I pick up an issue still warm from the presses. Ariel flinches when I shred the front page with my bare hands. “The Bratva owns this place. Tomorrow’s headline—” I scatter the strips of paper at her feet. “—will discuss your charity work. Your Pulitzer-worthy bylines. It’s ours to do with as we please.”
Her throat bobs. She looks down at the ripped paper, then back up at me. Her voice is choked, half with tears, half with laughter. “Careful, Sasha. I’m almost starting to think you like me.”
I take her hand. It’s still cold and dead in mine, but it’s warming, little by little. Through the open doors, I can see the plant workers fleeing to their cars as Feliks stalks around and tells them to run for their lives, cackling like a hyena.
I lead Ariel to the main press, its metallic jaws froz
