Chapter 24 Nadya
NADYA
The phone screen glows in the darkness of my bedroom as Xander's message comes in, waking me.
I stare at the address for a few seconds, watching the digits blur as tears gather in my eyes.
The whole fucking world is asleep, as is my family in rooms right down the hallway, and he is still beckoning me into his world as if I am a dog on a chain.
This could be my final job for him, the last time I have to rush out in the middle of the night to scrub some poor unfortunate soul's blood from the ground.
After tonight, I could walk away completely, find legitimate work during daylight hours, return to the world of normal people with normal problems.
But first, I need to put my foot down and let him know I'm serious.
Xander's organization depends on my skills to erase evidence, to make murder scenes disappear.
If I simply vanish without warning, I leave him exposed to consequences that could end with his execution.
His boss doesn't forgive operational failures, but I know his men are well able to do the work I do now.
I can make sure they do the job well and then follow up with him afterward, show him they're capable.
And if I show him they can handle the final cleanup and demonstrate that I'm capable of walking away without betraying his secrets, maybe he'll understand my choice.
Maybe he'll even respect it.
It won't do anything to stop the hemorrhage when my heart tears open because I have to end things with him.
But maybe he'll still want me, even if I no longer work for him.
The thought sends warmth through my chest, hope battling against the fear that has consumed me since our confrontation in the car.
Xander called me his little bird, claimed that no one walks away from him.
But those were words spoken in anger and desperation, weren't they?
Surely, he wouldn't hurt me for choosing my family over his world of violence.
I slide from beneath warm blankets, moving quietly through the apartment where Irina and the children sleep.
They all sleep deeply enough that I won't wake them, even when I don my boots and grab my coat from the hall closet.
But when I head out to what I assume is a waiting car, I see nothing.
No Igor, no Ivan.
No one here to usher me toward the impending doom, so despite knowing it upsets him, I'm left with no choice but to call a cab again.
The taxi arrives fifteen minutes after I make the call.
The driver doesn't speak, accustomed to transporting people who prefer anonymity to conversation.
His radio plays classical music, and he grunts every so often as we pass a car.
I try to steady myself, hugging my arms over my nauseous stomach, but the closer we get to the industrial district Xander beckoned me to, the more nervous I get.
Igor's car idles near the entrance, exhaust steaming in the cold air.
He emerges as my taxi approaches, nodding acknowledgment as I pay the driver and step out onto the frozen pavement.
"Bad one tonight," he grumbles, his weathered face grim in the low lighting.
He looks exhausted and he's covered in blood.
I'd almost assume he'd been hit if he didn't just look annoyed at me for taking so long.
I shoulder my supply bag, feeling its familiar bulk.
"How many?"
"Enough to keep you busy until dawn."
The vague answer settles uneasily in my stomach.
Usually Igor provides exact numbers, allowing me to estimate the time and supplies required for complete sanitization.
His evasion suggests tonight's violence exceeded even their usual brutality.
"Where's Xander?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.
"Had business elsewhere."
Igor's tone suggests the conversation is a closed matter.
When men in this organization shell up, there's no point in pressing for more.
Xander couldn't face me.
After our intimate encounter in the car, after I told him I needed to step away, he can't bring himself to watch me clean up one more scene.
The realization stings, confirming that our relationship has shifted into something painful for both of us.
My head sags.
I never wanted it to be this way.
"We moved the bodies to the furnace district," Igor continues.
"Blood and debris are yours to handle."
It's just standard procedure.
The men handle removal while I eliminate traces that could connect specific individuals to the scene.
It's a division of labor that has worked efficiently for months, allowing us to sanitize crime scenes quickly.
But they learned everything too.
With a job this large, they should be helping with all of it.
Ivan appears from the warehouse entrance, his sandy hair disheveled and tactical vest stained blood.
He nods to me, then follows Igor toward their waiting vehicle.
I stand there feeling dumbfounded and just watching because what else can I do?
"Five hours until dawn," Igor calls over his shoulder.
"Finish before then."
Their car disappears into the maze of industrial streets, leaving me alone with my supplies and the task ahead.
The warehouse entrance yawns before me, darkness beyond the threshold but I'm livid.
Anger flares in my chest.
He couldn't even face me.
After everything we've shared, after the intimacy in the car and the words of love exchanged between gasping breaths, Xander abandons me to clean up his mess alone.
This is what I get for trying to be reasonable, for attempting to end things professionally.
I came here tonight to prove I could step back without betraying him, to show that love doesn't require participation in murder.
Instead, he treats me as expendable labor, someone to be summoned with cryptic text messages and dismissed when convenient.
