Page 7 of Fate and Family

I grunt, collapsing onto the couch. The tension in my shoulders hasn’t eased since the alley. “Thank you for saving me.”

He arches an eyebrow. “I’d been following Viktor for the last few hours. Didn’t think he’d circle back so quickly. You could’ve defended yourself.”

I let out a soft sigh. “If I’d noticed him sooner, maybe. But once he was up on me, there was no way I could defend myself with the cameras watching my every move. I guess I could’ve made the save sloppy as shit, but I didn’t.”

I’m rambling, desperate for anything to drown out the memory of Viktor’s knife so close to my face. “That soul-crushing bridge in ‘Rain on My Windshield,’ though? So freaking good.”

Markus blinks, caught off guard by the shift. He laughs, shaking his head. “You’re a mess. But yes, I’ve already got my picks for the next single.”

“‘Breaking Bars!’” I blurt out, my excitement bubbling up despite everything. “It’s the best song! It’s got that callback to her older catalog. And Kiki’s recurring character? Genius.”

Markus nods, raising his hand for a high five. “Hell yeah.”

We slap palms, but the moment dies as quickly as Viktor did. Markus’s expression darkens, his grin replaced by a grim line.

“Everything is moving fast,” he says, his voice low.

The chill returns, settling into my bones. The weight of tonight hasn’t left me. If anything, it’s growing heavier.

When I was first assigned, I thought I was infiltrating a hacking ring. It was supposed to be straightforward—no deep undercover work, just desk duty in the States. But here I am, across the world, neck-deep in chaos.

In a way, I’m glad. Being out of the country makes it easier to avoid my ex. And no relationships to get in the way means I can fully focus on the given task. Which is exactly what I have to keep doing, Dimitri and his sexy accent be damned.

The field office here is woefully understaffed, not a well-funded operation. We have a million different things going against us, and even going full-bore day after day, it feels like this is going to fail no matter what I do.

Markus was thrown into the mission at the last minute, too. “Did you report the attack to our handler?” I ask, leaning against the counter.

“You mean, did I report that you got distracted and almost died?” Markus lifts a brow, his tone dripping with sarcasm, and pushes his glasses up along his nose. “No. I called in the hit and said they were attacking one of the employees. Not a total lie.”

“What happened to the body?”

“Uri took care of it. As far as he’s concerned, this was his kill.”

I suppress a smile, still impressed by how Markus timed his shot within milliseconds of Uri’s. “Where’s his bullet?”

“Probably in the wall,” Markus replies, shrugging. “But honestly, with the number of bullets back there, good luck figuring it out.”

What he pulled off is nothing to scoff at, but he treats it like another day at the office. His words settle my nerves even more because I know Markus has my back more than anyone. He’s more than a coworker—he’s my brother and gay soulmate.

As he speaks, he flips open his laptop and the screen fills with grainy security footage. The video plays, and my stomach tightens. A young woman in a black hoodie and jeans enters the frame from the left—a direction that should be impossible. There’s a wall there. Stepping onto the couch first, she leaps to the kitchen table and then onto the counter in a move straight out of The Floor Is Lava. She pulls a medium-sized bottle from her pocket, and places it back where she stole it from two days ago.

I should be pissed, but the salsa verde was about to go bad. At least someone’s using it.

She pauses, winks directly into the camera—a camera that’s hidden inside a ceiling fan—waves, and jumps out of the frame again. The door peeking out of the corner of the frame never opens.

“Are you sure she’s not one of ours?” Markus asks, his voice unusually serious.

We both know the answer. We ran background reports on Alana King. She doesn’t exist before the age of nineteen. Her entire history is fake. Someone, somewhere, gave her a new identity, and whoever did it was a world-class hacker. There’s not a single discrepancy in her records.

“No one fitting her description is in any of the databases we have access to,” I say, frowning at the monitor.

Hell, I wouldn’t have even looked into her if she wasn’t constantly breaking into my apartment to steal my condiments. And all because I let her cat sit for me once. Big mistake.

Three years ago, my ex got drunk and bought a cat online from a breeder—a cat I’m highly allergic to. When he bailed on the relationship, he left me with the furball, a vet bill, and a need for a lifetime supply of Zyrtec. Since I had to pack and move to Russia, my neighbor, Alana, volunteered to watch Midge.

Now, every couple of days she sends me pictures of the cat I hate, gets my mail, and apparently breaks into my apartment ninja style to raid my pantry.

“Who do you think trained her?” Markus asks, his eyes glued to his laptop.

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