2. DARIA
Chapter two
I paused to take in the remnants of the life that had been left behind in this house. I knew better than to linger on ghosts, yet this house was full of them. They whispered to me from every corner—from the child’s drawing taped crookedly to the refrigerator, to the knitted blanket with frayed edges draped over the back of a chair. Atop the stove in the living room’s corner sat a once brightly colored enamel-coated kettle. If not for the layer of dust, it would have looked like it was sitting there waiting for someone to return and boil water. It was the kind of home that breathed love, laughter, and happiness—the kind of life that had ended for me the day my mother was murdered. A familiar ache twisted deep inside my chest, a place I’d sealed shut long ago. Neither my father nor the FSB had managed to extinguish that fragile ember of humanity buried deep inside me, though God knows they’d tried. It flickered faintly, just enough to remind me I was still more than the monster they’d forged.
The family who’d once lived here had probably fled in terror, grabbing what they could before the Russian artillery fire came raining down. Or maybe they hadn’t escaped at all. Maybe they’d been dragged from this very room, their lives upended—or even worse, extinguished at the point of a rifle.
I paced, forcing myself to stay focused. Compassion was a liability, a weakness I couldn’t afford. It was dangerous, this lingering softness, a weakness that could get me killed in an instant. Yet standing here, amidst the ruin of another family’s shattered life, something inside me stirred defiantly—reminding me I was still human, capable of feeling something other than the cold grip of violence. As I rifled through the cabinets and drawers, I couldn’t shake the memories of my mother, Irina, whose name meant “peace,” though her life had been anything but.
Before being forced to marry my father, she’d been a renowned ballerina, her movements as graceful and fluid as her name suggested. But Alexey Melnichenko—a ruthless billionaire who’d built his empire in the energy sector and fortified it through mafia dealings—had no room for grace or kindness. He wielded power like a weapon, crushing anything or anyone who dared to defy him. Much to his dismay, Mama had carried herself with a calm strength, the kind that could silence a room without her even uttering a word. She’d had a presence both commanding and soothing. She and I were too much alike, according to the Devil who’d raised me. Warm, loving, and funny in a way that made strangers laugh and kids feel at ease. She’d been kind to a fault, the sort of person who couldn’t pass by a stray animal without stopping to help. She’d never been able to bend to the ways of mafia life or play the role of the good little wife, content with whatever he chose to give her, all while maintaining the perfect smile for others to see. I could still hear her laugh as she talked about the latest abandoned dog she’d sneaked into the house and how she was going to hide it from my father until she found it a new home. She used to say I had her heart, that same instinct to protect.
The Devil had snuffed out all that gentleness and light in my life the day Mama died—or rather, the day he killed her. I’d been in my secret playroom, hidden behind a bookshelf in the library that also served as his office. I’d always loved that space—just big enough for me and my books, with a tiny window letting in sunlight. That day, though, everything had changed as I pressed my ear to the seam of the door and listened.
His henchmen were arriving, ready to report in as usual, their boots echoing in the library’s cavernous silence. One of them spoke, his voice devoid of any emotion: “It’s done. The car went over the cliff clean. We made sure Irina didn’t stand a chance. The wreckage is mangled beyond recognition, and the authorities are dragging it up now. You’ll be getting their call soon.”
I had bitten down hard on the sleeve of my dress to stifle the gasp threatening to burst free.
My father’s response, colder than the stone floors beneath my knees, had sliced through my heart. “Good. Loose ends irritate the hell out of me. When they call, I’ll feign the perfect blend of devastation and disbelief.” At this point, he’d paused and let out a dark chuckle that caused my blood to run cold. “I’ll even manage a tear if it sells the story. Send word to the press. Her tragic accident will make headlines by morning.”
I’d crawled into the corner, unable to process it all, my chest heaving as I tried to keep silent. My six-year-old mind had barely been able to grasp the horror of what I’d just heard. Mama wasn’t coming back. My mother, with her warmth and grace, her stories and laughter, was gone because of him.
