Hidden in the Lipstick

Sergei Morozov has the footage, and he does not call the police. The Bratva billionaire locks the door and tells me he is not turning me in. He has a better use for me.

Two days earlier, the stolen files were hidden in a lipstick. He held the tube and read the shade aloud—Caught Red-Handed—without knowing yet that it was mine. I did not choose this theft. A federal agent owns my brother's future, and Sergei is the price.

Now I sleep in his penthouse, one wall away, and feed his lies to the feds. He calls the closeness strategy. The way he watches my mouth says otherwise. Someone keeps leaving photographs of me on my doorstep. Someone put me in his building on purpose, and they are not finished.