7. Artem
Artem
I don't want to be here.
I don't bother hiding it when I step out of the elevator and into Cady Gallagher's apartment, because nothing about this feels natural.
Not the invitation, not Misha acting like this is something worth showing up for, and definitely not the fact that I agreed to walk into something so obviously constructed.
Her penthouse is quiet in a way that doesn't feel lived in.
Soft lighting, glass walls pulling the city in like part of the design, expensive and polished, and controlled down to the smallest detail.
No photos or personal mess. Nothing uneven or out of place.
Just clean lines and careful choices, like this space exists for other people's eyes, not her comfort.
The scent hits next—roses, fresh and deliberate, placed throughout the room.
Cady is waiting like she's been counting the seconds.
Her hair falls in loose red curls around her shoulders, and the dress she's wearing fits her the way everything else in this place does—effortless if you don't look closely and intentional if you do.
Blue eyes meet mine without hesitation and don't flick away the way most people's do when they realize I'm looking back.
She's stupid to invite me here.
She'd have to be a fool to believe this ends with us as friendly acquaintances just because she made dinner.
She didn't make anything. I know she orders out every night.
Misha moves first, crossing the space and pulling her close, kissing her cheek and her forehead. I watch without reacting because I already know what I'm looking at.
Attachment. Or the beginning of it.
That makes things messier than I like.
"You didn't have to go all out," he says, already bought in. "It's beautiful, babe."
Cady smiles at him and gestures toward the table.
The plates are filled with seared filet with a red wine reduction, truffle risotto molded neatly beside it, and roasted vegetables arranged with more symmetry than anyone casually cooking would bother with.
It smells expensive because it is, and it didn't come from her effort.
"If I'd known this was going to be performance art," I say, "I would've stopped for pizza."
Misha groans. Cady just smiles.
"You don't like it," she says.
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to."
Her mother died when she was three, caught in something messy enough to send a message through their side of the world.
That kind of upbringing doesn't leave room for softness.
It teaches you early how to stand still when something ugly is happening around you.
How to smile through it. How to survive it.
"Careful," I say quietly. "You're starting to sound like you think you've figured me out."
She smiles without answering.
I take a slow sip of wine—only because I watched Misha open it.
"What is a Gallagher doing with the Russian mob?" I ask. "Does your father approve?"
She holds herself together like she’s expected this line of conversation. "My father supports my decisions."
"Artem," Misha cuts in, warning in his tone.
He doesn't understand what she is. What happens if I'm right about her and he's too comfortable to see it.
"You've got a lot happening around you right now," I say after a beat. "Lines getting thinner than they used to be." Her fingers shift against the table. "And yet, you're here."
"I like being here," she says. "I'm treated well."
I cut into the steak and let the conversation settle, because she understands why I came. Not to make peace. Not to play nice over a borrowed dinner.
Just to let her know I see what she's doing.
"How are Killian and Rian handling Manifold?" I ask.
She blinks. "They're handling it. Like everyone else."
Lucas Manifold forces decisions nobody wants to make. He’s a politician who built his campaign on cleaning up organized crime, and he has been pushing harder lately, stepping into territory that's been left alone for a reason. He's a disruption. And disruption makes people sloppy.
"Handling," I repeat. "That's one way to put it."
"I'm not involved."
"Of course not. You're just spying."
"Artem," Misha grounds out. "Stop."
Cady sets her fork down. "If you truly thought I was a threat, I don't think you'd be here."
"I make it a point to be if you are."
I take another sip of wine and let it go. She understands. I'm not here to settle anything. I'm here to make sure she knows she's been seen.
"It's good." I nod at the food.
Not praise or approval; just enough to let her think I'm settling in.
Because I am. Just not in the way she wants.
Misha reaches for her hand under the table, and she lets him take it without hesitation.
"I hope you like the dessert I picked out," Cady says proudly.
"What is it?" Misha asks.
Her blue eyes find mine and stay there. "Sharlotka."
I stop chewing.
The surprise hits before I can stop it, and I go from caught off guard to quietly furious in the span of about two seconds. Furious at her for knowing, and furious at myself for letting it show.
She's been looking into me the same way I've been looking into her. Both of us building a file, learning everything we can to use against the other.
"Where did you hear about that?" Misha is amused. "That's Russian, babe."
"Googled it," she says simply.
She doesn't take her eyes off me.
It's a warning delivered over dessert, and I'd call it well played if a dessert were enough to matter.
It isn't.
But it tells me everything I need to know about who I'm dealing with.