Which is good, because my mom is due back tomorrow.
I can’t focus on the mail, but I attempt it anyway. I slide my thumb under the flaps of envelopes and pry them open, flattening their contents into a big stack.
Then I see it. Paid in full—a release from my student loan. I frown and make myself read the print. The entirety of my student loans—all four of them—has been paid off.
Oh God. What is this crap? Ravil and his microloans. Only this one isn’t micro. It’s huge. And the last person I want to be in debt to is Ravil. My mother will literally kill me.
Wrapping indignation around me like a cloak, I pick up my phone and dial Ravil’s number. I’ve never called him before, and it seems inappropriate, like calling up the President of the United States or something, but I do it anyway.
“Natasha,” he answers in that cool, mild tone of his.
“I didn’t ask for a loan,” I snap. I’m not usually rude, but I’ve been pushed too far.
“Pardon me?”
“I never asked you to pay off my student loans. I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t want to be in debt to you. I could handle paying those on my own.”
“Mm,” he says. “You think I paid off your loans? That wasn’t me, Natasha.”
I open my mouth then close it when I realize what he just said.
“I’m guessing Dima took care of those for you.”
“Took care of,” I repeat hollowly. Just hearing his name shatters my heart like glass. “Took care of, how?”
“You’ll have to ask him that, Natasha. Did you make arrangements with your friend?”
“He’s not a friend,” I insist. “And yes. We’re meeting at the Starbucks on James Street at 3:30 pm.”
“Good. We’ll prep you before you go.”
“Who’s we? Not Dima,” I tell him. I don’t care if I sound like a third-grader. Or a jilted lover. I can’t handle seeing Dima right now.
“All right, Natasha,” Ravil says in that ever-patient way he speaks.
I end the call and stare at the loan release again. Did Dima hack his way into their system? Or did he actually pay for my loans? Either way, I don’t like it.
I hate it.
Because I can’t stop the tears streaming down my face.
Dima
I pace back and forth in Ravil’s office.
I fucking hate everything about sending Natasha to meet Alex.
“He’s an FBI agent,” Maxim reminds me. “He’s not going to hurt her. The worst he can do is bring her in for questioning, and if he does, Lucy will make such a racket, they’ll let her go immediately. Don’t forget the video we have of him shooting Nikolai.”
“I still don’t see why this is necessary. He’s not going to tell her anything I haven’t already ferreted out. I don’t want him near her.”
“You can shadow her if you want, just to make sure she’s safe,” Maxim reminds me.
As if I needed his permission. Of course, I’m going to fucking shadow her.
Ravil remains silent, but I know his mind is already made up.
“I just want to hear what he has to say about what happened, and he offered to give her an explanation. We’d be foolish to turn it down,” Maxim reasons.
“So what do we want her to know going in?” Ravil asks. “What questions we want her to ask, what warnings about what she can and can’t say?”
I fold my arms across my chest and look to Maxim. He’s our Fixer. This is his strategy.
“She can tell him Nikolai pulled through, no thanks to him. Obviously, no information about the cabin or who or how he was treated. She should ask him what he was after and why he fired on Nikolai. Just basics. I just want to hear what he’ll say.”
“You want her to wear a wire?” I ask. I don’t like it.
“No. We’re not collecting evidence. Unless you don’t trust Natasha to tell us everything he says?” He raises his brows at me.
I trust Natasha. I was foolish to doubt her in the first place. But I can’t vouch for how cooperative she’ll be. She didn’t want to do this in the first place, and we didn’t part on good terms.
Since I’m hating this plan anyway, I simply shrug.
“Right. She’s pissed at you, no?” Maxim asks. “You want to tell us what happened?”
“No.” My arms tighten over my chest.
“You break her heart?”
I stare at Maxim, feeling punched in the gut by the question. Finally I nod, unable to speak.
“You plan on fixing that mess?”
I do plan on fixing things, but I haven’t figured out how, yet. I didn’t call or text her last night when we got back. It felt too soon. This morning my gut said she still needed time. And I needed to get my shit together first.
“I’m going to try.” My voice cracks like I’m a teenager.
Ravil pins me with a sharp look. “She’s not broken enough to roll over on us, is she?”