Chapter Six - Markian
The meeting ends as these things always do: forced handshakes, too many smiles, empty congratulations traded in two languages. Jenkins pumps every palm, grinning like he’s just won a prize, but I see the tension in his jaw.
The Americans gather their folders, voices rising, all self-congratulation and relief.
The Russians move slower, quieter, slipping out of the room with practiced calm. I stay a moment longer, scanning the table. Every surface is swept clean—except the chair in the corner, the one where the translator sat.
The girl. My mind drifts back to her over and over. The way she sat: perfect posture, but her eyes darted too much, her skin too pale. She wore her hair up, clothes neutral and businesslike. She looked like she belonged, but she moved like a ghost. Like she knew she was somewhere she shouldn’t be.
As I leave the room, Alexei falls into step beside me. The corridor is crowded, but we move like shadows, close enough for our words to stay private.
“She was at the party,” Alexei murmurs in Russian, his tone cautious. “The blonde. The translator. I saw her in the garden, near the back hedge.”
I don’t slow down. My expression stays flat, unreadable.
“You think she understood?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
My mind is already replaying the conversation from the garden—blood, Jenkins, sunrise.
It wasn’t meant for outsiders. Not for girls who disappear into corners and take notes with shaking hands.
Alexei’s gaze sharpens. “She’s too clever. Most Americans wouldn’t have caught half of it. But her Russian is perfect, and she was listening.”
I make a small sound, deep in my throat. “I’ll handle it.” My tone leaves no room for doubt. Alexei falls silent, but I know he’ll be watching. That’s his job. That’s why he’s still alive.
She’s a loose end. A detail that doesn’t fit.
Something to be dealt with quietly. No one needs scandal or loose lips right now.
Jenkins is already scheduled, everything set.
The last thing I need is some translator with a memory for names and a sense of curiosity.
If she heard anything—if she understood—she’s a problem.
As we move through the marble lobby, toward the elevators, I can’t shake her from my mind.
I see her everywhere. The ghost of her hands pressed to the page, the shine of her eyes when she looked up at me.
The way she shrank under my gaze, but didn’t break.
There was fear, yes, but something else. Resilience.
She wasn’t dressed the way she was at the party.
No leather jacket, no boots, none of the restless, edgy energy.
Today, she wore soft gray, hair pinned up, quiet as an apology.
But I noticed how her hand trembled when she wrote, the way she fidgeted with her pen, as if every word cost her something.
I noticed, too, when Jenkins made some joke and she smiled.
A real smile, small and bright, like she forgot where she was for a moment.
It cracked something inside me. She shouldn’t be able to look that untouched in a room full of men like this.
In the elevator, Alexei clears his throat. “Want me to find out where she goes? I have her details.” He says it like it’s nothing. For him, it is.
I nod once. “Yes. Quietly. No one needs to notice. If she talks, we’ll hear it before anyone else does.” My mind is already making plans. Surveillance. Pressure. Maybe a warning, if she gets too close to trouble.
Alexei’s phone buzzes with a message. He glances down, then grins. “She’s gone. Took the north exit, walked fast. Smart girl.”
I picture her outside, pushing through crowds, looking over her shoulder. I wonder if she feels the net tightening, or if she still believes she’s invisible. I wonder, too, if she’ll run or if she’ll wait for someone to come and ask what she knows.
We step out onto the street. Midtown noise rushes in—horns, shouting, the endless churn of city life. My driver is waiting, engine running, the car a sleek black shape by the curb.
I pause before getting in, letting the sunlight hit my face. Alexei waits, his eyes never leaving my profile. “You want her scared?” he asks, as if it’s a question that matters.
I shake my head. “I want her silent. There’s a difference.”
He nods, understanding. “If she’s a threat—”
“I’ll decide what she is,” I interrupt. I slide into the car, the door closing with a soft thud.
Inside, I close my eyes for a moment. Her voice echoes, careful and precise, translating Russian into English with no hint of accent. I see her hands trembling, her mouth pressing into a thin line. I think of the way she looked at me, afraid, but not crushed. Not yet.
Lui glances at me in the rearview. “Where to, Boss?”
“Wait,” I say. I want to be sure she’s not being followed, that we’re not being watched. For a moment, I’m not Markian Sharov, Bratva heir, city prince. I’m just a man thinking about a girl with too much light in her smile, a girl who can still laugh in a room built for men who never do.
The job always calls me back. I open my phone, scroll through messages. Updates about Jenkins. About timing. About the “accident” that’s already in motion.
My mind settles on the task. There’s too much at stake for mistakes. I can’t afford another loose end.
She’s a thread, and if she pulls the wrong way, everything could unravel.
She could be lying. It’s the first thing I tell myself. People in my world have told greater lies, for less reason. She could be bait, a plant, someone sent by Jenkins’s enemies or even my own.
