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He fills me in. I nod, yawning into the speaker.

"I’ll be there."

"Wear the blonde," he says.

“What the fuck—does one of your men have a blonde kink?"

I don’t take direct orders from them.

“Is that a problem?” he asks in that calm way of his that strikes fear in the most hardened of criminals. “Let’s just say you might have been sighted last night. I want to throw them off. And honestly, luv, you know better than to question me. I’ll see you in three hours. More accurately, two hours and forty-eight minutes."

The line goes dead.

I set a timer on my phone, punch my pillow, and slam my head back down. I’m so fucking tired.

It feels like minutes later when the alarm blares again. "My god. I’m taking a vacation, and you guys are paying for it,” I mumble into the void. Thankfully, when I open my eyes this time, the shadows are gone.

What the hell happened to me? I had the craziest, most vivid dreams. I feel worse now than before I fell asleep.

I stumble toward the dresser and open the drawer. I freeze, my hand hovering mid-air.

This isnothow I fold my clothes. I’m fastidious, always on the go, so I’ve learned to fold my clothing into neat little packages arranged in a vertical row in my drawer. I fold them that way so I can pack a bag in a matter of seconds. These arehorizontaland all out of place. Neat, yes, but not the way I left them.

I lick my lips and turn around to face my room.

“Who’s there?” I yell into the darkness. But just as before, there’s no response.

Someone was in here.I know it. I take a slow, careful breath, my fingers curling into fists by my sides. I didn’t flee the controlled, miserable existence I had in Moscow and the threat of servitude to the Bratva only to trade for another kind.No.

I keep my heartbeat steady, my gaze focused. I’ve trained myself to stay calm under pressure.

I exhale slowly, forcing myself to think. The Irish? No. They need me. They keep me on a tight leash, but they don’t play these kinds of games. If they wanted me dead for whatever reason, I’d already be floating in the Liffey.

Cillian isn’t a man of subtlety. If he wanted me under his thumb, he’d drag me there kicking and screaming. No, this feels like someone else entirely.

Who else could it be? A random break-in? Unlikely. The exits are too well-guarded.

I have to think this through. I’m the one who sees the details no one else sees. I’m the one skilled at crafting new realities. I erase identities. I disappear when I need to.

But this…

A ghost from my past?

My father’s gone, and even if he were here, this wasn’t his style.

The Irish?

Nah. They need me. I shake my head and walk through my apartment. I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I set it up the same everywhere I go.

The living room seems fine, though I wonder if I left those books I was reading on the nightstand or the coffee table? I shake my head and move to the little kitchenette. I open the refrigerator and stare. Looks normal.

Iamlosing my mind. There’s nothing to see here.

I hit play on the playlist on my phone for some background noise while I go to get ready. I go to the bathroom, when suddenly, my playlist switches from my usual bedtime songs to something… Russian?

Is that a Russianlullaby?

I grab my phone.