After that, the playroom didn’t feel safe anymore. And neither did I. His version of parenting became rigid rules, belt-inflicted punishments, and endless drills in everything from math to hand-to-hand combat. “Weakness,” he often snarled, “gets you killed.” I learned early on not to cry around him, not to show any emotion he could exploit. And now, I was his creature, sculpted and sharpened to serve his agenda and the Kremlin’s machine. The Devil hadn’t just stolen my mother; he’d stolen me too, forging me into the perfect instrument for the FSB’s Special Intelligence Division until my life dripped with blood, lies, and the obedience they’d beaten into me. And yet, a tiny piece of me had never stopped being my mother’s daughter.
Shaking off the memories, I crouched down next to a desk, running my fingers along its edges, searching for traps. The Devil had drilled paranoia into me as thoroughly as he had fighting techniques. Russian soldiers enjoyed leaving little parting gifts for those foolish enough to seek shelter in abandoned buildings—trip wires, grenades, pressure plates. I wasn’t about to let my guard down, not at the border’s edge. Not with a wounded soldier sprawled on the floor behind me and an American watching my every move. I carefully opened a drawer and flipped through the contents. Just useless junk. No weapons, no intel.
The American sat quietly after his little tirade. He didn’t speak; he just studied me. The early morning light seeped through the grimy glass of the windows, casting a pale glow on his tan skin. Sweat clung to him, darkening the front of his shirt.
I opened a cabinet, rummaging through old linens that were dry-rotting. Nothing. Slamming it shut, I turned to the sofa and gestured for the guy to stand and move to the side. I ripped the cushions free and tossed them to the floor. Dust motes exploded into the stale air, prickling my nose.
“What the hell are you doing?” His voice cut through the quiet, laced with irritation.
I didn’t bother answering. I could have, but I chose not to. The less he knew about me, the better for both of us. Instead, I stepped around my wounded comrade.
Bohdan Zelenko was one of the bravest men I’d ever known. He’d been a master sergeant under me for the last couple of years. I couldn’t tell you how many times we’d saved each other’s lives. He was a good man, one of only a few I’d ever worked with.
The American’s eyes were locked on me. Tension radiated from him, his body practically humming with nervous energy as he shouted at me again.
“Can you just shut up and stand still?” I muttered under my breath in Russian. I wasn’t in the mood for his commentary. He squinted at me and shrugged in confusion. Good, he didn’t seem to understand what I’d said.
He could be anyone, but there was one thing I knew for certain: he sure as hell didn’t belong in an abandoned home in a war zone…unless he was running from trouble. If he’d gotten this far without getting caught, then he wasn’t just lucky—he was smart, or dangerous, or both. He didn’t fight like a medic either. His moves were too instinctive, too practiced. Normal medics couldn’t throw punches the way he had.
Still, he didn’t carry himself like a soldier. No polish, no discipline. It left too many unanswered questions, and that made me uneasy. People didn’t just stumble onto battlefields.
The guy’s nervous energy put me on edge, but I pushed it aside, moving toward the next corner of the room. I continued searching for traps or useful tools, finding none.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him stand and move toward the kitchen. That was where the back door was; I bet he was trying to bolt. I pivoted, leveling him with a glare. “Sadit’sya,” I said, ordering him to sit down, gesturing toward the floor.
He didn’t sit. Instead, he crossed his arms and stood at the threshold of the kitchen, leaning back against the doorframe. His golden-brown eyes narrowed. That quiet defiance hit me in a way I couldn’t fully explain—partly with annoyance, partly with intrigue. He pressed his lips together, drawing my attention to their fullness, and clenched his jaw. He was hot as hell, idealistic, and utterly out of his depth. I would have been attracted to him if we weren’t in such shit circumstances.
I turned back to the room, forcing my focus away from his stupid, distracting face. My fingers grazed a shelf, still searching. I huffed out in exasperation. Protecting myself was hard enough. Now, I had to deal with an American do-gooder who thought he could save the world with a bag full of bandages and granola bars. Everything about him screamed “bleeding heart,” and he obviously believed that the good in this world outweighed the bad. He needed a reality check for his own good.
And that wasn’t even the worst part. He had no way of knowing that Zelenko and I weren’t just some random Russian soldiers. We were Ukrainian undercover operatives. We’d been working together since switching sides over a year ago. Just before I’d dragged Zelenko into this place, we’d been discovered, and it was only a matter of time before someone came looking for the people who had slaughtered a handful of Russians carrying out a covert mission on this side of the border. This whole situation was a powder keg, and any wrong move would light the fuse.
