Page 124 of The Bratva Sinner

I hold up a leopard-print skirt that would barely cover anyone’s ass. “I see.”

We continue working.

“Who gets these?” I ask. “I mean, just anyone or only for the—” I stop because I don’t want to sound like a jerk. Sex workers? Prostitutes?

“Young women, mostly. Runaways. Girls who have been on the street long enough to have nothing.” She doesn’t look up from the bag she’s filling.

“How often?” I ask.

“Once a month. Sometimes more if we’ve got a lot to give.” She pulls the cap off a black marker and writes an “L” on the front.

“You’ve been doing this a long time,” I say.

“Yep.”

That’s all she gives me. I’ve learned not to push with Cinder. I pick up a pair of jeans and check the size.

“Can I ask you something?” I say.

“You’re going to either way.”

Fair. “How did you and Maksim end up working together?”

She reaches for another bag and starts loading it. “What has he told you?”

“Not much. He mentioned that you run operations. That he trusts you.” I fold the jeans. “That’s basically it.”

“That’s basically accurate.” She writes an “M” on another box. “What are you actually asking?”

I look at her. Her red hair is pulled back, and she’s not wearing any makeup. Without it, she looks closer to her age, which makes her look younger. More human. She’s not looking at me, but I can tell she knows I’m looking at her.

“Were you two ever together?” I want to ask if he was a customer, but I have a feeling that would be the wrong thing to say.

She makes a sound. A snort? Laugh? Maybe disgust.

“No,” she says flatly.

“Okay.”

“Is that why you’ve been watching me like I might steal your silverware?”

I feel heat in my face. “I haven’t been?—”

“Lila.”

“Fine.” I put the jeans down. “Maybe a little.”

She looks at me, and I brace myself for our silent truce to be over. We are like two yard dogs circling one another. She doesn’t like me, and I don’t like her. I’ve never tried to understand why.

“He’s my brother,” she says. “That’s it. That’s all it’s ever been.”

I nod, and pick the jeans back up.

She goes back to her bags. I go back to sorting. The silence settles again, but it’s different now. Less like a standoff.

“I was in the system,” she says out of nowhere. “Foster care. From the time I was seven.” She smooths a hot-pink shirt with her hands. “Some of the houses were fine. Some were less fine.” She pauses. “The last one wasn’t fine.”

She picks up another shirt, inspects it, and starts to fold.