2. Katerina
CHAPTER 2
Katerina
Seven o’ clock comes and goes.
I check my phone, then check it again. I’ve been sitting at the bus stop across from the Crowne Towers for over forty-five minutes.
JC, Fozzil and Finch are nowhere to be found.
I’m not sure why I’m even halfway surprised—our merry little band of misfit criminals isn’t the most reliable group of people.
No honor among thieves… or however the saying goes.
This wouldn’t be the first time they’d been late for a job.
I sigh and glance down at the uniform I’ve donned.
A utilitarian button-up tunic and elastic band pants. I’ve got my lavender curls stuffed under a logo-less baseball cap, and I’ve put on the rattiest pair of sneakers I could find on short notice. A pair of large, intensely unattractive eyeglasses top off my look.
Bland and boring.
Inconspicuous , like JC had said.
The goal is to get in, get out and get paid.
The actual ransom piece is all Finch. My hands will be wiped clean as soon as we get Mr. Volkova into the back of Fozzil’s car. It’ll be up to him to drive our captive to his twin brother’s house and negotiate terms with the Volkova family.
Just when I’m about to shoot off an angry text cussing JC out, a van screeches as it spins around the street corner.
Half a block later, it slams to a halt, the body of the van rocking back and forth from the abrupt stop. The side door slides open and out hops JC in the same uniform I’m wearing. He’s even done like I have and put on the most unappealing pair of eyeglasses ever.
He juts his chin at me. “Ready to rock and roll, Melissa?”
“Sure, Peter.”
“I don’t want to be Peter. I’m Andy.”
“Let’s get going, Peter,” I say loudly. “You are already late. We’ve got a whole big-ass building to clean.”
We set off across the street. JC strides a couple steps ahead of me to reach the doors first. He’s dug a ring of keys out of his pockets, quickly using it to open the doors.
“Where’d you get those from?”
“Finch knows somebody who works here. She swiped them for him for a grand.”
We slip into the dimly lit lobby that feels so empty and vast it’s almost unnerving. Crossing to the other side feels like a journey in and of itself. We don’t stop ’til we’ve reached another door. This one marked ‘CLEANING’ in neat, capital letters.
“We have a cart,” JC explains, jiggling the loose doorknob. “We’ll take it up to Volkova’s floor, then bide our time. Fozzil’ll be waiting at the back of the building where the freight entrance and exit is—that’s how we’ll get him out of here. Rolled up in a fucking rug or some shit lying around.”
“You lead, Peter. I’m just here to clean.”
“Like hell you are. Everybody knows you’re the real brains.”
He grins and winks at me, nudging the cleaning cart out of the tightly spaced closet.
He’s joking, but also kind of serious.
I’ve led my fair share of jobs. The guys sometimes jest that I’m the real mastermind of the group.
A title I’m not sure if I’m comfortable with, considering it’s the leaders who usually fall first in criminal gangs.
My stomach gives a funny flip as if in warning.
I press on, following JC into the elevator.
We ride it all the way to the floor Roman Volkova works on—the thirteenth.
The doors slide open to reveal an ominously silent floor.
“C’mon, his office is this way.”
We push the cart down the hall lined with private offices and conference rooms. The lights are off in each one, the chairs empty, and the computers untouched like everything else in this large building.
JC parks the cart outside the office, then grabs the vacuum. Tapping his knuckles against the slightly ajar door, he says, “Building cleaners. Can we come in to vacuum?”
No answer.
JC glances back at me. I shrug, unsure what he’s expecting me to do.
He knocks again. “We’re going to walk in to vacuum.”
One gentle nudge of the door later, it falls open to reveal no one’s inside.
But the light’s on and the laptop on the desk is propped open, with a serene ocean waves screensaver playing across the screen.
“Damn it,” I sigh. “I thought you said he’d be here.”
“He was… is! Somewhere. Give it a sec.”
“I don’t see anyone.” I throw my arms up in the air, on the verge of announcing my exit.
“Shut up, Kat. You always have to be a drama queen. The guy’s here. We just gotta wait for him to show.”
“What guy to show where?”
The third voice comes out of seemingly nowhere.
It’s thick and harsh on the ears. A primal element that’s entrenched in an unmistakable Russian accent.
JC and I freeze. Our eyes slowly shift to the doorway of the office where a man that can only be described as swole stands.
He’s dressed perfectly in a neat white dress shirt and dark gray slacks.
But neither piece of clothing can hide what lies beneath—a physique rippling with muscle, so broad and tall that it feels like he’s blocking the entire doorway.
When I try to swallow down my shock, I make a pitiful little gulp noise.
That’s one huge dude you don’t fuck with.
Fur-like facial hair decorates the sharp angles of his jawline, his eyes blazing like sapphires set on fire.
Definitely not a dude to fuck with.
JC agrees. He swears under his breath. “You’re not… you’re not Roman Volkova.”
The corner of the man’s mouth twists slightly in what’s the beginnings of a nasty smirk. “But I am, mudak? * . Roman Volkova. And who the fuck are you?”
* ? Mudak - asshole