Chapter Two - Markian
Alexei is in the middle of a warning, something clipped and serious about Jenkins, but my attention slips.
The party is a blur of silk and gold, every corner filled with the bored faces of people who think they’re invincible.
I let him talk, keep my eyes on the garden.
There’s movement at the edge: too cautious, too quiet to be anyone who belongs.
There. Small. Blonde. She’s trying to vanish behind the hedge, but she’s got no talent for it.
I watch the way her hair catches the light, that little flicker of nerves in her eyes.
Wrong place, wrong time. Her fingers clutch a glass, knuckles pale.
She’s got the look of someone who wandered into the middle of a storm and is only now realizing it.
“Mark,” Alexei says, lowering his voice, “you listening to me?”
I hold up a hand, signaling him to wait. I track the girl’s path. She isn’t like the others here. There’s no money in the way she moves, no practiced confidence. She doesn’t belong in this house. Doesn’t belong near men like us.
She’s peeking through the greenery. Deliberate, but not skilled. She looks over her shoulder once, then again, not quite sure if she’s being watched. I watch her anyway. Her curiosity is obvious, even from this distance. That’s always a problem. I’ve seen it before. Curiosity gets people killed.
For a moment, she freezes, half hidden by a sculpted boxwood. Her expression shifts: uncertainty, then something like resolve. It’s almost admirable. Almost.
I murmur to Alexei, “I’ll handle it.” He nods once, not bothering to hide the suspicion in his eyes. He trusts me to clean up my own messes.
I step away from the terrace, slipping through the garden’s shadow, boots silent on the flagstones.
I keep her in sight as she weaves past the marble fountain, shoulders drawn in, head down.
Her fingers toy with her phone, flicking through screens she isn’t reading, the way people do when they need to look busy.
When they’re hoping nobody will notice them.
She glances back—once, twice, like she doesn’t know where to let her gaze settle.
She thinks she’s invisible. She isn’t.
When she reaches the side door, she hesitates, as if waiting for someone to tell her not to go in.
She doesn’t belong here, and every instinct in her body is telling her to leave, but still she moves forward, drawn by the kind of stubbornness that usually ends in regret.
I let her have a head start, keep my pace easy.
No reason to make her run—yet.
She slips inside, shoulders tense. I follow at a distance, the party noise fading behind me.
She moves quickly, but not gracefully. Her hand trembles as she reaches for her phone again, thumb tapping out a nervous rhythm against the glass.
She ducks her head, pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and keeps moving.
She’s not running, not yet, but she’s thinking about it. I can see the calculation in her eyes.
Her path leads her down a narrow hall lined with family portraits and antique mirrors.
She glances at each reflection as if it might betray her.
I watch the line of her jaw tighten, the way she tucks her chin, shrinking into herself.
She reminds me of a fawn picking its way through brambles, too soft for the world it’s been born into.
I take my time, matching her pace, closing the distance only when I want to be seen. I step in front of her at the next junction, cutting off her escape with practiced nonchalance. She startles, eyes wide. I see her breath catch, see the split-second flicker of panic she tries to bury.
Good. Fear keeps people honest.
“You lost?” My tone is mild, almost amused, but I keep my body in the center of the hall, blocking her way.
Her lips part, a quick intake of breath. She recovers fast—faster than I expect. “Sorry,” she says, voice bright and fluent, every syllable crisp American. “I’m just looking for the bathroom. Got turned around.” Her smile is soft, meant to be harmless, and almost convincing. Almost.
She shifts her weight, trying to look relaxed, but her hands betray her. I see the tremor in her fingers, the shallow pulse at her throat. She’s scared, but not frozen. She holds my gaze, forces herself to smile, as if pretending innocence can erase the danger she walked into.
I let the silence stretch, watching her face, looking for cracks. Her eyes dart away, then back. The smile stays, brittle and thin. She wants to run. I almost want to see her try.
“Second left,” I say finally, voice even. I don’t move aside.
She hesitates, the tiniest stutter in her step, then offers a soft “Thank you.” Her smile never reaches her eyes. She edges past, shoulders drawn tight, every movement careful, rehearsed.
She’s American. Useless, or so she wants me to believe.
Harmless, in that way only someone very na?ve could manage.
