The smirker taps his earpiece, muttering in Greek. A pause. Then he jerks his chin toward the freight elevator. “You know where to go.”
The ride to the sixth floor takes a century. Scuffed mirrors line the elevator walls, reflecting a girl in a beat-up leather jacket and dirty boots, her hair a mess of curls she didn’t bother to brush. I look like a feral cat. My mouth still tastes like last night’s tequila. My thighs still ache from last night’s sins.
Baba’s office hasn’t changed. Same mahogany desk, same floor-to-ceiling windows smudged with fingerprints. The godawful oil painting he commissioned of himself still hangs crooked behind him. He’s bent over paperwork, gold pen in hand, but freezes when the elevator dings and spits me out.
When he looks up, his face does something I haven’
