20
IVAN
“Did a cold shower help?” Yasha asks. He’s sitting in my office with his feet kicked up on the coffee table, a shit-eating grin on his face that makes me think he knows exactly what I was doing upstairs.
“It would be great if you could at least pretend to be professional for once in your godforsaken life.”
“Do you mean actually pretend? Or do you mean the way you’re ‘pretending’ to marry Cora? ‘Cause I think I can manage the first one.” He places his feet flat on the floor and sits tall with a faux-serious scowl on his face. “How is this? Yes, sir, Mr. Pushkin, sir. Right away, sir. Very good, sir. Pip-pip cheerio, tally-ho, sir.”
I learned years ago that it is better to ignore Yasha when he’s in a mood like this. Mostly because it’s usually a good sign. If things are going to plan, Yasha is a goofy jackass. When shit hits the fan, he turns grim.
I glare at him until he holds up his hands and slouches back into his seat. “Fine. I’m here, I’m professional, I’m ready to talk business.”
“Then talk,” I deadpan.
He sighs. “Francia is under guard. I moved her out of her apartment, since Cora was using her name last night at the party and her place might become a target. Did you ask her about that, by the way?”
“Ask who about what?”
“Cora,” he says. “About why she was using a fake name with you. Was she trying to keep a low profile or—”
“Business,” I remind him.
Chastised, he ducks his head and carries on. “Francia is in the apartment complex in the Valley. If the risk on her increases, she can be moved to a more lowkey safehouse, but for now—”
“The apartment is fine. I don’t need anyone knowing about our safehouses unnecessarily. Dear old Dad wouldn’t appreciate me divulging family secrets.”
“Speaking of…” Yasha lowers his voice and leans in. “What are we telling Don Pushkin about all of this?”
“I’ll handle my father.”
“Right,” he nods. “I know. But if he asks me—”
“Then you tell him to talk to me.”
Yasha looks unconvinced. Probably because he knows as well as I do that not answering a direct question from my father is a surefire way to end up with a knife in your belly.
Otets is not one for subtlety or mixed messages.
“Until then, I want answers,” I say. “I need to know who is after Cora and why.”
“I gave you everything I had this morning.”
I snort dismissively. “You gave me her work address, her apartment number, and a useless interview you conducted with her neighbors.”
He shrugs unapologetically. “Angela and Geoff were really nice. They said Cora is like the daughter they never had. They asked if I was her boyfriend. They said we would make a handsome couple. What do you think?” He laces his fingers under his chin and smiles like a debutante.
My stomach twists. “I think you’re proving with every passing second that I should get someone else on this job, too.”
He frowns. “Hey. Low blow.”
“You’re the one flirting with senior citizens,” I snap. “We have fucking work to do, Yasha. I need to know where Cora came from and who her parents are. Anything at all that might connect her to anyone at that party.”
“You want to know if she has a boyfriend, you mean.”
The possibility that Cora was in my house to meet another man has indeed occurred to me. I just hope it isn’t true.
I can’t guarantee that hypothetical man would survive my questioning.
I run my tongue over my teeth. “I want to know who is in my house. If she’s some kind of spy or a plant—”
“Or taken, or in an ‘it’s complicated’ relationship,” Yasha adds on, not missing a beat.
My hold on my composure snaps. “This isn’t a fucking game, Yasha. Someone thinks this woman is my fiancée and they are trying to kill her. That is an attack on the Pushkin family. It can’t stand.”
“I know.” Yasha dips his head like a pouting puppy. “I am taking it seriously.”
“Then stop cracking jokes and make sure Cora’s security detail is airtight.”
He sits up with a frown. “But she’s staying in the mansion.”
“So?”
“So she’s in one of the most secure locations on the entire West Coast. Nothing can touch her inside these walls.”
“Then it should be easy to find trustworthy men willing to take on the job,” I say. “They’ll be patrolling her twenty-four hours a day, seven days per week, until whoever is after her is caught. If she so much as sniffles, I want to know about it.”
Yasha stares at me for a few seconds, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Then he wheezes out a laugh and shakes his head. “It might be easier to just put a dog collar on her and leash her up. Keep her close to you so you can make sure she’s being a good girl.”
“I don’t need a collar for any of that,” I tell him. “That’s what the wedding ring is for.”