Page 61 of Sexting the Bikers
BISHOP
Katya sits at the edge of the cracked Formica table, burner phone clutched in her hand like it’s worth something. She starts speaking in rapid-fire Russian, her tone almost breezy, and if I didn’t know better I’d think she was calling in a pizza order. “Da, da, spasibo,” she says, scribbling something on a napkin with one of my good pens. I watch her, arms folded, a sour taste in my mouth.
She could sell shit to a sanitation worker and have them say thank you for the privilege. The way she slips from nervous survivor to smooth operator makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Part of me admires it—hell, we need that kind of skill on a job like this. But another part? It’s just pure, cold paranoia. People who are this good at talking can do a lot of damage if they ever decide to turn on you.
She ends the call with another round of thank-yous, then dials the new number, her posture changing. She sits up straighter, shoulders squared, the girlish tone dropping away. This time her Russian is slower, more formal, every syllable clipped and precise. Whoever’s on the other end, it’s clear they’re someone who matters.
I watch the set of her jaw, the careful way she keeps her voice low, the way her eyes dart once to the front door as if she’s already weighing every exit. I don’t trust easily, and I trust less when the stakes are this high. She could be calling in backup, selling us out, or walking us right into a trap, and none of us would know until it was already too late.
I watch her hang up the phone, her face composed, eyes almost unreadable. That cold trickle of doubt runs down my spine. Katya’s proven she’s capable of anything—after all, I’ve watched her bounce from Dog’s arms, to mine, then to Reaper’s, with just enough real feeling to make each of us question where we stand. Is she setting us up? Or just trying to survive with whatever tools she’s got left?
She sets the burner down, looks at all of us, then meets Dog’s gaze head on. “He’s coming here.”
Dog frowns. “Who?”
“The Zaika Pakhan. Mikhail Zaika.” She says it like it’s just any other name.
Dog squints. “Pakhan? What’s that mean?”
“It’s like a boss,” she says, her voice smooth. “The head of the Bratva family. There’s no one higher, not in Zaika. Like Reaper, only ten times more dangerous, and with more money and soldiers than this entire state’s National Guard.” She says it calmly, like she’s ordering lunch.
My stomach drops. “What did youtellhim?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intended. The last thing we need is another Bratva warlord showing up on our goddamn doorstep. “You brought inmoreBratva?”
“Relax,” she says. “It isn’t like that. Right, Reaper?”
Reaper is frowning. “I didn’t expect him to show up here himself.”
“What did you tell him?” I ask, before turning to Reaper. “And this was your plan?”
“Partially,” Reaper admits.
“Don’t worry about Mikhail,” Katya says. “Like I said, I’ll deal with him.”
“What. Did. You. Tell. Him?” I repeat, punctuating every word.
“That my wedding dress wasn’t ready. That the wedding’s been delayed a couple of days. That I went through the guest list and noticed ahugeoversight. Of course, he was furious when he realized Novikov didn’t send him an invitation. Said it was a blatant show of disrespect.” She gives a wry smile. “So he’s coming.”
I blink. I feel like someone just punched me in the chest. “And you thought that was a good idea?”
She shrugs. “It buys us time. And if we’re lucky, it puts Novikov on the defensive.”
Dog looks over at me, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure that’s the right thing to do?”
Hell if I know.
I look Katya dead in the eyes and ask, “And what happens when he gets here and realizes you’re in bed with the Ravagers instead of your family?”
For once, she doesn’t have an immediate answer. And that tells me everything I need to know.
“One of our beds,” Reaper corrects quickly. Dog and I glance at him. We’re still pissed, of course, but this isn’t the time for it.
I shake my head. “I still don’t get it. Why pour more gasoline on the fire?”
Katya lifts her chin, resolute. “No, no. It’ll be fine. He’s not marching in with a battalion. He was nearby wrapping up business. He’s going to lodge at a hotel here in town—quiet, low-key. He’ll probably be here tonight, sniffing out what Novikov’s hiding.”
“We’ll meet him at the hotel,” she continues. “Wait for him, explain everything. The truth. What Novikov did. What he tried to do.”
Reaper lets out a dry, mirthless laugh and glances at her sideways. “Either you’re a genius…” He steps closer, his voice dropping low. “Or an idiot.”
