Chapter 31 Chris
Chris
Tatiana got herself arrested.
That’s the only explanation that makes sense as I pull into Twin Towers Correctional Facility at seven in the morning. She’s too smart for a legitimate fuck-up. This is operational, and she didn’t clear it with me first.
The attorney-client meeting room they’ve approved is a glorified closet—metal table bolted to the floor, two plastic chairs, walls thin enough to hear the drunk in the next room still protesting his innocence. No cameras though. Attorney-client privilege, even the fabricated kind, has its uses.
I’m playing lawyer today. The performance comes easier than being myself.
I drum my fingers on the table, checking my watch. They’re taking their time bringing her up from holding. Making me wait. Or maybe making her wait—depends who’s trying to prove what to whom down there.
My phone vibrates against the metal table. I flip it over, expecting operational updates. Instead, two messages that stop my drumming fingers.
NINA: Thank you for this morning. For last night. I’ll fill you in on what you missed after you left—if you’re not too busy playing spy.
WYATT: Glad we finally got past the bullshit last night. We should talk, just us. Also—Nina’s procedure is tomorrow at 10. You should be there.
The words blur for a second. I pocket the phone.
You should be there.
My body still carries evidence of them, even after the rushed shower at the hotel, the quick change into the suit I keep for exactly these occasions.
Nina’s scent lingers on my skin despite the soap and hot water.
The memory of her mouth on me this morning while Wyatt fucked her, the way she moaned around my cock when he—
The door bangs open.
Tatiana enters, county-issued blues hanging loose on her frame, a guard’s hand on her elbow until she’s through the doorway. Her pale eyes sweep the room once before landing on me. A bruise darkens her left cheekbone. Her knuckles are split.
“You look like shit,” I tell her.
She drops into the chair across from me. “You look like you got fucked within an inch of your life.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I keep my expression neutral.
“Ah.” She leans back, studying me. “So the good doctor forgave you for whatever stupid thing you did. How touching.”
“You got yourself arrested without clearing it with me first.” My voice comes out steady. Professional. “This better be operational.”
“So serious now.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Though when I walked in, I thought maybe someone finally pulled that stick from your ass.”
“Grand theft auto, evading arrest, assault on an officer,” I say, reading from the intake sheet they gave me. “You stole a car to get yourself in here?”
“A Maserati from the valet at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Made it halfway to downtown before I let them catch me.” She inspects her nails, casual as discussing weather. “Vera Volkov was getting transferred next week. My window was closing.”
I wait.
“Mikhail’s precious daughter. Twenty-two, thinks she’s untouchable because daddy launders money for serious people.
Got herself picked up on possession charges last week.
” Tatiana examines her split knuckles. “The Armenians inside had different ideas about her status. Thought they’d teach the Russian princess a lesson about territory. ”
“You protected her.”
“I broke one’s arm, another’s nose. The third one ran.” Her smile is all teeth. “Vera was very grateful. Started talking about daddy’s business, his new connections.”
“Your arraignment’s set for tomorrow afternoon,” I tell her. “Judge Kowalski. Two o’clock.”
She nods, unconcerned. “Fine.”
“I’ll need to be there.” Tomorrow. Nina’s procedure is at ten. I can make both, but the timing will be tight.
“Will you?” Tatiana tilts her head, studying me. “You say it like an obligation you’d rather avoid.”
I keep my expression neutral.
“Ah.” Her smile returns. “Something else tomorrow. Something more important than showing up for your asset’s arraignment.” She leans back, eyes narrowing.
“I’ll argue for reasonable bail. Standard for GTA.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Make the standard arguments for reasonable bail, but don’t push too hard. Lean on the ADA to request maximum. Flight risk, pattern of violence, ties to criminal organizations. Half a million at least.”
“That kind of pressure leaves traces.”
“Small ones. But I need to stay inside for Vera.” She shrugs. “The Agency can arrange for me to make bail eventually—after she’s out and grateful.”
“When’s her transfer?”
“Middle of next week if her daddy’s lawyers don’t intervene. Either way, I need at least seven days inside to make this stick.”
“And then?”
“Then Mikhail remembers who protected his little girl. Trusts me with other things he values more.” Tatiana’s smile sharpens. “Mikhail’s going to need new people when he takes Dragonov’s offer. Loyal people who proved themselves already.”
“A week inside is too long. Too much can go wrong.”
