His blue eyes are fixed on mine, level and unafraid. “My name is Misha.”
“Then I have a question for you, Misha. One that doesn’t require you to snitch.” He looks suspicious, but he says nothing. “Is the name ‘Natalia Boone’ familiar to you?”
The lack of any reaction says it’s not.
Fuck. I was hoping for a reason to justify visiting the little lastochka again, but it seems she really is a dead end.
It’s just as well. I have enough on my plate. I may have stopped Nikolai Rostov’s skin trade for the time being, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped him.
We’re a long way from the end of this story.
I’ve gotta hand it to Kat: she’s trying.
Short of chaining herself to my apartment door like a climate change activist, she’s made every attempt to right her wrong—well, wrongs, multiple—from t
