Page 78 of Filthy Little Fix
"So, it's better that they're with me instead of out there. Don't you think?"
Her lips twitch, and her jaw tightens. I see the resemblance to Dante. She's tense, angry. "I'm trying to understand what kind of person you are."
I give her a smile. "What do you think, Mrs. Volkov?"
"I think," she says, leaning in, "you're a self-destructive idiot."
She looks like Dante. She has the same harshness, the same authoritarian stance. The same aura, even with the sharp, professional tone of voice. Dante Volkov's sister. They share the same DNA.
Of course, she's tense. The rat hunt was delayed in eight hours. Because Dante wasconcerned.
I give her what she wants. Reassurance. "You'll have your rat today, miss. Give me a few hours after my shift. It's done."
The anger in her face—Dante'sanger—recedes. The ice queen returns. "Don't be late."
"Of course not."
She doesn't have the same sadistic tendencies—Svetlana is just professional. She just wants the job done. This is her problem; Dante's unpredictability and my reactions to it.
"Good," she says. "I expect results."
She turns, pausing by the motionless guards at the door.
"East Wing. Double the security detail. Immediately."
"Yes, ma'am," says one the guards.
Of course. We're getting close. A cornered rat might get desperate, might bite back. She's not taking chances.
With a rustle of her blazer, Svetlana is gone.
I finish my eggs. The taste of real food, of Dante's concern and Svetlana's pragmatism. Two sides of the same coin. The equation is simple: They need me. And as long as they need me, I exist.
Later, the office. I steal Chad's headphones when he's not looking. Nicole is there. Messy bun. She doesn't notice. Her smile is genuine as she tries to pull me into conversation. Weekend plans. The new coffee machine. Anything and nothing. I offer her a practiced smile—my shield—and she's disappointed, thinking the mass layoff got to me. It's a cruel game. I play it. For him.
After, I walk straight to my room, escorted by more guards than usual. Luca tells me Dante is out. The corridor, too, has more guards than usual.
I ignore them. If Dante's not home, then I go directly to my purpose: the list.
I start with the obvious ones, just as Svetlana ordered. The likely rats.
Target one: Eleanor Vance. Senior accountant. Meticulous records. I dig for some time—finances, online book club, shopping habits. Nothing. Just the tedious life of a woman obsessed with budgets and historical romance. Dead end.
Target two: Marcus Thorne. Head of logistics. Secret high-stakes card addiction. Expensive. Lonely. But no treason. Dead end.
Target three: Sofia Diaz. Network architect. Young. Bright. Her digital footprint is a ghost town. Too clean. Frighteningly clean. It doesn't fit the profile. Dead end.
The list goes on. Project managers. Data analysts. More dead ends. I dismantle them digitally and find nothing but banality.
Then my eyes land on the next name.
This one I know.
Only two names left— the ones Svetlana placed as least likely—and one of them is Salinger Coleman.Sal.
Head of Volkov cybersecurity.
I'd seen him tremble in Dante's presence, a human-shaped flak jacket sweating through his shirt. A coward. He can't even lookmein the eye, let alone aVolkov.
