Page 8 of Fate and Family

“Not one of ours,” I reply, shaking my head. “She’s not connected to any agency, but she definitely seems to know what she’s doing. Whoever she is, she was privately trained.”

This should set off every alarm in my head, send me spiraling into a little spy tizzy. But it doesn’t.

Maybe it’s comforting to know my cat sitter could kill a man with a straw or something.

“Someone elite,” I add, rubbing my temples, trying and failing to hold off a burgeoning headache. “Private. Translation: expensive as hell.”

Marcus’s field notes lay open next to the computer. It’s a picture of Sveti and the back of some guy’s head. My stomach knots. “Does she have a new fuck buddy?”

It’s one thing that Sveti is cheating on Dimitri, but I hate having the evidence. My partner closes the folder. “This one is different from her typical bottom-of-the-barrel guys. He’s a silver fox, and wears too much cologne, smells like a dead tree.” Markus sneers, “Not really my type. He kinda creeps me out.”

“No, you like guys with short names who have daddy issues.” I nudge him in the shoulder and he lovingly calls me a bitch under his breath. Just like the brother I never had.

The weight of the day crashes into me. My head throbs, my shoulders ache, and all I want is to sleep or watch reaction videos about Amanda’s new album.

“I’m off to bed,” I mutter, pushing the laptop away and half stumbling, half dragging myself to my bedroom.

My room is small, industrial, and, as a spy’s bedroom should, lacks all personality. No personal effects. No pictures, noknicknacks from family vacations. Nothing to connect Katya to Katie—my birth name.

I sit on my bed. It’s hard with zero bounce. No comfort for me. It leads to relaxation, which can lead to missteps, and I’m already pushing the lines of professionalism. I roll my head to loosen my stiff neck. For a second, I contemplate not washing the day away. I would lose the smell of Dimitri’s cologne in my hair.

My cell phone lights up with a notification that Amanda Chase updated her social media.

I allow myself one indulgence, one thing that will ease the emotional strain of this job. I can have either a harmless fandom obsession, or the heart and body of a Mafia crime family heir. One will make me happy, cry, and can low-key become my entire personality. The other may destroy the world.

And at least tonight I’m taking what’s behind door number one: Taking a shower and lying in bed learning the choreography from the newest video.

Chapter

Four

Dimitri

Half an hour before the club opens, my father and brother sit across from me in a booth, while Uri and Mikhail occupy the seats to either side of me. There’s no mistaking the family resemblance between my brother Damien and our father—same dark hair, same sharp square jawline. Even the way they sit, leaning back with an air of quiet dominance, mirrors each other. They are the perfect models of Bratva: intimidating, intelligent, and utterly ruthless.

Mikhail isn’t blood. He’s my brother’s right hand man, and our getaway driver if needed. He doesn’t have the same air of confidence that comes naturally to my brother and father. Mikhail has to fake it, acting big and brash. He’s also annoying as fuck. I’m pretty sure the only reason he’s still around is because nobody wants to waste the ammunition it would take to get rid of him. And he is a pretty effective driver under pressure. Plus, if he’s working for us, he’s not telling our tales to others. At least, he shouldn’t be.

The hum from the heater mingles with the faint clink of bottles being shifted at the bar. The lights are dim, castinglong shadows over the empty room, but I can still see Katya moving behind the counter. She’s in her usual uniform, sleeves rolled past her elbows as she stocks the shelves with a practiced efficiency. From here, I can’t tell if she managed to get all the bloodstains out of her shirt. Hopefully she didn’t spend all day doing laundry. Or maybe she has more than one black button down shirt. She is a girl, sooo that’s plausible.

It’s only the tenth time I’ve glanced her way. My restraint is remarkable. I should win a trophy for my iron will.

“Who’s going to clean up this fucking mess?” my father asks, his voice low and deliberate. He leans back, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, its ash threatening to fall.

“We’ll handle it,” I reply, keeping my tone steady.

My father arches a brow, unimpressed. “Handle it how?” He leans forward now, his elbows resting on the table. “I don’t like loose ends.”

Uri shifts beside me, cracking his knuckles. “The body’s gone. The alley’s clean. No one’s talking.”

My father snorts, sounding even more unimpressed, if that’s even possible. “That’s the minimum. I need you to send a message. You think The Deviant isn’t going to retaliate?”

“Whatever we do, it’s got to be careful. The Deviant’s wrath took out an entire crime family in Brazil,” I remind them.

Mikhail slaps my shoulder hard, his grin revealing a gold tooth. “Relax, Dimitri. You're so serious. We’ll handle The Deviant.”

I don’t respond immediately, my eyes drifting again toward the bar. Katya moves with purpose, her ponytail swaying as she bends to grab something from the lower shelf. She pauses mid-motion, her head tilting slightly as if she senses someone watching her.

“You thirsty, man?” Mikhail says, his voice cutting through my thoughts.

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