Rafael POV
There are exactly three kinds of people I don’t trust.
Lawyers.
People who think pineapple belongs on pizza.
And Russians.
Especially Russians named Viktor.
There’s a certain comfort in holding onto your prejudices, even if you know they’re half in jest. It gives the world a sense of order, at least until someone like Viktor comes along and shatters any hope of predictability.
“Rafael.”
I didn’t look up from the armchair, stubbornly pretending to read a newspaper whose articles I couldn’t even recall.
The library was filled with the faint scent of leather and dust, sunlight slanting across the shelves.
The only thing more comforting than the quiet was the knowledge that somewhere, chaos was being orchestrated by someone else.
“I’m busy.”
“No, you’re hiding.”
I si
