Page 44 of Victor's Lethal Desire
He's quiet and doesn't answer.
"Oh, come on, Victor. You can tell me. We're partners," I say in a mocking tone.
"Very funny," he says, and there's a moment of silence.
"So who are you really working for?" Victor asks, his tone lighter now but still probing.
I don't answer. Instead, I hold a difficult pose, one leg extended, the other bent, my body angled at forty-five degrees to avoid tripping a laser that's inches from my shoulder.
"You don't strike me as a Bratva loyalist," he continues. "You're too good for that. With your looks, you could easily marry a don. Why do all this?"
"Maybe I just like killing people," I say through gritted teeth, shifting my weight slowly, trying not to have my breasts break the beam in front of me.
Victor laughs.
"No. You'd be bored by now if that was true. After like the tenth one, it just becomes the same old thing."
I slide under another beam, my back arching as I press my chest toward the floor. The cold tile bites into my palms, and I feel my muscles straining.
"Wow, nice flexibility," Victor says, sounding amused.
"Shut up," I say, standing back up.
"I'm just saying. You're very bendy."
I pause, glaring at him over my shoulder.
"If you don't stop talking, I'm going to trip one of these lasers on purpose."
He smiles, holding up his hands in mock surrender.
"Fair enough."
I continue forward, keeping my movements short and controlled. The grid is denser now, the gaps smaller. I have to twist and contort my body, sliding through openings that seem impossibly tight.
"Seriously, though," Victor says after a moment. "The tablet. What's on it that's so important you don't already know about?"
"I'll tell you if you tell me," I counter, balancing on one leg while I duck under a beam at shoulder height.
"No reason other than what's on it," he admits. "The information could be useful for my family."
"Like?" I ask.
"Stuff."
"How descriptive," I say.
"You're one to talk."
I step over another beam, my bare foot pressing firmly against the ground.
"Maybe I just want to sell it to the highest bidder. Make some money."
"You don't need money," Victor says, his voice certain. "That's a fifteen-thousand-dollar dress you're wearing. And judging by how well it fits you, it's custom. So you're not doing this for cash."
I don't respond. He's right, but I'm not about to admit it.
I'm at the end now. I crouch low, threading my arm through a gap, then my head, then my torso. The dress pulls tight, and for a moment, I think it's not going to let me bend the way I need to.
