by M. A. Grant
Bea shook her head. “It’s not. There are some perks for you, but don’t get cocky. This is not an easy position. Lots of moving pieces and potential drama.”
He appreciated her warning. He’d mull over it later, after she left. For now, he needed more basic information. “How long is it for?”
She must have expected an outright refusal, because when she processed his question, the tight lines around her eyes eased a bit. “A month to start. The situation is fluid, so the dates could extend.”
“But a month guaranteed?”
“Yes.”
A month’s worth of work. A month’s worth of work custom tailored to his new lifestyle, with the potential of a salary that could finally get him a financial cushion.
“I’ll work on finding a replacement for you if you decide you don’t want to stick it out too,” she said to sweeten the deal.
He didn’t have a response to that.
Bea lifted her chin. She had him; they both knew it, but it was kind of her to not gloat. Instead, she asked, “So, are you interested?”
“I might be.”
She nodded and got up to put her plate in the sink. It didn’t take her long to put away the rest of the takeout. Content with the kitchen, she made her way to the front door, where she slipped back into her heels and picked up her purse. “I need an answer in the morning.” She may have said the words, but her expectant look told Atlas she’d hoped for his decision sooner than that.
He hated being rushed. But he knew what he’d answer to the contract. No point pretending otherwise.
“No need to wait. I’m interested.”
Bea gave a relieved smile and pulled out her phone. “That’s good.”
“Why?”
His phone dinged a second later with a calendar invite and directions to an address he didn’t know, but recognized as being in one of the most expensive areas of Scarsdale. Then he noticed the date and time of the calendar invite. “Bea,” he growled, and looked up.
She was already gone, the door closing on a whisper behind her. Atlas swore and rechecked the invite. Yep, he’d read it correctly. Tomorrow night he’d be meeting Decebal Vladislavic to review the contract. Bea had set him up.
Atlas groaned and abandoned the couch to trudge back into his kitchen. He took another dose of his meds and headed for the bathroom. The sooner he crashed, the sooner he might feel vaguely human, and the more likely he’d be to deliver a strong first impression to Decebal or whoever was interviewing him.
You can do this, he reminded himself as he brushed his teeth. It’s a perfect job. He changed for bed. She wouldn’t have come to you if she thought you would fail. You can do this.
He repeated the positive thoughts again and again in his head until they jumbled together, at which point he finally gave in to his exhaustion and slipped into sleep.
Chapter Two
Growing up in Scarsdale, Atlas had heard stories about that house, the one perched on the edge of the town’s boundary, where city crumbled away into fields and farms. It was old enough that the land surrounding it had never been encroached on by the usual housing or industrial developments. All of its owners throughout Scarsdale’s history—no one knew exactly how many there had been—had been notoriously private. There were no tours of this place, no magazine spreads showcasing its interior grandeur, no holiday parties thrown. If not for the occasional construction project that hired local workers, most would think the house didn’t actually exist. But with proof that something was there, there was no other choice than to make up stories about the property.
He and Bea had heard plenty of them in school, usually around Halloween, when kids dared each other to sneak into the house and unlock its mysteries. Of course, no one ever actually got past the sturdy fences, though they always had inventive reasons for their failures. As time went on and the city limped along through an unending economic depression, most stopped caring about the house itself and became more interested in the new family who lived in it. A family led by a patriarch who had decided to invest in Scarsdale and drag it, kicking and screaming at times, into the modern era.
Atlas wasn’t surprised to learn that Decebal Vladislavic had moved into the house. It was a fixed point in Scarsdale geography, a silent observer to the trivial pursuits of the working-class people who kept the city alive, but it was a landmark that even the local elite had never come close to touching. He’d worked with most of Scarsdale’s wealthiest residents through various Whitethorn contracts. But the historic families of his hometown couldn’t hold a candle to the affluence he saw now, to the thoughtless application of wealth in the manicured tunnel formed by towering beech trees on either side of the private road. Their thick canopies blocked out the rapidly falling twilight, leaving him to follow a dark ribbon of unblemished pavement on his way up to the main house.
His approach was halted by the appearance of a heavy metal security gate, modern, but tasteful enough to not look out of place. He rolled down his window and reached for the call button, knowing in his gut that the Vladislavic family lived with a level of wealth he’d never been privy to.
“Yes?” someone said at the other end.
“Atlas Kinkaid from Whitethorn Agency here to see Decebal Vladislavic,” he said, glancing up at the security camera so they could see his face. It had been a rough night, and though he’d dressed the part of an expensive security agent, he couldn’t hide the lines etched into his face or the dark shadows under his eyes. Hopefully his name and credentials would make up for his underwhelming appearance.
It must have, since the person said, “Mr. Kinkaid, we’re expecting you.” With a warning buzz, the gate swung open.
He drove forward, approving of how swiftly the gate closed behind him, and continued his way toward the house. It wasn’t until he turned a corner that the road opened up before him, revealing his potential employer’s home for the first time. Nighttime did nothing to hide Vladislavic’s wealth; if anything, the carefully lighted lamps and bright windows ahead only highlighted the grandeur of the place. The paved lane he drove down meandered lazily past expansive lawns and eddied into a well-lit circular drive before a tall stone building that dwarfed the other shadowed buildings behind it.
