Chapter 6
Nikandr
I haven’t really slept except for an hour here or there.
Forty-eight hours have passed since I gave Maksim the deadline, and I’ve spent most of them staring at the camera feed from Sabrina’s room like a man possessed.
I’ve analyzed ever expression she makes, every gesture, and every inch of her body language.
None of it matches what I know of Irina Volkov.
According to all my research, Irina was always aware of how her actions might be perceived.
She moved through the world like an actress playing a role, every smile and laugh and tear carefully orchestrated for maximum effect.
The woman on my screen is raw in a way that Irina never was, her emotions playing across her face without filter or consideration for who might be watching.
When she discovered the camera, the panic that overtook her was genuine.
When she pounded on the door and screamed, it wasn’t a performance designed to elicit sympathy.
It was the reaction of someone who had been pushed beyond their breaking point and was fighting back in the only way they knew how.
But I can’t let go. Some part of me—the part that’s been hunting Irina for ten years—refuses to accept this woman might be exactly who she claims to be.
If she’s not Irina, I’m back to square one.
Back to chasing shadows and following leads that go nowhere.
Back to living with the knowledge that my brother’s killer is still out there, and the woman who made it possible is free to enjoy the life she stole from him.
The door to my office opens without a knock, and Maksim enters with the expression he’s been wearing for the past two days. It’s concern mixed with barely contained frustration, like he’s watching me make a mistake that will get us all killed. “We need to talk.”
I don’t look away from the monitors. On screen, Sabrina is sitting by the window, staring out at the forest with the kind of hollow exhaustion that comes from prolonged stress.
She’s barely touched the food we’ve been bringing her, and there are dark circles under her eyes that suggest she’s sleeping as poorly as I am.
“About what?” I know, of course.
“You’ve been obsessing over surveillance footage for two days instead of focusing on the actual threat we’re facing.”
I finally turn to look at him. “What threat?”
“Vadim’s been quiet too long. Our sources say he’s planning something big, something that’s going to shake up the entire West Coast operation. We should be preparing for that, not playing games with a woman who isn’t even our target.”
I frown. “You don’t know that she isn’t our target.”
Maksim moves closer to my desk, his voice dropping to the tone he uses when he’s trying very hard not to lose his temper.
“Nikandr, I’ve run every background check we have access to.
Sabrina Clyde is exactly who she says she is.
Born in Modesto, attended community college until her mother got sick, and worked a series of low-paying jobs to make ends meet.
There’s a paper trail going back twenty-six years.
School records, medical records, and employment history. It’s all legitimate.”
I shake my head. “Records can be fabricated.”
“Not this thoroughly. Not this convincingly.” He leans forward, placing his hands on my desk. “She’s not Irina Volkov, which means she’s a civilian who can identify all of us.”
The implication hangs between us. In our world, civilians who know too much don’t get to go home and pretend nothing happened. They become problems that need to be solved, permanently. “I’m aware of what she is.”
He lets out a soft snort. “Are you? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to find reasons to keep her around instead of reasons to let her go.”
The accusation hits closer to home than I’d like to admit. “Once we locate and capture the real informant, I’ll figure out how to let her go without compromising our security.”
“And how exactly do you plan to do that? She’s seen your face, Nikandr. She knows about this facility. She can place you at the club. How do you propose we solve that problem?”
I turn back to the monitors, watching her trace patterns on the window glass with her fingertip. “I’ll think of something.”
“You’ll think of something.” Maksim’s laugh is harsh. “This isn’t like you. You don’t take unnecessary risks, and you don’t let emotions cloud your judgment. What’s changed?”
I scowl at him. “Nothing’s changed.”
He shakes his head. “Everything’s changed. You kidnapped a woman based on a resemblance to a photograph, brought her to our most secure facility, and now, you’re talking about letting her go like she’s a lost puppy instead of a security risk.”
The truth is that everything has changed, but not in the way Maksim thinks.
