Chapter 12 Aleksander
ALEKSANDER
I have to find her.
It’s not a thought I entertain; it’s a fact that settles in my bones the moment I step through my front door. The city can be on fire, my phone can be vibrating itself to death, Nikolai can be listing problems in that flat voice of his, and still, everything in me keeps returning to the same point.
Bella is out there.
And I let her slip through my hands.
Home should feel like control. It usually does.
The elevator opens straight into the apartment, private code, no hallway, no neighbors.
Stone floors that never scuff. Glass that looks out over the water like the world exists for my viewing.
The place is quiet in a way that’s engineered, soundproofed, curated.
It smells faintly of cedar and expensive paint and the cold cleanliness of money.
It doesn’t comfort me tonight.
I drop my keys in a bowl that cost more than a used car. I shrug off my coat, toss it over a chair. The security screens on the wall glow with feeds from cameras I don’t look at. The staff is gone. They know better than to linger when I come back like this.
My body still feels wired, like I’m waiting for the next shot.
I should be running the plan again. I should be calling people, leaning on contacts, pulling footage, tightening the net. I’ve done all of that, and it still isn’t enough. The problem isn’t logistics.
The problem is that she ran from me, and I hate it.
Everything in my apartment is arranged for efficiency—no photographs, no keepsakes, nothing anyone could use against me. Just the city sprawling below, reflected back in the polished floors.
Except for the studio.
I walk past the living room and into the studio at the back.
It’s the only room in this place that doesn’t feel like it was designed to impress anyone.
The lights are warmer in here. The windows are narrower.
The shelves are cluttered with things I don’t let the rest of the world see.
Books with cracked spines. A few old photographs turned face down.
It’s the one room I keep locked, the only space that feels lived-in.
The walls are spattered with color, the scent of oil paint hangs in the air, canvases line the edges—unfinished work, half-abandoned attempts to make sense of things I can’t say out loud.
A single window faces north, catching a pale, wintery light.
She’s everywhere in here.
Her outline on the canvas in front of me, the sweep of her jaw, the tilt of her head. The long, wild lines of her hair, always unruly, always softer than I remember in my hands. The look in her eyes—wary, challenging, heartbreakingly open when she forgets to guard herself.
I paint her like I’m starving.
Like if I can get her right, she’ll appear in front of me—real, touchable, forgiving.
I’ve gone through three brushes in two hours, each one tossed aside when it fails to capture what she really is—the shadow of a smile, the shape of her mouth when she says my name, the way her eyes go dark when she’s fighting tears.
I don’t sleep. I don’t eat.
I just paint.
The city murmurs under my windows, cars moving in the street, distant horns, the faint pulse of bass from a club two blocks away. But in here, there’s only her, and the way I can’t let her go.
A noise at the door breaks the trance.
Nikolai’s careful footsteps, then a pause, then a throat-clearing cough
I don’t turn. “What is it?”
He stands just inside the doorway, taking in the room, the mess, the paintings—her. He’s silent a beat, then says quietly, “You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He studies me. I can feel it even without looking.
“Busy painting,” he says, a hint of dry humor. “Most men drink when a woman leaves. Or hit the gym.”
I keep my eyes on the canvas. “I’m not most men.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not.”
There’s something in his voice, almost cautious. He’s seen me like this before—obsessed, single-minded, dangerous when I’m denied what I want. He knows how little stands in my way.
“I have men looking,” he says, businesslike now. “Street cams, traffic data, bus depots. She’s smart. She paid cash. Changed routes. She’s trying to disappear.”
My hand tightens on the brush, streaking color over her hair.
“She won’t,” I say, voice low. “She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
He exhales, quiet. “You want updates?”
“Yes.”
He turns to leave, then pauses. “Aleksander,” he says, his tone softer than usual, “are you sure—”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I interrupt.
“The city’s restless,” he says. “Since Kirov.”
I grunt.
He continues, like he’s reading off a list he already organized in his head. “His guys are moving. Not openly, but they’re active. Meetings in the usual places. People who normally stay quiet are suddenly talking. The old men are listening. Everyone wants to know who gets his chair.”
I keep painting. “Let them fight over scraps.”
He steps closer, low voice. “There are rumors you were on that flight with him. Not confirmed. Just talk. ‘Antonov was there. Antonov had words with him. Antonov left the airport fast.’ That’s the story making rounds.”
