Page 9 of Ruthless Bond

That scares me more than a speech would have.

At lunch, I take the elevator down to the lobby to get air. A woman falls into step beside me as I cross the marble floor. She’s tall, fit, with long dark hair and the kind of posture that comes from either military service or ballet. Given the company she keeps, I’m guessing it’s not ballet.

“Katya Voronov,” she says, not offering her hand. “I’m a cousin. Dominic asked me to show you around the neighborhood. Coffee spots, lunch places. Get you oriented.”

It’s a smooth delivery. Friendly enough to pass as normal. But when we walk outside, she positions herself between me and the street without thinking about it, and her eyes sweep the sidewalk and the parked cars and the windows of the building across the street in a pattern that has nothing to do with finding a good sandwich place.

“You’re not here to show me coffee spots,” I say.

She looks at me. Considers. I watch her decide how much honesty to spend.

“I’m also not here to spy on you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Think of me as a precaution.”

“A precaution against what? I’m an analyst at a construction company.”

“You’re the daughter of a man who was deeply involved with this family. There are people who might take an interest in that. Dominic wants to make sure those people don’t become a problem for you.”

It’s a good answer. Reasonable, even. And it’s probably at least partly true. But it doesn’t explain why a construction executive would have a woman who moves like a special forces operative on his personal staff, or why “showing me around” requires her to check every sight line on the block.

I file it away with everything else that doesn’t add up about this place.

“Fine,” I say. “But if you’re going to follow me around, you’re buying the coffee.”

Her mouth twitches. “Fair enough.”

She buys me a coffee from the cart on the corner. She drinks hers black. She doesn’t make small talk.

We walk back in together. In the elevator, I say, “How long did you know my father?”

Her expression doesn’t change. Not a muscle. But there’s a pause before she speaks that tells me everything her face doesn’t.

“A while,” she says.

“Did you like him?”

The elevator doors open. She steps out and waits for me to follow.

“He made good tiramisu,” she says.

Something shifts in her face before it disappears.

“And he fed people who couldn’t pay. Wives when their husbands were away. Kids when things went bad.”

She walks me to my desk and takes up a position near the window where she can see the entire floor, and she doesn’t answer any more questions for the rest of the day.

I pretend not to notice that I’ve been assigned a bodyguard/shadow at a job where the most dangerous thing should be a paper cut. Because nothing about this is normal, and I’m not leaving without answers.

The last person I meet is Lex.

It happens at the end of the day. I’m waiting for the elevator when I hear footsteps behind me. Measured, quiet, like someone who could walk silently if he chose to and is making noise as a courtesy so he doesn’t startle you.

I turn. He stops and leans against a concrete pillar about ten feet away. Late twenties, like Roman, but leaner, with sharper features and pale eyes. The resemblance is there once I look for it. The height. The dark hair. The same unnerving sense that he sees more than he says.

Roman is a live wire. Dominic is a glacier. This one is something else. Watchful. Patient.

“You’re Sophia,” he says.

“And you are?”