“Even if you had your crotch hidden under layers of sugary goodness, Marshmallow Man, a nun wouldn’t have missed the tent you were pitching during your photo shoot.”
It takes a moment, but my back molars grind when the truth smacks into me. “I told Konstantine to turn off surveillance at Zelenolsk, not to use it to spy on me.”
My jaw almost cracks when she whispers, “Would it make you less cranky if I said Konstantine only does as ordered?”
“Andrik—”
“Not him.”
I stare at the screen, my mouth ajar. Andrik only hands the power baton to one other person. It isn’t our father, as you’d believe. It is his wife.
“Sunshine—”
“You’re my big brother,” Zoya interrupts. “I’m just trying to keep an eye out for you.”
She’s called out as a liar by an accented voice. “And she’s the biggest snoop I know.” Dr. Nikita Ivanov’s pretty face enters the frame. She’s wearing a stethoscope, scrubs, and a friendly smile. “But we should probably give her some leeway. Bed rest isn’t fun.”
Worry echoes in my tone. “You’re on bed rest?”
Zoya waves off my fret like only months ago the gender of her baby wouldn’t have glued her missing person flyer to a milk carton. Birthing a son only awarded you five years in the Dokovicrealm. A daughter is an instant dismissal. Or I should saywassince that fascism died along with our grandfather.
“My lady bits aren’t playing nice, so Dr. Anal placed me on two weeks of bed rest.” Zoya’s eye roll is immature but effective in lowering my worry. “How do you think I know you can still relieve tension without penetration?”
I shake my head to make sure the images her question triggered do not get burned into my memory.
Zoya laughs, mindful that a dirty mind is hereditary.
Her laughter is interrupted by my phone pinging, announcing I have a message.
VTB Bank:
You transferred $58,000 to an account ending in 8179.
I sit up straight, my heart thudding against my ribs.
What the fuck?
“What?” Zoya asked, adapted to my confused expression.
I scan the screen of my phone. “Someone just transferred fifty-eight K from my checking account.”
My eyes widen when another message pings.
VTB Bank:
You paid $62,000 to Noestrdem Pty Ltd.
I clench my jaw when another message arrives.
VTB Bank:
You spent $15,800 at Moeses Online, bringing your spending to $135,800 today.
“Some fucker has hacked my bank account.”
I slide my office chair under my desk and fire up my laptop.
After three failed login attempts, my bank sends another message.