I crouched near the kitchen doorway, inspecting the corners for hidden compartments or traps. My movements were efficient—search, scan, move on. Years of training dictated every step. The entire time, the American watched me, as though trying to figure me out. “Good luck with that, Mr. Boy Scout,” I quipped in Russian.
When I straightened, I caught his gaze dipping briefly, scanning me from my boots to my face. He jerked his attention away too quickly. A smug smile twitched at the corner of my mouth. Maybe I could make this fun, torture him sweetly.
In another life, maybe I’d have flirted with him. But here? In this hellscape? I might as well be lusting after a ghost.
Zelenko stirred, his moans slicing through the uneasy silence. The bandages we’d wrapped around his abdomen were already soaked through with blood, and his chest rose in uneven, shallow jerks. I dropped to my knees beside him. His hand twitched weakly against the floor, and a pained groan rumbled low in his throat. “Hush, friend,” I said quietly in Russian. “Breathe. Just breathe.”
His eyes cracked open, unfocused but searching, and he rasped, “The American…he’s a problem.”
I glanced at the guy, who was staring at us as if trying to decode our conversation. “He doesn’t understand us,” I said to Zelenko. “Don’t worry about him. Lie still.”
Zelenko grimaced, pressing his lips into a pale, bloodless line. “I won’t last much longer,” he said in a strained whisper.
“You’re right,” I said bluntly. I took his hand gently and uttered in a soft tone, “You’ve done well. You’ve made the ultimate sacrifice in our fight for democracy. Just so you know—all you’ve accomplished will be known. I’ll see to that. Now, you deserve peace.” There wasn’t any point in lying to a man on death’s doorstep.
His body slackened slightly, and he struggled to lift his hand, his fingers curling weakly in my direction. “Tell my family—” He stopped to catch his breath, his chest heaving with the effort. “Tell them I fought for Ukraine. That I did all I could. And tell my mother I love her.”
I nodded slowly, tightening my grip on his hand. “I’ll make sure they know.” The promise settled heavily in my chest. It was one I’d keep no matter the cost to myself. “I’ll tell your story. Everyone will know what you fought for.”
His cracked lips lifted into a shadow of a smile, but the light in his eyes dimmed further. “And remember,” he whispered, his voice rough with effort, “never trust Americans. They’re all liars.”
His gaze flicked over to the stranger standing across the room, who shifted uncomfortably under our shared glare. Mr. Boy Scout tilted his head, probably sensing he was the subject of our conversation. I straightened, my eyes narrowing as I studied him, trying to size up what kind of threat he might be.
“Do you always stare at people like you’re planning to kill them?” he asked. There was a weak attempt at humor in his voice, though his unease was clear. His eyes darted between Zelenko and me.
“Shut up,” I muttered in Russian, and then my focus shifted back to Zelenko. “You did well,” I whispered softly, squeezing his shoulder. “Now rest.”
His chest barely rose and fell. He turned his head slightly toward me as his lips moved one last time, though no sound came out. I sat back on my heels, swallowing hard and forcing my focus back to the situation at hand. The clock was ticking, and sentimentality wouldn’t get me out of here alive. But deep down, in a place I’d buried beneath years of discipline, a flicker of sorrow stirred. Not that I’d ever let it show—especially not to the Boy Scout over there. I couldn’t afford for him or anyone else to think I was anything but ruthless. Still, protecting him was a duty I had no choice but to fulfill. He was like one of the stray dogs my mama used to bring home and nurse back to health while telling me that kindness was a strength and not a weakness. That thought lingered briefly, but I pushed it aside, returning my attention to searching this godforsaken house for anything useful.
The cabinets were bare, and the drawers were full of nothing but junk. I shoved one closed with a dull thud and turned toward the American, who was trying way too hard to pretend he wasn’t planning something stupid. His nervous glances toward the back door gave him away. His broad frame shifted as he inched closer to it again, slowly and deliberately; he probably thought I wouldn’t notice.
For fuck’s sake, was he serious? I didn’t bother stopping him—yet. Let him think he had a chance. Pausing my search, I watched while Mr. Boy Scout crept along toward the exit with what I assumed he thought was stealth. This man was built as solid as a damn bear but moved with the nervous energy of a frightened rabbit. He was too big to sneak anywhere, and the way his boots scuffed the floor made me roll my eyes. My lips twitched with amusement. Even if he were to escape me, he would be stumbling into far greater danger.