She laughs, sharp and bitter. “Worried about me? How sweet. How very... paternal.”
Paternal. Christ.
“You have a bruised face and split knuckles.”
“From winning.” Her gaze tracks across my jaw, the scrapes on my hands I haven’t bothered to hide. “You want to lecture me about bruises, Handler? Have you looked in a mirror?”
“This isn’t about me…”
She lets out a frustrated huff, then stands, chair scraping against concrete. “You want to know what happened? Three Armenian Power affiliates decided to corner Vera in the rec area. Teach the Russian princess about respect.”
I catalog the injuries I can see, the way she’s holding her ribs.
“So I intervened. Made it clear she was under my protection.” Her smile is all teeth.
“You could have—”
“What? Died? Been violated? All the things you’re so worried about?” She moves to the door, pauses. “Let me tell you something, Handler. Before Belgrade, before the Corlukas, I survived three years in Moldovan state custody. You know what they do to pretty Serb girls in Moldovan prisons?”
I don’t answer.
“Everything you’re imagining and worse. But I survived. Learned to be the nightmare instead of the victim.” She knocks on the door for the guard.
“Tatiana—”
The door opens. The guard’s already reaching for her arm.
“One week,” she says. “I need one week to get what we really need. Then you can play white knight if it makes you feel better.”
She’s gone before I can respond.
I sit in the empty room for another minute, then stand. The guard lets me out. The paperwork at the front desk takes forever—forms to sign, next steps to confirm. Playing lawyer means playing it all the way through.
The ADA’s office is my next stop. Need to make sure they understand the game—push for high bail without making it obvious the fix is in. The meeting takes an hour of careful dancing around what we both know is happening.
Tatiana’s play with Vera just made the Volkov file urgent. I’ve had analysts building a profile on Mikhail since that night at the club. Standard due diligence. But now his daughter’s in county and my asset broke someone’s arm to get close to her. I need Mason’s local intel to fill in the gaps.
Mason’s auto shop has both bay doors open, letting in morning air that does nothing for the smell of motor oil and welding flux.
A car sits on the lift. A ‘67 Impala, from what I can tell through the primer and rust. No wheels, engine bay empty, quarter panels removed.
More skeleton than vehicle at this point.
He’s at the workbench, sorting through a box of wiring harnesses.
“Didn’t expect to see you today,” Mason says, looking up from the wiring. “Everything okay?”
I lean against the workbench. “The Volkov profile I had the analysts pull—you get a chance to look at it?”
“The Russian money guy?” Mason sets down a wiring harness, wipes his hands on a rag. “Yeah, I added some local color. Pulled it up this morning, actually.”
Before I can respond, movement catches my eye—someone passing the windows of the loft apartment that overlooks the shop. A moment later, the door opens onto the catwalk landing. Wyatt appears, hair still damp from a shower, pulling on a fresh shirt. He stops at the railing, looking down at us.
We both freeze.
“Chris.” He seems as surprised as I am. “Didn’t know you’d be here.”
Wyatt’s shirt clings slightly to his shoulders where the water hasn’t dried yet.
I watched those shoulders this morning, the flex of muscle as he fucked Nina.
Heard the filth that came out of his mouth when he was inside her.
Now he’s here, fresh from the shower, looking at me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m glad to see him.
I am.
“Wyatt’s staying in my loft,” Mason says, watching us both. “Good to see you two in the same room without throwing punches. Was getting worried after last night.”
Wyatt’s mouth quirks. “We worked it out.”
“I can see that.” Mason’s tone is knowing. “Nina know you’re both here?”
“She’s in session,” Wyatt says, coming down the stairs fully, directing this at me. “Started about twenty minutes ago.”
Twenty minutes. So they had the morning together while I was playing lawyer for Tatiana. Wyatt’s eyes meet mine. We both know what happened last night. What it meant. What it changes.
“Volkov,” I say, turning back to Mason. “What do you have on him?”
But I’m tracking Wyatt’s movement through the space—past the Impala skeleton on the lift, toward the corner where Mason has a makeshift break area.
Mini fridge, microwave on a metal shelf, coffee maker that’s too shiny for the space it sits in.
Wyatt finds the coffee easily enough, then glances around for mugs.
Mason tips his head toward a cabinet without breaking stride in his explanation.
Mason pulls up files on his tablet. “Volkov’s been busy lately. Meeting with Dragonov’s people three times this week alone.”