Page 22 of Sweet Deception

“Or I’ll only see her again in pieces.” She hiccups, the sobs coming harder over the line. “The number’s blocked, but there’s a photo attached. It’s Lucy, Nika. She looks…so scared.”

“Get somewhere safe.” I slip into the practiced instructions I’ve given dozens of women caught up in deadly situations. “Not your apartment, not a friend’s place, nowhere they might think to search. Remember that contact I told you about? Mrs. Guseva? Get to her shop. She’ll give you cash, a burner, and set you up with a secure place. Don’t touch your regular accounts.”

“Oh, god…” Maya wails.

I pause a moment while she cries. I’ve never been great at this part. Surviving my life requires emotional detachment, a defense mechanism I’ve carefully crafted over the years to spare myself from disappointment and pain. But this…

This will hurt no matter what.

I take another deep abdominal breath and do my best to comfort my friend. “I know this seems extreme, but this is how I’ve helped other women.”

“I know.” I can almost see her nodding. “I’ll go now.”

“Text me when you’re safe. And, Maya? Hurry.”

The line goes dead.

My laptoppingsagain.

Another decryption failure.

Chapter Nine

A victorious smile spreads across my face when I whip my matte black Aston Martin into a parallel parking space across the street fromVeronika Kotova’sapartment building in Bushwick.

Yeah, that’s right. Veronika Kotova. I found my little thief’s nameandwhere her flighty ass scurried off to.

First, I traced the taxi plates back to the business, located the driver, and persuaded him to share the information…with both my wallet and my fists. That’s how I learned he dropped her off at some seedy airport hotel after she left me. Shaking down the reservations manager there earned me her full name and a copy of her ID.

After that, I may’ve done a little additional searching on my own. Curiosity pestered me even before she stole my information and pulled a Houdini act, but now I’m practically seething with it.

Just my luck that she also lives in New York. For some reason, I’d been half convinced she was a spy from Vegas. Turns out, she’s a spy who lives in my backyard.

With a bit of digging, I also found employment information showing she’s a freelance information technology specialist.

Beauty and brains.

Honestly…the fact that I so severely underestimated her has haunted me since the moment I found out she left me high and dry in that hotel room. I’ve wondered more than once whether I really would’ve kicked her out four days ago if I’d found her asleep in my bed, where she should’ve been.

Maybe I would’ve tried to get a few more days of fun out of her fine body before I cut the little mouse loose, but we’ll never find out now.

No,she had to go and double-cross me. All that’s left from that night of fun is her betrayal and my vengeance.

Based on my reconnaissance, I expect to find her at home, working.

That sexy fucking liar will be sorry she ever walked my way.

My eyes crawl down the block, analyzing the buildings and shopfronts. Her place is a three-story-walkup in a historical Brooklyn brownstone.

I flick my lighter open and closed, watching her building from my parked car.

I’ve been waiting here the past two nights, but she never came home. I drove around the borough, top to bottom, hunting for any sign of her. If I’d spotted her walking home or coming out of a shop, I would’ve nabbed her then and there, but nothing. Two nights of nothing, though I did notice a couple of things.

I encountered a cute orange cat I’ve named Napalm that likes to nibble on the treats I picked up at the bodega around the corner and play with the shiny wrappers.

Also, I observed someone else lurking about.

A twitchy guy who’s out of place. He’s lanky, with gruesome features he keeps tucked under a cap. Always leaning on a wall or a dumpster. He must be an accomplice of hers.