Before I could decide whether to call him out, the low rumble of engines outside drew my attention. The crunch of gravel followed, accompanied by the heavy hiss of air brakes. The sound crawled up my spine, familiar and unwelcome.
Convoy. Shit.
The American froze, his head jerking toward the sound outside. He wasn’t stupid—he understood what it meant, even if he didn’t fully grasp the danger. He turned to glance back at me, wide-eyed. For a second, I almost pitied him.
“Nazad,” I barked, commanding him to get back and pointing to the corner of the room. He didn’t move, his eyes darting between me and the front door. His hesitation said everything—he didn’t trust me, and he shouldn’t. I shot him a nasty look that said I wasn’t asking. Taking a deep breath, he shifted toward the corner, his focus glued to the doorway.
I didn’t wait to see if he complied but stepped out onto the porch and walked over to the edge of the road. Three military vehicles had pulled up out front. Two of the trucks fanned out slightly, forming a staggered line. The engines idled as several men climbed out from two of the trucks. They pointed their rifles at me, and I cocked my head and crossed my arms over my chest, letting out an exasperated breath. I wanted them to understand that, although I didn’t plan on being aggressive, I wasn’t intimidated by them either.
My eyes assessed the trucks and the men. The vehicles bore no visible insignias, just scuffed-up, flat olive paint. The soldiers wore mismatched uniforms—standard-issue fatigues paired with nondescript jackets. Their patches were covered or absent altogether, a clear effort to obscure their affiliations. But I wasn’t fooled. The way they moved, the hint of Cyrillic stenciling on a shoulder patch here, the faded Russian digital camouflage on a pair of pants there—it was enough. Russians. My people. Or at least, they thought I was theirs. The lack of markings meant they were on a clandestine mission.
An imposing man climbed out of the first truck. His broad chest puffed out beneath his uniform, which was slightly more intact than those of the others. His gray-streaked beard twitched as he scanned me. His hand rested on the grip of his sidearm, though he didn’t draw it.
“Who’s in charge here?” he called out, his gravelly bark carrying over the idling engines.
I squared my shoulders and stepped forward, making sure every movement radiated confidence. “I am,” I said, earning me a raised brow from him.
He took a slow step closer. “Who the hell are you?”
I held my ground, letting the question hang between us for a moment. The men behind him adjusted their stances. He waited, not moving a muscle, as if he was measuring whether I was worth listening to—or if he should shoot me.
I raised my chin and cautiously reached into the hidden pocket sewn to the inside of my shirt, retrieving a small metal token embossed with the double-headed eagle of the Russian Federation. Holding it up between two fingers, I tilted it just enough for the light to catch its surface. “Signal three-one-four, confirmation?” I asked.
His gaze darted to the token, then back to my face. He hesitated, reached into his own jacket, and produced an identical token. “Code word?” he asked. His tone had softened slightly but was still guarded.
“Iron,” I answered calmly. “Now yours.”
He gave a curt nod. “Hammer.” With that, he slipped the token back into his pocket and took another step forward.
I closed the distance between us in two strides. “Lieutenant Colonel Daria Melnichenko. Special Intelligence Division. You’ve heard of me, right?” My voice was sharp enough to cut steel, and I dared him to question me.
Recognition flashed across his face. The bravado drained from his posture, replaced by a grudging respect—and maybe an ounce of fear. “Yes, Lieutenant Colonel. Of course.” He snapped into a formal stance, his boots clicking together as his gaze dropped to the ground. When he resumed eye contact, the recognition in his eyes said it all—my reputation had preceded me.
I dipped my chin. “And who the hell are you?” I hissed.
“Sergeant Major Ivan Taranov, commander of this convoy, Lieutenant Colonel.” His voice had the practiced cadence of a soldier who was used to answering superior officers.
My eyes swept over him, taking in his slightly disheveled uniform and the weariness of his features. This was a career man who had likely spent more time dodging responsibility than earning medals. He wasn’t a threat—at least not directly—but I didn’t relax an inch. Instead, I allowed the smallest of smiles to curve my lips, just enough to keep him on edge.
