She swallowed her revulsion long enough to tear the bedding from Baba Yaga’s bed and, like the hookers she’d seen earlier, turn a pillowcase into a makeshift swag bag. Baba Yaga owned enough jewelry to fill the damn thing—Mollie had glimpsed diamonds, sapphires, pearls, rings, pendants, and more during her one and only visit. She’d cased the place even while Baba Yaga fulminated at them; she couldn’t help it. Ffodor had trained her too well. And then he—

Nope. Nope. Not my fault.

The earring stands on the vanity, where before they sparkled like little bonsai trees fruiting with gems, were bare. Mollie tiptoed across the room and peeked into the open drawers; they contained several velvet-covered jewelry cases. But these, too, were empty. She even knelt on the carpet and felt around the edges of the vanity, assuming something must have fallen free during the snatch. Not a crumb. Some gutsy SOB had already cleaned Baba Yaga out and did a thorough job of it.

“God damn it,” she muttered. It was never easy. Why was it never easy? Jewels are easy to carry, easy to hide, easy to fence. So of course there’d be none left for her. No, she had to deal with the hard stuff.

So she gave up on the small stuff and searched the rooms for lockboxes and safes. Ffodor had taught her how to look for what she’d come to think of as “rich people” hiding places. And, sure enough, she found one safe embedded in the back of the walk-in closet, and a second in the floor under the bed. Mollie called through the portal to Idaho to let her dad and brothers know she needed a hydraulic cutter to get the safe out of the wall. They’d have to run the lines through the portal, but she could do the work herself. She’d grown up on a farm; she could use tools.

She was waiting on her dad to hand her the cutter when, purely by accident, her gaze touched some pieces from the Russian mobster woman’s furniture collection. Vanities, divans, chaise longues tables, lamps, armoires.

Chairs.

Before she knew it, Mollie was slumped against the wall, hands on her knees, tears dripping into the carpet.

“I’m sorry,” she wept. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

We weren’t smart enough, we weren’t quick enough. It was never safe. But she’d insisted. And now Ffodor …

“Mollie? What the hell is going on over there? You having some sort of woman trouble?”

Quickly, she blew her nose on an antimacassar and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

“No, Daddy. It’s fine. You got that cutter for me?”