I stop moving the brush. “Who started it?”
“Hard to say,” he replies. “Could be Kirov’s people looking for a direction. Could be someone else trying to aim them at you. Right now, it’s still rumor. That’s good. It helps that you’re locked up here. No one knows you’re back home. If you’re not seen, the rumor can’t turn into certainty.”
I give a short sound. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just acknowledgment.
Nikolai keeps going. “We cleaned what we could. Boston was messy, but we handled the obvious parts. Anyone digging will get noise, not answers.”
“And the plane.”
He nods once. “Harder. Too many systems, too many logs. We can’t erase it like a street camera. But we can make it difficult for the wrong people to connect it to you. We’re working on that angle.”
I pick up the brush again and drag one stroke through Bella’s hair. Slow. Controlled.
He hesitates, then starts, “Things are not looking good, especially with your mot—”
I turn my head. That’s all it takes.
He stops mid-word.
The silence is short and hard.
“I don’t care about flies,” I say. I stop painting. “Nikolai, if you really want to be helpful, there’s something you can do. The hostess, the one who kept watching me. Talk to her.”
He doesn’t look surprised. He just nods once. “Already on that. The one you flagged—Elena Morozova—she’s got a pile of debt hanging over her. Bad gambling, bad choices. Owes the wrong kind of people.”
“She’s not clean,” I say simply.
“Maybe. She hasn’t gone home since the flight. We tracked her badge—she went to a hotel instead of her apartment. Switched her phone off an hour later. That’s not normal.”
I pace the edge of the studio, paint still drying on my hands. “She saw something. Or someone scared her into silence.”
“Or she’s looking to sell what she knows,” Nikolai adds. “If anyone’s shopping for inside info, she’d be first in line.”
My jaw tightens. “Find her before anyone else does.”
He meets my eyes. “I’m working it. She’s on our list. If she talks to anyone—Kirov’s crew, cops, journalists, anyone with half a reason to ask about that flight—we’ll know. If she tries to run, we’ll have eyes on her.”
“Good,” I say. I pause, feeling the pressure building under my skin, the familiar hum of too many pieces moving at once. “If she’s smart, she’ll keep quiet. If she’s not—”
“We’ll handle it,” Nikolai says. His voice is calm. This is his job.
When he leaves, the studio is silent again, but it’s not the kind of quiet that brings peace. It’s the kind that means something is about to break. I look back at the painting—Bella’s eyes, her mouth, her unfinished expression—and feel the distance like a bruise.
Four years ago, I thought I had her.
That was the mistake.
After breakfast, that morning, I had stepped out onto the marble floor of the lobby, phone pressed to my ear.
My handler’s voice buzzed in my skull, the usual post-mission debrief.
Numbers, logistics, cleanup. My mind was half there, half somewhere else—still replaying the way Bella laughed as she chased crumbs from her plate, the way her eyes softened when she caught me watching.
I hung up and went to look for her. She hadn’t been at the buffet when I finished. I figured she’d gone upstairs. I took the elevator up, keyed into the suite, expecting the sound of a shower or the hum of her voice drifting from the bedroom.
Nothing.
The bathroom was spotless. The bed, already made by housekeeping. Her dress from the night before was gone from the chair.
There was no scent of her shampoo, no trace of her perfume, no shoes by the door.
The whole place felt suddenly wrong. Hollow.
I checked the hallway. Empty. The maid with her cart shrugged—she hadn’t seen anyone leave. The front desk offered nothing. I walked the halls, the business lounge, the rooftop terrace.
It was like she’d evaporated into thin air.
At the concierge desk, I gave her name. The kid behind the counter blinked, uncertain, then hesitantly slid over a small envelope with my name on it.
It was her handwriting on the front.
I opened it right there in the marble lobby, heart pounding and cold.
Aleksander—
Thank you for everything.
I had the best two nights of my life.
But don’t look for me.
—B
Just that. No explanation. No number. Nothing to follow.
I gripped the letter so hard it creased. Fury and disbelief warred in my chest. I demanded to see the security feed. I pressed the doorman for details—finally, he remembered her leaving through the staff entrance at the back.
Anger simmered under my skin—hot, coiling, not just at her but at myself, for letting my guard down, for letting her in, even for a night.