Page 9 of The Devil's Thorn
“Exactly. No time for nerves.”
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, already reaching for my hoodie. “What did you give them?”
“Custom ID, forged background, verified references, and a charming lie about how you used to serve Russian oligarchs in a private estate off the coast of Nice.” A pause. “You’re officially Natasha Orlova.”
I snort. “How original.”
“You’ll blend in better with a name like that. Keep the Russian tie close. The Bratva will think twice before touching someone they think might be connected.”
“Which casino is it?”
“Rafael’s hotel—Obshor. Private casino floor. High rollers only. They’re onboarding two new cocktail servers for the VIP lounge. I got you the last spot.”
I run a hand through my hair. “And how do I get in?”
“Shower. Get dressed. I’m outside.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Yeah,” he says, smug. “I figured you’d forget to set an alarm.”
“You’re insane.”
“Would you love me any other way?”
I hear a low voice in the background, muffled.
“Ash says you better not wear heels that’ll get you killed.”
I grin faintly. “Tell him I’m not the one who trips over his own shadow.”
“I heard that,” Ash growls from somewhere behind him.
I shake my head and move to the window. Sure enough, Kellan’s car is parked out front, the headlights cutting softly through the early morning haze.
“Kellan.”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
He’s quiet for a beat. “We’ve got your back. You go in, we stay close. Ash is working a cover position as internal security. I’m in the surveillance room. You won’t be alone.”
That shouldn’t comfort me.
But it does.
I hang up and toss the phone on the bed.
Then I move to the mirror and start peeling off who I am—layer by layer. Until all that’s left isNatasha Orlova.
Just another beautiful lie.
I move through the apartment quietly, careful not to wake her.
The floorboards creak under my steps, even when I try to avoid the usual ones—the one outside the bathroom, the soft spot near the kitchen arch. The hallway smells faintly of lavender and something warm from the night before. Anna always burns oil before she sleeps, like she’s trying to soften the air itself.
I glance toward her closed door.
