Chapter 7 Caged with the Wolf
Chapter seven
Caged with the Wolf
Mariana
I wake up in a bed that costs more than my yearly rent.
The sheets are Egyptian cotton, the kind that feels like silk against skin that's used to department store thread counts. The fatigue and heaviness in my body are still so intense that for one disorienting moment I forget where I am.
Then it all comes rushing back. The assassination attempt. The firefight in my apartment. Mikhail appearing like some deadly guardian angel to save my life. The federal manhunt that's turned me into America's most wanted.
The fact that I'm sharing a safe house with the man I've spent two years trying to arrest.
I sit up carefully, testing for injuries from last night's excitement. The bandage on my arm pulls slightly where Mikhail tended to the glass cut, but otherwise I feel surprisingly decent for someone who was nearly murdered twelve hours ago.
The guest room is elegant in that understated way that screams expensive taste. Cream walls, dark furniture that probably came from Italy, artwork that looks original instead of mass-produced. Even the guest accommodations in this place are nicer than anywhere I've ever lived.
What kind of criminal lives like this?
The smell of coffee drifts under the door, rich and dark and infinitely appealing. I follow it like a bloodhound, padding barefoot across hardwood floors that don't creak despite the building's obvious age.
The kitchen is magazine-perfect, all granite countertops and stainless steel appliances that probably cost more than an average car.
Mikhail stands at the massive island, dressed in dark jeans and a black sweater that does dangerous things to my ability to think clearly.
His silver hair is slightly messed up, like he ran his hands through it, and there's something almost domestic about the scene.
Domestic. Right. With the most wanted criminal in New York.
"Good morning," he says without turning around. "Coffee?"
"Please."
He pours from a French press into mugs that look handmade, adding cream without asking how I like it. Which means he knows. Which means he's been watching me long enough to learn my preferences.
Two years. He said two years.
"You know how I take my coffee."
"I know a lot of things about you, little wolf.
" He slides the mug across the island, and our fingers brush when I take it.
The contact sends heat shooting up my arm in ways that are absolutely inappropriate given our circumstances.
"You prefer dark roast, cream and no sugar.
You always order the same sandwich from the deli near your office - turkey and swiss on whole wheat.
You run five miles every morning at six-thirty, except Sundays when you sleep until nine. "
The coffee is perfect, obviously. Rich and smooth and exactly how I like it. Which should be comforting but instead feels vaguely unsettling.
"Anything else?"
"You have a scar on your left shoulder that you always keep covered. Your favorite color is amber, like your eyes. You haven't been in a serious relationship in over three years."
Jesus Christ.
"You've been stalking me."
"I needed to know everything in order to protect you." His dark eyes meet mine over the rim of his coffee mug. "There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Stalkers want to possess. Protectors want to preserve." He takes a sip of coffee, never breaking eye contact.
I wander away from the kitchen before I can say something stupid, exploring the house that's become my prison.
Every room reveals new facets of the man I thought I knew.
The living room has built-in bookshelves filled with volumes in multiple languages—Russian, obviously, but also German, French, Spanish.
Literature, philosophy, history, science.
The kind of collection that suggests a mind that hungers for knowledge.
Not exactly what I expected from a contract killer.
A baby grand piano sits close, sheet music open to something that looks complicated. I run my fingers across the keys experimentally, producing a soft chord that echoes through the space.
"Chopin," Mikhail says from behind me. "Nocturne in E-flat major."
I turn to find him watching me with an expression I can't read. "You play?"
"I used to. Before." He moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something clean and masculine that makes my pulse skip. "My mother insisted all her children learn an instrument. She said music was the language of the soul."
His mother. For some reason, the idea of Ghost having a mother—someone who worried about his piano lessons and made him eat his vegetables—makes my chest tight.
"What happened to her?"
"Chernobyl." The single word carries years of grief. "Along with the rest of my family. Officially, anyway."
"But not really?"
He trails off, staring at the piano keys like they hold answers he's been searching for.