I grip the supply bag tighter, knuckles white against the canvas straps.
How many nights have I stood in doorways exactly like this one, preparing to scrub blood from concrete while he watched me with some giddy expression?
How many times have I erased evidence of his violence while walked away clean as a fucking whistle?
The injustice of it infuriates me.
He calls me Ptichka, claims I'm precious to him, then sends me alone into warehouses where men died because of his orders.
If I truly meant something beyond my usefulness, wouldn't he stay to ensure my safety?
Wouldn't he at least acknowledge the risk he places me in every time his phone buzzes with coordinates?
But no.
I'm the cleaner, the woman who makes problems disappear.
My feelings, my fears, my need for basic human consideration—none of it registers beside the urgent necessity of sanitizing crime scenes before dawn breaks.
I blink back tears that feel more like acid than salt water.
This is exactly why I need to walk away, why I can't allow myself to believe he could ever care about me.
Men who love you don't leave you alone with the corpses of their enemies.
They don't reduce you to a glorified janitor who happens to be good in bed.
I check my phone again, hoping for another message from Xander.
Perhaps an explanation for his absence, or words that might ease the tension between us.
But the screen remains blank, offering no comfort for the ache that's settled in my chest.
The warehouse door stands open, hanging from hinges damaged by forced entry.
Light trickles out but it's stained red by the emergency bulbs overhead.
Just enough light to find my way in, which means my cell will be dead in a few hours from using my flashlight app.
I step across the threshold, preparing to confront the aftermath of another night's violence.
But the scene that greets me is wrong.
Completely, terrifyingly wrong.
Instead of pools of blood and splatters on the walls, armed figures emerge from behind shipping containers and machinery, weapons trained on my body.
Five men in dark clothing with faces obscured by masks and absolutely zero bullet holes in them.
Terror floods through my veins as understanding crystallizes.
These men can't get to Xander so they're coming for me.
They waited in hiding somewhere they wouldn’t be found until his work was done, and they came out of hiding just for me.
The other option—that Xander set this up to end me because he can't do it himself—is unthinkable.
I push that notion away immediately.
"Drop the bag," the nearest soldier orders, his accent thick with southern Moscow inflection.
My hands shake as I lower the supply bag to the concrete floor.
Bleach and plastic sheeting spill from the opened zipper, and I raise my hands slowly in surrender.
"Nadya Korshin," another voice calls from the darkness.
It's older, carrying authority that makes the other men stand a few inches straighter.
"The Morin cleaner."
They know my name.
Know my connection to Xander, my role in his organization.
The knowledge hits me like an arctic wind, stripping away any illusion that I might escape this situation through innocence or misdirection.
"We've been watching you," the voice continues.
A man steps into the emergency lighting, revealing features hardened by years of violence.
Dark hair streaked with silver, cold eyes that reflect no warmth, facial scars that scare the hell out of me and anyone else who looks at him, I imagine.
"Learning your patterns, studying your methods."
I don't recognize him, but the authority in his bearing marks him as someone important within the Sokolov hierarchy.
A lieutenant perhaps, or one of Arkady's most trusted enforcers?
"You clean up after murders," he says, circling my position with predatory grace.
I try to speak, to protest or bargain or scream, but terror has stolen my voice.
The warehouse suddenly feels like a cage, and now I understand why Xander calls me Ptichka.
"But tonight you serve our purposes instead."
The unnamed Sokolov lieutenant produces a canvas bag from beneath his coat, dark fabric that will block vision while allowing airflow.
"Xander Morin cares for you, doesn't he? More than he should, according to our sources."
Understanding crashes over me in waves of horror.
They're here to take me, to use me as a weapon against the man I love.
My capture will force Xander into choices he's not prepared to make.
"Please," I manage to whisper, the word barely audible.
"Nothing personal," he says, signaling to his men.
"You're simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, involved with the wrong man."
They move toward me all at the same time and each of them has a sinister grin on his face.
I consider running, but five armed soldiers in an enclosed space leave no room for escape.
The bag descends over my head, blocking out the emergency lighting and plunging my world into suffocating darkness.
Hands grip my arms, forcing them behind my back as zip ties bite into my wrists and I shudder and shake, my knees going weak as they begin forcing me to move.
"Transport her to the secondary location," the man orders.
"Notify the old man that we have acquired the asset."
I'm carried into winter darkness, toward a future I cannot see and cannot escape.
Somewhere in this city, Xander will discover my disappearance and realize his enemies have claimed the one thing that might break him completely.
A woman who knows all of his secrets.
The woman he called his little bird, now caged by those who seek his destruction.