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.