Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
MARINA
I tightened my arms around my body, ducking my head, pressing my elbows in close, as if I could disappear into myself. Nothing stopped the shaking. It wasn’t from the cold, though the night air carried a bitter bite. It was because I could feel it.
Feel him.
Kostya could be anywhere.
He was awake when I fled. His roar had echoed through the walls as I ran for the door. I didn't know how well I had secured him. I'd used the same slipknots he'd used on my roommates, but just because American college kids couldn't escape didn't mean a seasoned bratva enforcer wouldn't.
I squeezed my eyes shut, stomach twisting.
I still couldn't believe I had actually hit him. That I had knocked him unconscious. That I had drawn the blood of an Ivanov.
Not just any Ivanov.
Konstantine Nikolai Ivanov. A high-ranking, powerful member of one of the most feared families in Russia. Kostya had a reputation that extended far beyond the Ivanov name.
Intelligent. Vindictive. Cunning in a way that made even the most dangerous men wary of crossing him. And if he was after you? It was time to get your affairs in order.
If he ever found me again...
That was it.
I was a dead woman.
The only thing I could do now was run. Leave the city. Disappear. Hope to God he never found me again.
To do that, I needed money.
I had money. Not a lot, but enough to start over again. Before she died, Veronika had handed me nearly a million rubles in cash to hold on to for her, only about ten thousand in US dollars, but combined with the few hundred I had saved from tips, it was everything I had. Ten grand wouldn't be enough to vanish completely, but at least it was something.
Laughter. Low. Dark.
My pulse spiked and I jumped, jolted from my thoughts, my heart slamming against my ribs.
I snapped my head up, eyes scanning the lobby.
Four men. American. One had the build of an enforcer, but they were all wearing matching sport jackets.
Bears fans. Not mafia.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to breathe.
Stay focused.
I scanned the crowd again, my eyes darting from face to face, searching for Russian features, for a gaze that held recognition.
Nothing.
But the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. A prickling awareness, as if his eyes were still on me. As if he were still watching me.
He wasn't here. He couldn't be. There was no way for him to find me.
I had turned off the GPS on my phone. Put it in airplane mode to disable the Wi-Fi. I was off the grid.
And yet, I swore I could feel him watching. Waiting. Hunting me.
Tears welled in my eyes, but I forced them back. I would not be the girl who broke down in the middle of Union Station. That would draw attention. And the last thing I needed was for anyone to notice me.
So Kostya wanted the money Veronika had stolen from Solovyov? That was why he'd chased me halfway across the damn world?
It was such a small amount compared to the millions in illegal money they raked in. Then again, mafia families protected their image above all else. If word got out that someone—a woman, no less—had stolen from Solovyov and he had not retrieved what was taken, it would make him look weak.
It was probably what Veronika found so amusing when she handed it to me with a secretive wink. I knew she'd been fighting with him. It would be just like her to try to mess with him by stealing his money.
That had to be why he sent Kostya after me. Solovyov probably thought sending his lover's husband was some kind of poetic justice.
I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into the edges of my coat. In a twisted, fucked-up way it kind of was.
Kostya was the best man for the job. A highly skilled retrieval specialist among other, far bloodier things. The way Veronika had explained it, he was the man you called when something was taken from you. It didn't matter what it was—jewelry, money, a person with a vendetta.
Kostya was the one who could find it or them.
And finish the job.
BANG.
A loud crack echoed through the marble hall.
My stomach plummeted. My heart shot into my throat.
I twisted in my seat, frantic, eyes scanning for a man with a gun. There was no man. Just a woman who had dropped a plastic suitcase onto the marble floor.
My body was locked so tight with fear that my hand flew to my throat, gripping hard, as if that would somehow stop my pulse from racing.
I forced myself to breathe.
I wasn't safe. Not really.
I may have been in public, but if Kostya found me? That would only slow him down.
If I handed the stolen money over to him, maybe he would let me go.
A foolish hope.
But right now, it was all I had as I sat with my knees up to my chest on a hard bench inside a bitterly cold train station at night. The very image of desperate and alone .
Flying to New York City would have been faster. But I couldn't risk the Americans' better security flagging my bogus passport. Worse, I knew the Russians had TSA agents on their payroll. The risk of Kostya knowing exactly where I was before the plane even took off was far too great.
So instead, I was hiding. Curled up waiting to take the late-night train from Chicago to New York. A twenty-hour journey.
The money was waiting for me in a locker near Penn Station.
I'd never wanted to touch it. In my mind, it was soaked in my sister's blood.
If I could just get on that train, I would have time to figure out a plan. Time to think. Time to recover. Even if it meant sleeping in a cramped, miserable coach seat, at least I could breathe.
I just had to make it onto that train.
A high-pitched shriek echoed through the massive marble hall, bouncing off the high ceilings.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I jumped, panic ripping through me.
Until I saw the baby. Just a baby, wailing in its mother's arms.
Not a scream. Not a gunshot. Not Kostya.
My nerves were shot to hell. My pulse refused to slow.