But before any word comes out of his mouth, my phone buzzes against the granite countertop where I left it. Rodriguez's name flashes on the screen, and for a moment I consider not answering. But old habits die hard, and he was my partner for three years. If anyone deserves an explanation, it's him.
"Castillo."
"Jesus Christ, Mariana, where the hell are you? There are federal agents crawling all over the city looking for you. They're saying you killed those contractors, that you've been working with Ghost to eliminate witnesses."
The concern in his voice is genuine, but there's something else underneath it. Something personal that makes me uncomfortable in ways I don't want to examine.
"I didn't kill anyone, Rodriguez. Those men were trying to assassinate me."
"Then come in. Let us sort this out. We can protect you, get you a lawyer, figure out what really happened."
We can protect you. The words should be reassuring. Instead, they make my skin crawl. Because Rodriguez doesn't know about Harrison. Doesn't understand that the corruption goes all the way to the top.
"I can't do that."
"Why not? Mariana, you're scaring me. This isn't like you."
"How well do you really know me, Rodriguez?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications neither of us wants to address.
"I know you're a good agent," he says quietly. "I know you're loyal to the Bureau. I know you would never betray your oath or put civilians in danger."
Your oath. The words sting because they're true. I did swear an oath to uphold justice and protect the innocent. But what happens when the people you swore to serve are the ones trying to kill you?
"What if the Bureau isn't what we thought it was?" I ask. "What if there are people in positions of power who've been using their authority to hurt innocent people?"
"That's conspiracy theory bullshit, and you know it."
"Is it? Rodriguez, someone leaked the location of that safe house where Orlov was killed. Someone with federal access. Someone Harrison trusted."
"You think Harrison is dirty?"
The disbelief in his voice is painful but not unexpected.
Rodriguez is a good man, a good agent. He believes in the system because the system has worked for him.
The idea that it could be corrupted at the highest levels probably feels like blasphemy.
And until a few days ago, it would have felt the same for me too.
"I think someone's been playing games with federal investigations for a very long time. And I think they've been using agents like us as pawns."
"Even if that's true, running away isn't the answer. We work from the inside. We follow protocol. We—"
"We end up dead in a federal prison before we can expose the truth."
Silence stretches between us, filled with everything we're not saying.
"Mariana," he says finally, and his voice carries a tenderness that makes my chest tight. "Whatever's going on, whatever you've gotten mixed up in, it's not too late to fix this. Come home. Let me help you."
Let me help you. The way he says it makes it clear he's not just talking about professional assistance. He's offering something more personal. Something I can't give him and never could.
"I have to go."
"Wait—"
I hang up before he can say anything else. Before the concern in his voice can weaken my resolve or make me second-guess decisions that might be the only thing keeping me alive.
When I turn around, Mikhail is standing in the doorway, watching me with those dark eyes that seem to see everything.
"Rodriguez?" he asks.
"He thinks I should turn myself in."
"He's in love with you."
The observation hits like a physical blow, not because it's wrong but because it's so obviously right. "That's none of your business."
"Everything about you is my business now." He steps into the room, moving with that predatory grace that makes my pulse skip. "We're in this together, whether you like it or not."
"I don't like it."
"I know."
"I don't trust you."
"I know that too."
"Then why—"
"Because you don't have a choice." His voice is gentle but implacable. "Harrison has painted you as a traitor and a killer. Every federal agent in the country is looking for you. Your former partner just tried to convince you to surrender to people who want you dead."
People who want you dead. The words settle in my stomach like stones. He's right. Rodriguez might genuinely want to help, but he's operating from inside a system that's been compromised. Turning myself in would be suicide.
"So what now?" I ask. "I hide in here forever? Become some kind of kept woman while you handle everything?"
Something flashes in his eyes. Something that looks dangerously like possessiveness. "Would that be so terrible?"
The question catches me off guard, probably because part of me doesn't think it would be terrible at all. Part of me is attracted to the idea of letting someone else carry the weight for a while. Of being protected instead of always being the protector.
Dangerous thinking, Mariana.
"Yes," I lie. "It would be terrible."
"Because?"