“Some say she’s the president’s mistress,” Anton adds.
Ilya leans forward, his curiosity piqued. “Which president?”
Yan fills their glasses with a shot of vodka. “Some say Russian, some say American, and others say both.”
Ilya whistles. “If the chick is that famous, it will be tough imitating her. Unless the meeting takes place on a video call.”
Yan takes a sip of his vodka. “Then what, wiseass?”
“I offer him a deal,” I say. “Private viewing. Just the two of us. His guards stay outside. Not an unreasonable request, considering how fragile the painting is. Even the carbon dioxide we exhale has a damaging effect on something so old. In the meantime, you’ll be in position.”
“He’s not stupid,” Yan says. “He’ll let you go inside first. The location will be monitored.”
“I can wear body pads and heels. By the time he realizes I’m not Natasha, it’ll be too late.”
Yan toys with his glass. “What about the painting? He’d want to see it before he agrees to a meeting.”
“I have a friend.” I shift my weight. “She makes excellent replicas. It will look real enough on a photo or video. We can fake the authenticity certificate.”
“This can work,” Anton muses.
“No,” Yan says harshly. “It’s too dangerous.”
“For who?” Anton’s tone turns snide. “For your waitress?”
Yes, there is a risk, but only if Casmir smells a rat. “I can pull it off.”
“She pulled off the Henderson job,” Ilya reminds them.
Anton downs his vodka and slams the empty glass down on the table. “I’m in.”
“Me too,” Ilya says.
“Looks like you’re outvoted,” Anton says to Yan.
Yan crumples his napkin in his fist. “This isn’t a fucking democracy. I’m the leader.” He jabs a thumb at his chest. “I’ll decide.”
“Will you?” Anton’s lips quirk. “In whose best interest? Ours or hers?” He gives me a dirty look.
Yan looks at me from under his lashes, his jaw bunching. After a moment, he says, “Fine, but I do the risk control.”
“I can live with that,” Anton says.
Ilya smiles at me. “You’re in, Mina.”
Not moving his eyes away from me, Yan says in a measured tone, “Don’t think for a second this makes you part of the team.”
“I’d never be so presumptuous.”
He lets it go, but I feel his gaze burn into the back of my head when I turn to scrub the pot.
After dinner, Ilya and Anton play a game of cards while I rinse the dishes and Yan packs the dishwasher. My mind is working at full speed. This will indeed be dangerous, but it beats being nothing more than Yan’s new toy. More importantly, this might give me a chance to let Hanna know I’m all right. I hate to make her worry. I also have to warn Gergo. The Delta Force men are dead, but the threat is far from over. If Yan digs a little deeper, he’ll discover my secret. And if he knows Gergo trained me, he’ll ask questions. If I’m to get a message to Hanna and Gergo, I need a measure of freedom—freedom the job with Casmir will win me. Plus, I could always use the money to pay for Hanna’s care.
Drying my hands on the dishcloth, I turn to Yan. “How soon do you want to make a move? With Casmir, I mean.”
He regards me suspiciously. “Soon.”
“My friend will need time to make a high-quality replica. A month, at least.”
“She has three weeks.”
“Impossible.”
He gives me a dark look. “Three weeks.”
“I know where to get quality material for the disguise. If we’re going to make it work, we need the best.”
“Let me know where, and I’ll pick it up.”
“My supplier won’t trust you. He’s right here in Prague. It won’t take me long. I can already meet with him tomorrow.”
I give a start when he yanks the dishcloth from my hand and grabs my wrist. Ilya and Anton look on quietly as he pulls me behind him to the room. The door has barely slammed when he pushes me up against the wall, my wrist still clamped in his iron grip.
Planting a palm next to my face, he leans in. “I’m many things, but I’m not a fool.” His voice is brutally soft, his look dangerous. “Don’t ever make that mistake.”
An internal shiver runs through me.
“You can lie to Anton, but not to me. Never to me. Understand?” He emphasizes the order with a hard squeeze of my wrist. “Now, tell me again. Why are you willing to help us?”
I meet his eyes squarely, giving him a small portion of the truth. “I need money.”
“You want me to pay you?”
“Will you let me go back to my waitressing job?”
He laughs. “In your dreams.”
My gaze flits to the bed. “You’d rather I earn it in a different way?”
He curls the fingers of his free hand around my neck. “If I wanted a whore, I’d get one.”
“Explain to me how this is different.”
The look in his eyes turns cruel. “Whores deserve more respect than you. At least they’re honest about why they fuck.”
The jab drives deep, hurling me back into the past where a chorus of whore, whore, whore taunts me as the circle of men plant their boots in my stomach. Violently, I shove the mental image away and force myself back to the present that somehow, on a deeper level, hurts worse than the memory over which my mind has painted a big, red keep-out sign.
I want to hit Yan, hurt him. With my neck and one arm pinned against the wall, the best I can do is plant a fist in his side. He doesn’t even grunt. He taunts me with his eyes, mocking my smaller and weaker body as he holds me still. I try to kick, but he hooks a leg around my thigh. Silently, he laughs at me, challenging me to do my best, all so he can demonstrate his superior male strength.
I