I slumped down, pulling my coat tighter around me, hoping the small crowd of people waiting for the nine-thirty train would be enough to hide me. I clenched my ticket so tightly in my sweaty hand that the paper wrinkled .
I checked it. Then checked it again. And yet again. As if the details would suddenly change. As if something would go wrong.
Every sound had me jumping. Every shift in movement sent my pulse into overdrive. My stomach was a hard knot, twisted so tight it ached.
I just needed to get on that damn train.
Again my mind turned to the mess Veronika had created for me. All of this. All this fear. All this waiting. All this running.
For ten thousand dollars.
It seemed too small an amount; the cost alone of sending Kostya had to be more than that. Why the hell would Solovyov waste his time? Men like him, men like Kostya, made more than that in an hour, let alone a day.
It didn't make sense.
Why was my life only worth ten thousand dollars? Why was Veronika's?
If she had just asked Solovyov for the money—or even Kostya—they probably would have given it to her. I didn't want to think about what she would've had to do for it. But she was already sleeping with Solovyov. She flaunted it.
She took pride in showing off the trinkets and baubles he bought her, treating them like trophies. Her Hermès bag collection alone was worth well over a hundred thousand dollars.
And yet, she had risked everything for this? For ten thousand dollars?
And now, because of her, I was paying the price .
As always, anger at my sister was quickly followed by guilt. Whatever her faults, she'd paid dearly for them. And as upset as I was, I knew she'd never have deliberately put me in this position. We may have only been half sisters, but she loved me…in her way.
I knew why she stole it. She did it for the rush. For the thrill. Because cheating on a mafia boss wasn't enough. She had to steal from one, too.
I clenched my jaw, my stomach twisting as the weight of my reality settled deeper. I was hiding in a filthy train station in Chicago, running for my life, over ten thousand stupid dollars.
Tears stung at the backs of my eyes. Not from fear. Not even from exhaustion. But from the gut-wrenching realization of how little I was actually worth.
Was this it? Was this all my life was valued at?
Maybe if I gave the money back, it would all go away. Maybe Kostya would make my death swift.
Or maybe I should just take the money. Exchange it into American dollars. Buy another new identity. A better one. One that could withstand scrutiny from any government. Maybe I needed to leave big cities altogether. Look for somewhere small. Somewhere forgettable. I could disappear in a tiny rural town, a quiet suburb where no one asked questions. Where no one would look at me twice.
My English had improved a lot over the last few months. I could almost speak without the thick Russian accent that made me stand out like a sore thumb in Middle America .
I could blend in. Live simply. Bag groceries. Work at a gas station. Make just enough to get by without drawing attention.
No danger. No mafia. No fear. Just a life.
But was that the life I even wanted? Was it even possible?
My eyes darted across the main hall again, scanning carefully, methodically, for any signs of Kostya. Or worse—any of the other Russians he could have working for him.
The station was filled with the usual crowd for a late-night train. College students, their backpacks slung over their shoulders, some dozing against their luggage, others chatting in hushed voices, the occasional burst of laughter making my heart jerk in my chest. A few families with babies, exhausted parents swaying from side to side as they tried to soothe their fussing children. An odd man in a suit, polished and composed, standing stiffly as if he was actually preparing for a business meeting after a twenty-hour train ride.
No Kostya.
The strange scent of stale coffee mixed with metal and grease lingered in the air. A cold wind swept in from the platforms, nipping at my exposed skin, seeping through the gaps in my coat.
Finally, I heard it. The low, distant rumble of the train coming down the tracks. The vibration of the approaching locomotive hummed beneath my feet.
Almost there. My freedom was all but assured.
I checked my surroundings again, forcing myself to memorize every single face on the surrounding benches. Looking up, I scanned the grand marble staircases, my pulse hammering at the thought of someone standing just beyond my sight, watching me. I checked the line at Auntie Anne's, where people shuffled impatiently for overpriced pretzels, laughing, relaxed, unaware.
Nothing. Kostya wasn't here.
Relief crashed over me.
The station's PA system crackled, and the announcement came. "Now boarding Train 48 to New York Penn Station."
The crowd shifted. I pushed my shoulders in, keeping my movements small as I scurried toward the carriage. But the shuffle of people around me made my skin prickle. The press of bodies. The jostling, the way I kept getting bumped, nudged, shoved.
Every brush of a coat. Every accidental touch.
I felt exposed. Wide open. Too visible.
I swallowed hard, tightening my grip on my coat, forcing myself not to break into a full sprint.
Don't panic. Don't draw attention.
A man brushed past me, his cologne strong, his shoulders broad. My heart stopped for a second, my throat clenching as I whipped around.
Not him. Not Kostya. Just a stranger.
I sucked in a breath and forced my feet forward.
The line moved. One by one, people climbed into the coach-level carriage. I followed, keeping my head down, my heartbeat pounding so loud I was sure someone would hear it .
Twenty hours. Twenty hours, and I would be in New York.
One step closer to figuring out what the hell I was going to do next, because no one was coming to save me from Kostya.