I study her face longer than I should: big blue eyes, heart-shaped mouth, cheeks flushed with embarrassment or fear, maybe both.
She looks so soft, too much sun and hope for a room full of wolves.
She doesn’t fit here. Everything about her is wrong for this house.
The boots, the cheap jacket, the twitch of nerves under the surface.
She doesn’t have the bite of these people, but there’s something else, something in the way she holds my gaze, then flicks it away, quick and sly.
The smile says innocent. Her eyes say otherwise.
She moves like she’s trying to convince herself she’s invisible.
The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the small, unconscious gesture, makes her look young.
She tries to walk calmly, but I see how her fist tightens around her phone, thumb pressing against the screen like she needs the anchor.
I’ve seen it before—a girl out of her depth, hoping no one notices how close she is to drowning.
I step back, giving her space. She slips past, shoes silent on the rug, and disappears down the hall. I let her go. Just a girl, I tell myself. Maybe she wandered too far from the party, maybe she heard nothing. I want to believe that.
But I don’t.
I linger in the corridor, listening to the retreating click of her boots.
My mind sifts through the last few minutes, replaying every detail.
There was fear, yes, but not the kind that comes from being lost. Not exactly.
It’s something deeper, an alertness born from paying too much attention.
She wasn’t confused. She was calculating. Watching. Listening.
A spark of annoyance flares in my chest. I hate complications, and she looks like one.
The hallway is quiet now, filled with the faint scent of expensive flowers and the echo of other people’s laughter from the ballroom. I stand there a moment longer, arms folded, watching the spot where she disappeared.
The soft glow from a nearby lamp paints shifting shadows across the wall, and I find myself imagining her face in that golden light—flushed, nervous, trying so hard to blend in.
Maybe she really is nothing. Another girl in over her head, running from her own ghosts.
Or maybe she’s something else. Something dangerous, even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I take my phone from my pocket, thumb swiping to my most trusted number. Lui picks up on the first ring, a whisper of static at his end. “Boss?”
“There’s a girl here,” I say quietly, still watching the empty hall. “Small, blonde, blue eyes. She was snooping around the garden. American. Floral dress and a leather jacket, boots. You see her?”
A pause, then the faint scrape of a lighter. Lui is never far, always somewhere close in the dark. “Yeah, I clocked her when she came in with the Wilder kid. Didn’t think she was important.”
“She might be.” I keep my voice low, deliberate. “Keep an eye on her. I want to know who she talks to, where she goes. If she leaves, you follow. Got it?”
He grunts his assent, unbothered. “Copy that. Want me to scare her?”
“No,” I say, too fast. “Not unless she gives you a reason. She acts strange, I want to know. Don’t get close enough for her to notice you.”
Another pause. I hear voices at his end—party noise, music, the hum of rich people with nothing to fear. “Understood. I’ll let you know if she does anything.”
I hang up, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
I stand there a minute more, the memory of her voice lingering in the air. Something about her clings to me, insistent and unwelcome. She’s a puzzle piece that refuses to be ignored.
Alexei appears at the far end of the hall, cutting through the crowd like a blade. His eyes flick to mine, then down the corridor toward where she vanished.
“You dealt with it?” he asks in Russian, quiet, crisp.
“Yes,” I reply. I keep my tone flat. “She says she was lost. Looking for the bathroom.”
He snorts, mouth twisting in a smirk. “You believe her?”
I don’t answer. We both know I don’t. Not entirely.
Alexei studies me, the way he always does, seeing more than he says. “She’s probably nothing,” he says. “A friend of Wilder’s. They let all kinds in these days.”
“Probably,” I agree. My voice is rougher than I intend.
I know better than to trust probability. The Bratva survives by being ruthless, not optimistic.
Alexei shrugs, moving off to handle his business. I turn back to the party, but my mind stays in that corridor, replaying the look in her eyes. Not quite fear. Not quite innocence.
I find myself glancing toward the door, expecting her to come back, to say something stupid or brave. She doesn’t. The hall is empty, the moment gone, but it stays with me, restless and sharp.
I remind myself: just a girl, just a mistake. A small thing, easy to erase if it comes to that.
Except, I know my instincts. I know the way my skin prickled under her stare, the way my mind started to turn. I don’t like loose ends.