None of it feels right. The memory of her sitting there—small, tense, almost breakable—doesn’t match the profile of a trained agent.
She didn’t act like someone used to deception.
She acted like someone who’s too observant for her own good.
The kind who wanders too close to the fire, not because she wants to get burned, but because she can’t help looking.
I stare out at the glass and steel of Midtown, watching my reflection slip over the city’s surface. Jaw tight, eyes hard. I can see the question in my own face. What is she, really? Just unlucky, or something more?
Inside the car, the silence thickens. Lui glances at me in the mirror, waiting for orders, but I don’t say a word. My mind won’t let go of the girl. Logic says she needs to be dealt with, erased quietly before she can do damage.
The rest of me—the restless, hungering part—wants something else. It wants to see her again. To look her in the eye and watch what flickers there. Fear, defiance, curiosity. It wants to break her open, see what mystery is hidden behind those pretty, clever eyes.
I don’t know which instinct will win yet. Maybe I won’t get to choose.
“Take me home,” I mutter, and Lui nods.
The car slips north, away from the towers and crowds, toward the part of the city where the old money lives. The skyline fades, replaced by tree-lined streets and stone gates.
My home rises at the end of the drive, massive and old-fashioned, the kind of manor that looks like it was built for another era. Iron gates swing open. We roll up the circular drive, tires crunching on perfect gravel.
Lui parks by the side entrance, engine humming. I climb out, coat swirling behind me, and motion for him to follow. Inside, the marble is cool beneath my shoes. The housekeeper nods as I pass, then vanishes into the shadows. Everything in this place is built for silence, for secrets.
My office is on the second floor, overlooking the gardens. Dark wood, shelves of books I never have time to read, a heavy desk littered with files and electronics. I stand behind the chair, hands braced on the back, and wait for Lui to shut the door.
He does, moving with the ease of someone who’s done this a hundred times.
“Sit,” I tell him, voice low. He drops into the leather chair across from me, posture casual but eyes alert.
“I want you to keep tabs on the girl. Jessa Whitaker. The translator.” My words are precise, deliberate.
Lui’s mouth quirks. “She get to you, Boss?”
I ignore the jab. “Don’t let her out of your sight. I want to know where she lives, who she meets, what she does when she thinks she’s alone. If she tries to contact Jenkins or anyone from today’s meeting, I want to know before she says a word.”
He nods, already tapping notes into his phone. “You want me to watch her, or dig deeper?”
I hesitate, jaw working. The question hangs between us, and I feel the pull in both directions. “Just watch for now, don’t make contact. She runs, you follow. She talks, you record. If she steps out of line—if she’s bait, if she’s trouble—bring it to me first.”
He nods again. “Easy. Want me to put someone on her building?”
“Only people you trust,” I say. “Nobody stupid. She’s not the usual problem.”
Lui gives a crooked grin, but there’s respect in his eyes. “She’s not the usual anything, Boss.”
I turn to the window, staring out at the lengthening shadows on the lawn.
The sun’s already sinking, orange light slanting through the branches of the old trees.
My mind is racing. I want her gone. I want her safe.
I want her here, sitting in front of me so I can ask all the questions she’s never supposed to answer.
“She was scared,” Lui says quietly. “But she didn’t freak out.”
“No,” I agree, almost to myself. “She didn’t.”
He stands, knowing he’s dismissed. “I’ll keep you updated.”
When he’s gone, I sink into my chair, elbows on the desk, fingers pressed to my temples. The silence in the manor is absolute. No footsteps, no voices. Just the echo of her laugh: soft, surprised, still ringing somewhere in my memory.
I close my eyes and see her as she was at the party: hair down, jacket zipped, mouth set in a line that promised she wouldn’t run unless she had to. Then I see her today, hair up, voice precise, hands trembling only for a second. Both versions are real. Both are dangerous.
My phone buzzes. Lui, efficient as always, has already sent a photo: Jessa outside a coffee shop, laptop open, gaze far away. She looks tired. She looks like someone who wants to disappear.
I wonder what she’s thinking. If she’s plotting an escape, or if she’s already realized there’s nowhere left to go. If she’s angry, or only afraid.
She could be lying. She could be bait. I don’t believe it. Instinct tells me this is something rare. A mistake, a miracle, or a warning. Maybe all three.
I think about going to her, confronting her myself. Asking her outright what she heard, what she plans to do with it. The old way would be to remove the threat before it becomes a problem. Quick, efficient, untraceable. I could make the call right now. The question is: Do I want to?
I stare at her picture a long time, heart heavy, mind restless.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. I’ll decide tomorrow.
I know the truth—I’ve already decided. I want to see her again. I want to know what secrets she keeps. And if it costs me, if it threatens everything I’ve built. I want to know if she’s worth it.