52. Nat

"Go on, let me have it."

Mickey looks at me and shrugs. "Sure." He glances at the clippers I brought with me. "And then you'll cut my hair?"

I cringe a little. My hairdressing skills are somewhat lacking. I'm not sure Mickey will be pleased with my efforts, but he decided he didn't want Jane here. Luckily, YouTube has given me some hints on how to avoid the classic ‘pudding basin' cut. How hard can it be, right?

"I'll try," I hedge, crossing my fingers behind my back. "Not promising anything amazing." He narrows his eyes but apparently decides I'm being sincere. "You could just ask your mom to take you to a barber's shop?"

"No." OK, then.

"There wasn't a lot on the name you gave me. Maxim Petrov owns significant business interests, including several hotels and commercial real estate. He files his taxes on time and donates lots of money to charity."

The heavy weight that's been sitting on my chest since I saw Max leave the mayor's office lifts. Maybe I'm reading way too much into this. Just because he knows the mayor does not make him a criminal.

"Great, thanks for that, Mickey." I go to pick up the clippers, ready to make a start on his haircut, but he stops me.

"I haven't finished." His expression is impassive but I note the way he fiddles with his mouse and refuses to meet my eye. Whatever he's discovered, he thinks I'm not going to like it.

"Go on." Anxiety unfurls in my stomach. The slice of pizza I ate thirty minutes ago sits like a lump of concrete in my belly and I silently regret stuffing it down my throat like it was my last meal.

"While I was poking around, I must have triggered some kind of security alert. A bit like when I went hunting for information on that other guy you were interested in." Uriov? He rolls his eyes a bit at my look of alarm. "So I bypassed all that shit and dug a bit deeper. Turns out this guy Petrov is shady as fuck. He operates under a veneer of respectability but he's actually head of the Russian mafia in this part of the world."

Oh my God. My heart literally drops into my shoes and if I wasn't already perched on Mickey's worn corduroy couch, I'd be on my knees. Have I actually been sleeping with a member of the Russian mafia?

A sly grin creeps over Mickey's face. "So how exactly do you know a Bratva Pakhan, Cuz?"

It's late by the time I get back to my apartment. Max is out on business, but he's messaged me a couple of times, which I've ignored. I'm definitely not thinking about what happened the last time I ignored his messages. Nope.

It's possible he'll come storming around if I don't reply until the morning, so I wait until I enter my apartment and then I send him a quick message letting him know I'm going to bed and I'll talk to him tomorrow. After that, I switch my phone off.

Max can deal. I need time to process everything. If I let him come over or cave in and go there, I won't have any time to myself. Being with Max is all-consuming.

And confusing.

If what Mickey says is true - and I have no reason to assume it isn't - then I am dealing with a possible conflict of interest. There is a link between the mayor and Max, and a link between the mayor and Uriov. In fact, there are many threads linking all three of them, not to mention the unsavory stuff Mickey found on the Dark Web.

I'm starting to realize I am in way over my head. This whole investigation is much too complicated for a small-time reporter like me. I'm still not sure why my editor agreed to let me run with it.

Most likely because he thought it would go nowhere.

I'm not stupid. I know he thinks I'm not ready to work on stories like this. He thinks all I'm good for is human interest stories and cute features.

It's partly why I pitched the story to him. I don't want to end up writing puff pieces forever. I want to cover the real news. Write stories that change the world, or at least make a difference.

It's why I got into journalism.

I boil the kettle and make a mug of chamomile tea. It's late and I really am tired - I wasn't lying to Max - but I'm not ready for bed yet. Even though my bedroom has been painted and the bed is new, I still get nervous every time I walk in there.

I felt the same way the other night, but then Max arrived and made me feel safe. Sleeping in my bedroom didn't bother me when he shared my bed. I was able to forget about the vile message daubed on my wall and the fact someone had been through all my things.

Max's presence is like a magic bullet. It cures all my woes.

Tonight, though, my anxiety is back.

Maybe it's because I know who he is now.

I'm still struggling with the fact I've been sleeping with a member of the Russian mafia. Sweet baby Jesus, he's a criminal! He's probably killed people!

I have no idea what happened to the guy who attacked me in the park. The last I saw of him was when Max's people took him away in a fake ambulance. Nothing good ever comes from scenarios like that. I should know. My Kindle is full of mafia romances.

My anxiety is so out of control that I plan on sleeping on the sofa tonight. I probably would have gone to Jane's if she hadn't already told us in the group chat she was cooking dinner for her new guy.

Whoever he is. She's said very little about him. Amanda's also been quiet and I'm beginning to think we're all keeping secrets from each other. Which is unusual because we usually share everything.

My eyes start to droop just as I drink the last of my tea. I drop my mug in the kitchen sink, brush my teeth, and pull my pillow and duvet out of the bedroom and onto the sofa.

It's lumpy but I don't care.

I'd rather be on the sofa than picturing red paint and vile messages on the wall behind my head. At least this way I might actually get some sleep.