This main house loomed over visitors with an air of staid superiority. Once parked, Atlas took a moment to peer out of his windshield at his potential employer’s home and marvel. The architecture reminded Atlas of some of the buildings he’d snapped photos of in Bucharest during one leave, with narrow windows, decorative touches to the masonry, and imposing wooden doors. While he appreciated the aesthetics of the building, which were impossible to view from the main road, he was enamored with the functionality of the place. This wasn’t a home. This was a fortress, well aware of its defensive capabilities and playing to them perfectly. It wasn’t at all what he’d imagined.
A gentle rap on his window drew his attention back to the task at hand. And to the composed man standing beside his car, peering in at him. Once he saw he had Atlas’s attention, he stepped back from the car and clasped his hands in front of him, a picture of elegant patience. Atlas turned off the car, undid his seatbelt, and got out, grateful to the man for moving a polite distance away.
“Mr. Kinkaid?” the man asked. He was shorter than Atlas expected, with trimmed dark hair carefully combed back from his face. His suit was pressed and Atlas caught the glint of cuff links. If he was armed, even with a knife, Atlas couldn’t tell, either a tribute to the man’s careful stance or to his tailor’s talents.
Regardless, he didn’t appear bothered by Atlas’s inspection. If anything, he seemed to expect it. When Atlas nodded affirmation to his question, he continued, “I’m Helias Casimir, Mr. Vladislavic’s consilier. He’s expecting you. Please, follow me.”
The sense of scale and wealth didn’t disappear when they stepped through the front door. The long, tiled hall before
them stretched toward an ornate, carved staircase that wound its way to the upper stories. Several decorative wooden doors lined the hall, promising hidden rooms beyond. The space wasn’t cluttered like some of the houses he’d visited for jobs. A few tasteful paintings—originals, he guessed—hung on the walls and small tables decorated with vases of fresh flowers brought bursts of color into the hall.
The minimalist decor meant for a clean line of sight from the stairs, which they ascended, all the way to the small vestibule at the front door. The same vision existed on the second floor, though the exquisite carpet runners, rich wood paneling, and lower ceilings did much to soften the open views. More of Atlas’s trepidation drifted away. He’d rather work with someone cognizant of security, regardless of their stipulations, than someone who assumed he could work miracles despite their refusal to change anything.
Helias came to pause at a thick wooden door at the end of the hallway. The raised voices coming from the room on the other side weren’t obvious until he and Helias drew closer. Not English, Atlas noted.
“Just a moment, please,” Helias told Atlas. Once Atlas nodded his agreement, Helias gave the door a sharp rap. The arguing inside cut off abruptly, and a bark of command sounded. Only then did Helias open the door and step inside the room, closing himself away too quickly for Atlas to get a good look at what lay beyond.
There wasn’t much to do but wait. Surely Helias wouldn’t take long before coming back out to invite him in, and Atlas had no desire to be halfway down the hall when the office door opened. Too bad it wasn’t that door that opened first.
The nearest of the side doors swung open with unexpected viciousness. Atlas barely avoided jerking in surprise, though he doubted the stranger stalking out of the room would have noticed anyway. He looked younger than Helias. He was almost Atlas’s height, though his build was slimmer. No visible weapons under his fashionably tight pants and tailored shirt, which was a rich blue that made the veins under his pale skin stand out even more. He didn’t strike Atlas as a threat, at least, not in the traditional sense. Sure, he was muttering unfamiliar words under his breath and he appeared genuinely pissed off, but nothing about him seemed out of control. Atlas’s most nerve-wracking contacts had been with erratic people. He wasn’t stupid enough to think control secured safety, but, for good or for bad, he was more comfortable dealing with others who could keep a level head.
The man’s gaze flicked up to Atlas. The realization that he was not alone in the hallway made the stranger posture. His chin went up, his shoulders back, and his full lips twisted into a charming, but hollow, grin. That grin was a weapon in itself. It had probably coaxed people to their knees, gotten deals brokered, and won the day too many times to count. The open manipulation irritated Atlas. The man noticed.
The man stuffed his hands in the pockets of his slacks and moved closer with the same canny grace of a cat slinking toward something intriguing. His hair, a bit longer and shaggier than Helias’s, brushed the tops of his ears, and he absentmindedly swept it off his forehead. Every nerve in Atlas’s body hummed at the approach, though there was none of the usual fear coloring the reaction. No, there was nothing except...interest.
“I haven’t seen you around before,” the man said, drawing up a few spare feet away. “I would remember you.”
Atlas couldn’t help but relax at the familiar curl of the words, the light emphasis on the syllables that took him back to the time he’d spent in Romania before the attack. Other than that nightmarish fight, his time overseas had been a dream come true for a poor kid who’d never even gone on a camping trip before. He’d loved learning what snippets he could of the language, even though he was absolute shit with pronunciations and had forgotten most of what he’d learned. He enjoyed hearing the accent again; he enjoyed taking a closer look at the man more.
