Maybe he’d bite that damned lip off. “Tell me: does Kostya get a lot of visits from off-duty police officers? You ever see any little envelopes full of cash changing hands?”
“Watch yourself, douchebag. If he is Russian Mafia, do you really think you should be harassing one of his employees?”
For just a second, I wish Kostya was what this man is saying he is. I’d beg for him to shut this son of a bitch up. But as soon as I have the thought, guilt knots in my stomach. To even consider that Kostya could be a part of something so vile feels wrong. He’s shady, sure—what billionaire isn’t? But calling him a criminal is something else. I don’t like that, not one bit.
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