It’s not about the mission or the risk or even the resemblance to Irina.
It’s about the way she looked at me when I asked about her mother, the pain in her voice when she talked about her father’s abandonment, and the stubborn strength that keeps her fighting even when she’s trapped and outnumbered.
It’s about the fact I want to protect her instead of eliminate her, which is the most dangerous thing I could possibly feel right now. “She’s not going anywhere until I’m satisfied she’s not a threat.”
Maksim studies my face for a long moment, then shakes his head. “Forty-eight hours, Nikandr. That was the deal. Time’s up.”
He’s right, and we both know it, but I’m not ready to make that decision yet. Not ready to choose between my mission and a woman who might be exactly as innocent as she claims. “Give me more time.”
“How much more time?”
“A few more days.”
“A few more days for what? To convince yourself she’s Irina so you can justify keeping her? Or to convince yourself she’s not so you can figure out how to let her go?”
Both. Neither. I don’t know anymore, and that uncertainty is eating at me like acid. I speak coldly. “Just give me more time. It’s my decision to make as the pakhan .”
Maksim stands and walks toward the door, then turns back to face me.
“I’ve known you for eight years, and I’ve never seen you like this.
Whatever you think you’re doing, whatever you think you’re accomplishing by keeping her here, is going to end badly for all of us.
You’re pakhan , but you have a duty to your men too. ”
After he leaves, I force myself to look away from the monitors and focus on the reports scattered across my desk. They contain intelligence about Vadim’s operation, surveillance photos from his known associates, and financial records that might give us insight into his next move.
My concentration is shot. Every few minutes, I catch myself glancing at the screen where Sabrina sits by the window, and each time I do, something tightens in my chest that has nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with the way she refuses to break despite everything I’ve put her through.
By evening, I decide I need to see her again. Not to interrogate her or probe for inconsistencies in her story, but to bring her food personally and maybe understand why she’s gotten under my skin in a way no one has in years.
I take the elevator to the second floor and walk down the hallway to her room, carrying a tray with soup, bread, and fruit she probably won’t eat. She’s been refusing most of the food we brought her after her first meal.
I slide the keycard through the lock and push open the door before clipping it back to my belt. She’s sitting on the bed now, her knees drawn up to her chest, and she looks up when I enter with the kind of wariness that’s become her default expression around me.
“I’m not hungry,” she blurts before I have the chance to say anything.
“You haven’t eaten in twelve hours.”
“I’m not hungry,” she repeats, more firmly this time.
I set the tray on the coffee table anyway. “You need to eat something.”
“What I need is to go home.”
“That’s not an option right now.”
She unfolds herself from the bed and stands, and there’s something different in her posture—less fear and more anger, like she’s decided cowering isn’t going to get her anywhere. “How long are you going to keep me here?”
“As long as it takes.”
She lets out a genuine snarl of anger and frustration. “As long as what takes? You’ve asked me the same questions a dozen times, and my answers haven’t changed. I’m not this Irina woman. I don’t know anything about your brother or whatever information she supposedly stole. I’m nobody important.”
I move closer, drawn by the fire in her voice despite every instinct telling me to maintain distance. “Maybe that’s the problem.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe I don’t want you to be nobody.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and the moment they’re in the air between us, I realize how dangerous they are. They reveal far too much about what’s really happening here.
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her trying to process what I just said. “You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
“You kidnapped me because you thought I was someone else, and now you’re keeping me here because you don’t want me to be nobody? Do you realize how crazy that sounds?”
“Yes.”
My honesty seems to catch her off guard. She was expecting denials or deflection, not an admission that this whole situation has spiraled beyond anything that could be considered rational.
“Then let me go.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because you’ve seen too much. Because you know where we are and who we are and what we’re capable of. Because in my world, loose ends get people killed, and you’re the biggest loose end I’ve ever created.
I don’t say any of that. Instead, I step close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes and smell the faint scent of the expensive soap from her bathroom. “I don’t trust myself to let you walk away.”