Chapter 3
Zoya
Motionless, I stare at the man on the slab, dissociating him from the man I loved.
The white sheet is concealing the damage the sniper’s bullet did, but it can’t hide the absolute, terrifying stillness. Dad was never still. He was a whirlwind of expensive cologne, loud laughter, and volatile temper. This shell isn’t him.
“Ms Antonova?” the mortician asks.
“It’s him,” I croak. “Cover him up.”
I don’t lean in to kiss his forehead. I don’t weep. That performance is for the funeral, for the cameras and the sharks who will circle to see if the Antonov bloodline is weak. Right now, I just feel cold. Bone-deep cold.
He pulls the sheet up, erasing my father from existence. Just like that.
“We need to move,” Alexey says, checking his phone.
I turn on my heel. My ruined trainers squeak on the sterile linoleum, a ridiculous sound that mocks the gravity of the moment. “Take me home. I need to change. I need... I need to not be here.”
“The estate is safer,” he argues, stepping in front of me.
“The townhouse,” I insist, pushing past him. “Non-negotiable.”
Alexey hesitates, then nods. It doesn’t surprise me how quickly he capitulated.
The man who pays him is no longer here, and I am…
who the fuck knows what I am. I do know that I need to break into the desk my father has locked up in his study at the townhouse.
I never go in there, never had a need to, but I have to believe he didn’t leave me without anything to my name.
The drive back is silent. There is nothing left to say. When the car finally pulls up to the kerb outside my Kensington home, I practically bolt for the door, desperate to scrub the hospital smell from my skin and get this fucking sock off.
I spot the black sedan parked on the other side of the road and recognise the plate. It’s Antonov men.
I shoot a look at Alexey, and he shrugs. “He would kill me if anything happened to you.”
With a nod and a hard swallow, I step over the spilt latte, unlock the front door, and step inside, revelling in the warmth from my sanctuary. My sanctuary, which, despite being in my dad’s name, is mine.
I remove my trainers and yank my socks off, grimacing as I walk down the hardwood hallway towards my father’s study.
The door looms before me, a solid barrier of dark oak.
Even now, with him gone, I hesitate. This room was the inner sanctum, the place where the air was always thick with secrets I wasn’t meant to hear.
Entering without an invitation feels like walking onto a minefield, but necessity overrides respect.
I try the handle. Locked. Of course.
“Damn it,” I hiss, the sound harsh in the quiet hallway.
I don’t have time for sentimentality, and I certainly don’t have time to wait for a locksmith. Nik will move fast. I have to be faster.
I turn on my heel and march to the utility cupboard under the stairs, grabbing a hammer from the chaotic toolkit Dad kept for emergencies but never used. Striding back to the door, I raise my arm and then stop when the phone rings.
I grab it out of my bag, knowing exactly who it will be.
I’m not wrong.
I slide my finger across the screen and hold it to my ear.
“Hello, cuz,” Nik’s smooth voice greets me before I’ve even said anything. “My condolences.”
Grimacing so hard my jaw aches, I force myself to speak. “Nik. Thank you for calling.”
“Of course,” he says as if not calling never entered his mind. “We are family. I am taking care of everything.”
“Okay,” I say, faltering slightly. I hadn’t even got to the point of processing a funeral. I’m sure money will be exchanged to rush it through. I don’t know how these things work, but I’m not completely na?ve. “Thank you.”
Silence. Then he says, “You will be taken care of, Zoya. It’s what your father would’ve wanted.”
Relief floods my veins, but I take it with a grain of salt. “You are stepping into his shoes?” I need confirmation.
“Yes. It is also what he wanted. He was a firm believer that men are men and women… stay women.”
Stifling my noise of disgust, I clutch the phone tighter.
I can read between the lines. It’s a very clear warning to stay in my little life and not try to challenge him for the boss role.
Not that the thought even occurred to me.
Until now, of course, because how dare he?
Women stay women. What is that exactly? Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen and not Bratva bosses?
“Zoy?”
“I’m here. I’m sorry, I’m still processing.”
“Of course. I will leave you to your grief. You are safe, Zoya. You are family.” He hangs up.
Family. I am the family. I am Mikhail Antonov’s daughter. I swing the hammer as I turn back to the door and slam the metal claw against the brass handle. Wood splinters, sharp and pale against the dark varnish, and the lock gives way with a crunch. I kick the door open and stride into the room.
I drop the hammer onto the plush Persian rug and lunge for the massive mahogany desk. My hands are shaking so badly that I can barely grip the brass handles of the drawers. I yank them open one by one, desperate. Files. Ledgers. A heavy gold lighter.
“Come on,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I toss legal papers onto the desk. “Don’t leave me with nothing.”
Turning from the desk, I move to the oil painting of a stormy seascape on the far wall. Behind it is the safe. I know the code; it’s my birthday.
My fingers fly over the keypad. The light turns green. I pull the heavy steel door open and freeze.
Relief washes over me, so potent it makes my knees weak.
Stacks of cash. Ten grand, maybe more. Not a fortune, but a start.
