Chapter 9 Ivy
IVY
Iwake to silence.
Not the comforting kind, but the strange, muffled stillness that comes when you’ve been moved somewhere new.
My eyes open to a ceiling I don’t recognize—low beams, uneven plaster, faint water stains spreading like veins.
For a moment I forget where I am, and then it all rushes back.
The gunfire, the agents dragging me through the night.
And now here I am, in another safehouse.
I sit up slowly, the thin blanket slipping down my shoulders.
The air is cold, damp. If it’s even possible, the mattress feels even harder than the last one.
Different walls, different furniture, but the same stale smell of confinement.
I can’t help the bitter laugh that slips out.
They keep moving me like a package, passing me from one box to another, and somehow, I’m supposed to feel safe?
A knock sounds at the door.
“Ms. Andreev?” It’s Graham’s voice, steady as always. “You awake?”
“Yeah,” I call back, rubbing the grit from my eyes. “I’ll be out in a second.”
I get dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a thick blue sweater, then go into the living room where the agents are waiting for me. Both look worn, shadows under their eyes, their shoulders tight with tension. It’s a miracle none of us were hurt last night.
“Another new house,” I mutter, sitting on the worn leather couch that looks—and feels—like it should have been tossed in the nearest dumpster a decade ago. “You guys really know how to show a girl a good time.”
Torres gives a tired half-smile. “Sorry. Last night was… messy.”
“Messy?” I echo, the word tasting sour. “It was a hell of a lot more than messy.”
Graham grabs a chair from the small card table that doubles as a kitchen table and pulls it into the living room.
He sits down, his elbows braced on his knees.
“We’re still not sure who all was involved.
Some of the shooters were Vadim’s men. That much we know.
But there were others—different tactics, different signals.
Could be a rival family. We do know, though, that they weren’t shooting at us. ”
I stare at him, my stomach knotting tighter. “So it’s not just Vadim who wants me dead. Great. That really helps me sleep at night.”
Torres runs a hand through his hair. “There’s no reason to think that. Whoever they were, they seemed to be after the others. They weren’t interested in us.”
Does that ease my mind? Maybe a little. Still, there were a lot of people shooting each other. How can anyone be sure they weren’t shooting at us, too?
“You’re not alone in this,” Graham says firmly, like he can read the spiral of my thoughts. “We’ll get you through today.”
Today. Right.
Court.
I close my eyes and try to steady my breathing. What if I mess this up? What if I forget something, or say it wrong? What if they twist my words and make me sound like a liar? The questions batter me faster than I can silence them. My stomach knots so tightly, I think I might be sick.
I picture Vadim’s face, hard and merciless, and the weight of it presses down on me. What if he shows up? Will I be able to testify while he’s watching me? I rub my damp palms against my jeans.
For a flicker of a moment, I wonder if I should have stayed quiet and pretended I saw nothing.
But then I see the man’s body crumpling to the ground.
All that blood, and the cold expression on Vadim’s face.
No—silence would have been its own kind of death.
Somehow, I think he would still be after me to make sure I don’t say anything.
Staying silent wouldn’t have protected me either.
I draw in a shaky breath and open my eyes, forcing myself upright. “I guess I’ll go take a shower and get ready for court,” I tell the agents, my voice resigned.
The federal courthouse is all steel, glass, and sharp edges that make me feel like I’m walking into a blade. The agents flank me on all sides, moving me quickly through back entrances and service hallways. No public gallery, no reporters, just the echo of our footsteps against polished floors.
Inside the closed courtroom, the air feels heavier, thicker. A judge sits high on the bench, his expression impassive. My knees threaten to buckle as I’m sworn in, my voice catching on the oath. Thankfully, though, only attorneys and federal agents are here. Then the questions begin.
“Tell us what you witnessed on the night of Friday, December fourteenth.”
I force myself to breathe, to anchor myself in the facts. The words scrape out of me, halting at first, then steadier as I go. The alley. The shadows. The gun. The body crumpling to the ground. I don’t let myself think about the blood.
The prosecutor asks clarifying questions. The judge listens, nods, makes notes. When it’s done, I feel wrung out, hollow.
The judge’s voice is calm but final. “This testimony is sufficient. The matter will proceed to trial. A court date is scheduled for January.”
January. My chest tightens. That feels both impossibly far away and far too soon.
The agents guide me out quickly, shielding me from unseen eyes. My legs are shaky, but I keep moving.
Back in the safehouse, Graham sits me down at the little card table. Torres stands by the window, watching the street below.
“There’s something you need to know,” Graham says carefully. “Vadim was picked up this morning.”
Relief spikes in my chest, sharp and fleeting. “So… it’s over?”
Torres turns, his mouth grim. “Not exactly. He posted bail before he even sat down in holding. Less than thirty minutes.”
The relief curdles into dread. “You’re saying he’s already out?”
“Yes,” Graham says. “Apparently, he turned himself in and his attorney was able to get him released on bail.”
I grip the edge of the table, nails digging into the stained material. My stomach lurches. “Then what’s the point of any of this? If he can walk free like nothing happened, why am I risking my life to testify?”
“Because it’s the only way men like him are ever put away,” Torres says quietly.
I shake my head, tears burning at the corners of my eyes. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
“You can,” Graham says firmly. “You already have.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe someone.
But then I see him.
Out of the corner of my eye, through the half-open doorway to the living room.
A man stares back at me. He’s only there for a moment, then he disappears.
But there’s something about him that I recognize.
Those broad shoulders, his sharp profile, a presence that pulls the air toward him.
His stance is solid, protective, a wall between me and the world. His eyes—so green and steady.
I know who he is.
Konstantin.
What is he doing here? My stalker, as Frank likes to call him. Dread washes through me. If he can find me, how long before Vadim does? Konstantin has nothing to do with any of this. He’s just a customer I saw every Friday night. Why is he here, at my safehouse?
For a moment, my mind slips backward, years peeling away.
I’m small again, five maybe six, bundled in a too-big coat.
My father’s hand is warm around mine as he walks me across a frozen yard.
He stops when I stumble, lifts me into his arms without a word.
Against his chest I feel safe, unshakable, like nothing bad could ever touch me.
That same feeling brushes against me now as I look at where Konstantin had been standing, watching me. A sense of safety that makes no sense at all floats over me.
I blink hard, forcing myself back into the present.
The day drags on, heavy with silence and restless pacing. When the sun sinks, the agents gather me for transport.
“It’s time to move,” Graham says, his tone brisk.
“Another safehouse,” I grumble as I climb into the back of the SUV.
I’m stuck in the middle again, pressed between Torres and another agent whose name I don’t know.
The city outside the windows is dark, snow swirling in the glow of the streetlights.
My body aches with exhaustion, but my mind won’t still.
“With Vadim out on bail, we don’t want to take any chances,” Graham says. I understand, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
The car slows down, drawing a frown from Torres. “What’s going on?” he asks, leaning forward.
Red taillights flare ahead of us, blocking the narrow street. A line of black vehicles idles across the road, engines rumbling.
My pulse spikes. “Is it—”
Before I can finish, the world outside explodes into motion. Doors open, shadows spill out. Men fan into the street, armed, surrounding us in a tightening circle.
The agents draw their weapons, shouting orders.
And then I see him.
Konstantin.
He stands at the front of the group, tall and immovable, his men a wall behind him. His eyes lock on mine through the glass.
My breath stutters.
The SUV doors are yanked open.
And everything tilts into chaos.