I gestured with a curt nod toward his men. “Now tell them to lower their weapons. We’re not enemies.”
He barked an order over his shoulder, and the soldiers relaxed their grips and lowered their rifles, though their eyes remained alert. Turning back to me, Taranov shifted his stance, clearly less tense but still wary. “How did you end up here, Lieutenant Colonel?” he asked, his tone more respectful now.
I crossed my arms. As far as anyone knew, I wasn’t here—officially. “I could ask you the same thing.” My words carried the weight of authority, and I didn’t bother answering his question.
“We’re only here for cleanup duty,” the sergeant major said in a more subdued tone, raising his hands slightly.
I tilted my head. “Cleanup for what?” I asked coolly.
He cleared his throat, glancing toward the trucks. “We’re following up on reports of a rogue unit that ambushed a humanitarian vehicle—a crew from the Global Food Outreach. It’s all over international news.” He hesitated, his gaze darting to his men and then back to me. “They say an American is missing. The Ukrainians are all over the news saying that President Putin ordered a hit because he knew there was an American volunteer who’d be working near the border. Putin ordered no such thing, but this is a good opportunity for us. So here I am, looking to find him. He’ll make for a nice little prize right before I retire.” He smirked.
The corners of my mouth twisted into a frown. Pretty Boy’s situation was coming into better focus. Too bad for him the press had put such a big target on his back. As for me, the timing couldn’t have been better. He would make for an easy excuse as to why I was on this side of the border without orders. “Hmm, interesting. I wasn’t aware that an entire unit had been sent to find him. My directive was to stay undercover and ensure I got in, acquired the package, and got out with no fuss. Who exactly issued your orders?” This was a lie, but I guessed from his expression that there was more to his story too.
Taranov sucked in a harsh breath. “Oh, well, when one of our friendly farmers reported a lone man running in a panic to this location, I figured it was the American because this area is a deserted no-man’s-land. I’d taken it upon myself to find the missing man since I oversee the prison not all that far from here. I assumed finding a wayward American in this area wouldn’t be too difficult.”
I chuckled. “Well, you were just a little slow. I know exactly where he is.” I jabbed a thumb toward the house. “He’s inside. Babbling nonsense, as they all do.”
Taranov frowned, confusion flashing across his face. “You found him?”
I let my grin widen. “Yes, and he’s going to make for an interesting story.” I leaned closer, lowering my voice just enough to make him take a step closer to me. “I think President Putin will be pleased. An American out here near the border alone? A potential spy? Can’t you see how this will play on television? Yes, I will give our leader his prize. But I will let you assist me in taking him into custody. Maybe that will help when your superior office crawls up your ass about acting without orders. I’m guessing you’ll need all the help with that you can get.”
His brows shot up, and his pupils dilated. I’d guessed correctly. Good. I arched an eyebrow, daring him to question me, then took a step back, giving him just enough space to breathe.
“Take him,” I said, gesturing toward the house again. “ There’s also a wounded soldier, but his injuries are too severe. Leave him.”
“Who is he?”
“That’s above your rank to know. You focus on getting us back to the prison. Krestovskaya, right?”
Taranov’s lips curled slightly into what might have been a smirk. “Yes, that’s the one.”
His amusement was short-lived. I narrowed my eyes at him. “With all the attention your loud-ass trucks have undoubtedly drawn, I’ll have to call in every favor I’ve got just to get us across the border safely. If you were under my command, you wouldn’t have to worry about retirement.” I scowled at him, and his face turned beet red before he scurried away.
Immediately, he started shouting commands at his men. The soldiers moved quickly as they headed for the house. I turned back toward the trucks, my expression carefully blank even as my mind raced. Every second they spent here put me at risk. They could discover who Zelenko was to me, discover what we’d been doing. I had to get them away before Taranov started asking more questions or thought to confirm my story with his superiors. Thankfully, he was currently acting without orders, which gave me the perfect cover to get out of the sticky situation I had gotten into.
I forced my shoulders to relax, keeping Taranov in my peripheral vision. The American might’ve ended up being a convenient distraction, but he was also a liability—and now my responsibility. And Zelenko? He was a reminder of how quickly things could go to hell. He wasn’t going anywhere—not alive anyway.