Chapter 1

Seething, attractive dark eyes capture me. They are angry, deep, and elusive while holding me firmly in their grasp through the computer screen.

Sergei Petrov.

I've heard the name before. He owns several clubs in the area with his cousins, and the rumor mill says they're mafia.

I click on the headline above his photograph and scroll through the article. His grandmother on his mother's side passed away last week, and he stands to inherit the family business, Kustov Metals, Inc.

His mother died years ago, an illness that isn't stated in the article.

It's this detail that drags me back to the reason I opened my computer in the first place.

My mom.

"Venti Caramel Latte for Cora." The barista calls out my drink, and I quickly get up to snatch it.

I shouldn't be splurging on an overpriced coffee, but when you've lost your full-time, low-paying secretarial job, your mother's health public assistance has denied her residency at a full-time care facility, and your bank account has been drained in order to pay out of pocket so she has a roof over her head for the next month, will seven dollars on a coffee really make that much of a difference?

When I settle back in front of my computer, I take another long stare at the ruggedly handsome man on the screen. There's something sinister in his smile. It's not really even a smile. More of a lifting of the side of his mouth. There is nothing close to happiness in his appearance.

After logging into Mom's Medicaid patient portal, I search for the rejection of benefits letter.

I scan it, reading their decision process and reason for rejection.

The sale of her house has screwed it up.

Since it was sold in the last five years, they consider it income and are holding it against her ability to get public aid funds. The same issue came up in her initial review. It had taken months to get them to understand the money was spent on bills. There's nothing left. But now it looks like I'm going to have to go through the whole thing again.

I grab my phone. Hopefully, the appeal process won't take a full thirty days, and I can get all of this cleared up before next month's fees are due. I have no idea where I can get the money if they don't help. Maybe I can try getting a credit card again, though the one I currently have only has a two-thousand-dollar credit limit.

How many credit cards can they split the fees on?

And how long will it take me to pay it off so they can charge them all again? Maybe I can shuffle credit around long enough to keep her housed for a couple of months. And then what?

Without insurance, home healthcare is out of the question. And if I don't find a job soon, I won't be in a home for her to get care in anyway.

All of these questions swirl in my mind as I listen to the on-hold music.

"Listen. This Petrov case is at the top of my pile." A man's voice cuts through my worry and the somber instrumental music playing on my phone. There's a man standing a few feet from me waiting for his order while talking on his phone.

"Yeah, it's a solid lead," he says, turning to his right and looking around.

I dip my eyes back to my computer screen when he turns toward where I'm sitting.

"He's already proven that he's close enough to get information that will be useful." He brushes his suit jacket to the side to slide his hand into his pocket, exposing both his holstered government-issued handgun and a shiny badge.

"Hi. Thank you for holding. My name is Serena. How can I help you today?" My call is finally picked up on the other line. I hesitate a second, then end my call with a swipe of my thumb but leave my phone up to my ear.

"Leskov," the cop says in a lower voice into his phone. The name has a familiar ring, but I can't place it.

"John! Café Latte for John," a barista calls out just as the cop continues talking into his phone and blocks me from being able to understand him.

He raises his hand to the barista and snatches up his coffee. He's gone in the next moment, out the front door, still talking on his phone until he reaches the sidewalk and then clicks off. He pauses a moment as the morning sun beats on his face, and he takes the first sip of his drink.

Putting my phone down on the table, I watch through the window until I can't see him anymore.

Someone in the Petrov organization is talking with that cop. I drum my fingertips.

It would have to be someone close to someone like Sergei or one of his cousins if they have information the cops want.

And now I have information that the Petrovs might want, might need.

It's no secret that information is power.

Expensive power.

I chew on my bottom lip.

It will take at least thirty days to get the Medicaid system to reverse their decision. Nothing happens quickly when it comes to them shelling out money.

I don't need a lot. Just enough to pay Mom's fees. I can recoup the money I lost when they drained my account and get enough to pay her fees for next month just in case they slow walk the paperwork.

A quick search gives me an address for the main offices for the Petrov business. They work primarily out of Kraze, one of their clubs.

I sip my hot coffee, considering my options.

I'd be dealing with a man who could crush me just as easily as help me.

But I have information.

It's not like I'm asking for a loan.

I'd be getting money for information.

A trade.

As I'm thinking, a notification on my computer pops up. A reminder I set for myself that my rent is due next week.

If I don't take this chance, Mom could end up kicked out of the facility and I might not be able to get the rent together in time. We'll both be without a place to stay. And how will I take care of her then?

I glance back at the card.

There are worse things I could do than sell a little bit of information to the Russian mob.

Another notification blips on the screen.

An email that my deference has been rejected and my student loan payments are due to begin this month.

My heart sinks into my stomach.

There are worse things I could do.