I retrieve my gym bag and sweep the cash into it.
I grab fake passports, too. Dad always had contingencies, so I know he wouldn’t have left me high and dry. There has to be more.
Taking in a calming breath, I close the safe and focus on the desk again.
Pulling out the right bottom drawer, I sit down in the old leather chair and root through it, finding nothing of note. So I replace it and pull out the left bottom drawer and come up empty. Standing up, I slam it down on the desk in frustration, but then peer closer. A false bottom.
Of fucking course.
Old skool.
Turning the drawer over and banging on its bottom with the retrieved hammer, I smash it, then turn it back over to find an A4-sized ledger with a red cover.
“Why would you be hidden?” I murmur and snatch it up, sitting back down as I glance nervously at the door as if I expect Nik or someone else to come barging in.
I flick the cover open. The pages are filled with my father’s cramped, spidery handwriting. No digital footprint, just ink and paper. I scan the first page, my heart hammering against my ribs.
My name is at the top, Zoya Melina Antonova.
A code sits next to it, something only my father would know.
I flip through the book, looking for the key, but there is nothing.
I suspect it is in a different place, or what would be the point in making a key code?
Returning to the first page, I run my finger down the column of names, each with a unique code next to it.
“What is this?”
A crash from upstairs makes me jump and clutch the book to my chest. I freeze, listening for footsteps, but hear nothing.
Blinking rapidly, I shove the ledger into my bag and hastily put the drawer back together as best I can before slotting it back into place.
Gripping my bag in one hand, the hammer in the other, I slip out of the study, closing the door quietly and aim for the stairs.
My bare feet sink into the plush runner on the stairs, offering no sound to betray my position.
I grip the handle of the hammer so tight my palm aches.
Not that it will do much good against someone sent here to wipe me off the face of the earth.
If they took out my father on a golf course surrounded by security, a locked front door won’t stop them from getting to me.
I reach the landing, my heart thumping a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The hallway is empty, shadows stretching long and distorted in the grey afternoon light. The air feels different up here—colder, sharper.
Another thud comes from my bedroom.
I swallow the urge to call out, every horror movie I’ve ever seen flashing through my mind. Instead, I creep forward, raising the hammer, ready to swing at the first thing that moves. I reach for the handle of my bedroom door, my breath held in my burning lungs and shove it open.
A gust of wind hits me instantly, carrying the scent of rain.
The sash window is open a crack, enough for the heavy velvet curtains to whip up like angry ghosts. Rain is lashing against the sill, soaking into the cream carpet I keep meticulously clean.
“What the hell?” I whisper, stepping inside, scanning the room for intruders.
On the floor, shattered glass glints in the dull light.
The framed photo of my father—the one where we’re laughing in St. Tropez—lies face down, the stand broken.
The wind must have knocked it over. I rush to the window to slam it shut, struggling against the weight of the sash and the pressure of the gale outside.
The room falls into order again, and I turn around.
It wasn’t open enough for anyone to have come through or left through.
Not to mention, there is a two-storey drop to the pavement, so if someone scaled up or down the wall, it would have been noticed.
The black sedan is still parked opposite.
But I do what any sane person would do, and I start a room-by-room check.
Wardrobes are flung open. The ensuite is clear.
No one is hiding in the shower cubicle or crouching behind the wicker laundry basket.
I check under the bed, feeling foolish as I lift the heavy duvet, half-expecting a bogeyman.
Nothing but dust motes and a lost pearl earring, I thought I’d vacuumed up weeks ago.
Then I move to the guest room. Empty. The room is silent, the air stagnant and smelling faintly of lavender sachet.
I check the wardrobe, shoving aside the winter coats I store in here, my hammer raised high, ready to bring it down on a skull.
Nothing but cedar and wool. The ensuite is the same—cold tiles, dry sink, zero threats.
The office up here is clear, so I move back downstairs to check each room. The kitchen is empty. The dining room is empty. The lounge is empty. The only sound is the aggressive hum of the fridge and the rain drumming against the French doors leading to the garden. I check the locks—secure.
“Pull it together, Zoya,” I mutter, lowering the hammer.
My grip is sweaty, and my arm aches from the tension.
It was just the wind. The housekeeper must have opened the window earlier and forgotten to shut it.
I’m letting the trauma of the last hour bleed into the masonry, turning shadows into monsters.
I trudge back upstairs, the adrenaline crash leaving me feeling hollowed out and shaky. I need a shower. I need to scrub this day off my skin until I’m raw.
Back in my bedroom, I lock the door behind me. Paranoia is a hard habit to break. I toss the gym bag with the cash and the ledger under the bed and walk towards the broken photo.
I crouch down, careful to avoid the shards of glass that glitter like jagged diamonds on the cream carpet.
My hand trembles as I reach for the frame.
The picture inside is miraculously unharmed, capturing a moment where Dad looked invincible, his arm heavy and protective around my shoulders.
A sob lurches up my throat, and I let it out with a sound like a wounded animal.
“Daddy,” I weep as everything crashes down on me. “Why were you so reckless? Why did you leave me?”