He may not have been Atlas’s usual type, but it was impossible to deny his allure. Dark stubble emphasized the cut line of his jaw and his expressive mouth. His clothes belied a lean musculature built from something other than daily gym trips. Atlas had been braced for the heavy chemical scent of cologne, which could set off one of his migraines, but it wasn’t there. Instead, he caught the lightest hint of chamomile. Atlas revised his assessment of the guy. Definitely a threat, just not in the way he’d expected.
He tried to keep his expression impassive and his voice neutral. “Haven’t been here before,” he offered.
“That explains why you’re following after Helias like a lost puppy.” This time the man’s reciprocal perusal was slower. He started at Atlas’s shoes, lingered over his thighs and chest, and eventually lifted to hold his gaze. Heat rose to Atlas’s cheeks.
“If Whitethorn sent you here for the job, I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” he remarked. “No one’s been able to stick it out yet.” The faint curl of his lip warned he wasn’t impressed with what he saw, and he made a dismissive gesture. “Or maybe they’re scraping the bottom of the barrel and hope we won’t notice.”
Atlas’s burgeoning attraction transformed into hard-edged anger. He knew he looked like shit. But to insult Bea was unacceptable. He looked down at his cuffs and pretended to focus on adjusting them. “Thank you for the warning. I’m sure Mr. Vladislavic will be straightforward about the position when I speak with him in a moment. I won’t waste any more of your time.”
His response made the man laugh, a short, crass explosion of sound. “Is that your way of telling me to fuck off?”
Rather than saying the truth—a vehement yes—Atlas took a slow, steady breath. He was almost positive this was the person who was being yelled at when Helias interrupted. There was no reason to get into a pissing contest with someone who was looking to get some of his own back after getting chewed out by the boss. Bea needed him to last out this job. He needed this job and its paycheck, which meant he had to play nice with Vladislavic’s other employees. He had to keep his head.
“No,” Atlas said once he was sure he had himself under control. “If I told you to fuck off, you’d know it.”
The man’s lips pursed slightly and he shifted his weight back to his heels. “I’ve no doubt.” When Atlas didn’t say anything else, he offered one more grin, this one sharper than the first and, strangely, even more attractive for its honesty. “I think I’ve changed my mind. I hope you get the job. You’d at least be interesting.” He moved faster than Atlas expected, knocking into his shoulder on his way past, and headed down the hall. He removed a hand from his pocket and waved it behind him, though he didn’t turn around when he said, “Baftă.”
The door to Atlas’s left opened, revealing his guide. Helias’s mouth pressed into a tight line as he watched the other man retreating down the hall, but he stepped out of the way and gestured Atlas inside. “Mr. Vladislavic will see you now.”
The man sitting at the desk by one of the windows commanded Atlas’s attention wholly, despite his relaxed sprawl against the chair’s wooden back. The lighting of the room created warm pools of illumination that left much of the office in shadow. For once, Atlas’s instincts didn’t complain about his inability to see all the details around him. There was nothing in the darkness that needed his attention more than the man before him.
Decebal Vladislavic cut an impressive figure in his bespoke suit, clearly a man used to the finer things in life and seemingly unafraid to reach for them. His gray hair was neatly cut to stay out of his face, exposing the deep lines of his features. Every thought crossed openly over his face—his pleasure to see his guest and the appraisal that rapidly followed—and Atlas wondered if it was his honesty or business acumen which had helped him build the empire that obviously supported his lavish lifestyle.
“Mr. Kinkaid,” Decebal said after offering a hand toward him, “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Vladislavic.”
“Please, call me Decebal. Beatrice spoke highly of you.”
“Thank you, sir,” Atlas said, and settled into the chair Helias shifted for him.
“I appreciate your willingness to meet outside your agency’s usual business hours. I do much of my business during this time, and often forget others do not.”
“I actually prefer night work, so the meeting time was a pleasant surprise,” Atlas said.
The statement drew a chuckle from Decebal. “Yes, the hours were one of the main reasons Beatrice recommended you in particular. She also said you were her best.”
Faced with Decebal’s open curiosity, he chose to borrow from his sister’s confidence. “I am.”
He waited while the older man silently watched him. Unlike the young man in the hall, Decebal’s inspection was pointed and Atlas wondered how he measured up. He doubted he was as impressive as some of the previous agents Bea had sent; he didn’t have expensive clothes or the swagger some employers wanted. The past few months had left him looking rough from too little sleep and not enough good nutrition. But he valued function over fashion and his record showed his glowing past accomplishments. Hopefully Decebal would take all that into consideration.
He must have seen something he liked, because he said, “I hope you are. I do not enjoy wasting my time.”
Thank God Bea had prepped him for the interview when he’d called her this morning. She’d warned to expect bluntness. She said Decebal was from a different era, that his experiences moving between different countries helped shape his strong beliefs in loyalty and family. She’d said it like a compliment, something Bea didn’t hand out easily. That meant Decebal’s statement probably wasn’t some poor attempt at intimidation to see if Atlas got rattled. More likely, he was speaking the truth, which meant Atlas would extend the same courtesy back.
“I have no desire to waste your time either, sir.”
Decebal leaned forward and settled his hands on the desk. “You served?”
“Yes, sir.”
