Chapter 3 Sasha
Sasha
Dmitri’s office smells like expensive leather and pricey cologne.
I stand in front of his desk while he reviews the security footage from the gallery on his laptop.
The video quality is grainy but clear enough to show Tony Haugh disabling three armed men in less than five seconds. My brother watches the clip three times without speaking.
“He moves like Spetsnaz,” Dmitri says at last.
“I know.”
“But he claims to be a journalist.”
“He does.”
Dmitri closes the laptop and settles back in his chair, tapping his chin with his index finger. At thirty-seven, he runs the Kozlov Bratva with the same ruthless control he uses on everything else in his life. Right now, all that focus is on me.
“Tell me again what happened.”
I’ve already told him twice, but Dmitri likes to hear things multiple times. He’s listening for inconsistencies or details I might have missed or misremembered.
So, I walk through it again.
The fake Fabergé egg. Tony appearing at the gallery. The attack. How he pulled a weapon from under his jacket and moved like someone with years of combat training.
“And then he got you out before the police arrived,” Dmitri finishes for me.
“Yes.”
My brother’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. “Smart man.”
“Smart or informed,” I counter. “He knows who we are, Dmitri. He’s been asking questions since Alexei’s wedding.”
“What kind of questions?”
I think back to that night two weeks ago.
Tony approached me at the bar with a drink and a smile that probably worked on most women.
It almost worked on me until he started asking about “legitimate business expansion strategies” and whether our family had considered diversifying into technology sectors.
“Questions about our business operations,” I tell Dmitri. “He made them sound like small talk, but they were specific. He wanted to know about our investments and partnerships, which industries we’re moving into.”
“And you told him what?”
“Nothing. I’m not an idiot.”
“No, but you are attracted to him. Your pupils get larger any time you say his name.”
Heat floods my face, and my jaw drops. “That’s not relevant.”
“It’s extremely relevant if he’s using that attraction to gather intelligence.” Dmitri opens a folder on his desk and pulls out several printed pages.
“Boris ran a background check after the wedding. Tony Haugh, thirty-eight, American citizen. Freelance journalist currently working with the local paper on occasion. That’s how he got into the wedding.
Seems he requested the assignment. Former military, special operations.
Honorable discharge eight years ago. No criminal record.
No outstanding warrants. Clean financial history. ”
“Too clean,” I muse as I look over the reports.
“Exactly.” Dmitri sets the papers down.“Men that clean always have something to hide.”
I move closer to the desk and dig deeper into the background check. Tony’s cover story holds up on the surface. There are published articles under his byline, references from editors, and even a social media presence that looks legitimate. But something about the timing bothers me.
“He arrived in Moscow four weeks ago,” I note, reading from the report. “And he had only worked on two stories before Alexei’s wedding.”
“I noticed that, too.”
“So, either he’s here investigating us, or someone sent him to investigate us.”
“Or he’s what he claims to be, and we’re being paranoid.” Dmitri doesn’t sound like he believes this option. Neither do I.
The door to the office opens, and Boris walks in without knocking. As head of security and Dmitri’s most trusted man, he’s one of the few people who can get away with that. He nods at me before addressing my brother.
“The gallery owner is cooperating with police,” Boris reports. “He’s telling them it was just a robbery attempt. No mention of the Kozlov name.”
“Good.” Dmitri gestures to the chair beside me. “Sit. We’re discussing Tony Haugh.”
Boris sits, but his face makes it clear he has opinions about this discussion. “The American journalist.”
“The American former special operations soldier pretending to be a journalist,” I correct.
“You’re sure about that?”
“I watched him take down three armed men like he was swatting flies. Yes, I’m sure.”
Boris looks at Dmitri. “And you want to bring him in.”
It’s not a question. Boris has worked for my brother long enough to read his intentions. Still, my brother takes his time answering. He steeples his fingers and studies the background check.
“We’re under more scrutiny than ever,” Dmitri says. “You know that better than anyone, Boris. The FSB is watching us. Local police have doubled surveillance on our properties. And now, someone is bold enough to hit a gallery where my sister is consulting.”
“All the more reason to be cautious about who we trust,” Boris argues.
“I agree. Which is why I want Tony Haugh where I can see him.”
I scoff and ask, “Are you serious, right now? You want to bring him into the organization?”
“Not into the organization. Into our circle. A Western journalist with real credentials can move in spaces the Kozlov name can’t touch. He can ask questions without raising suspicion. He can go to events and talk to people who would never agree to meet with us.”
“Or he can gather intelligence and report it to whoever really employs him,” Boris counters.
“Then he’ll slip up at some point, and we’ll know he’s a spy.”
The logic is sound but dangerous. Keep your enemies closer, as the saying goes. But close enough to stab you in the back is not an ideal distance.
“This is reckless,” I say.
Dmitri turns his focus to me. “You disagree with my assessment?”
“I disagree with inviting a potential threat into our home.”
“He saved your life tonight.”
“He also lied about who he is and what he’s doing in Moscow.”
“Most people lie, Sasha. At least Tony is interesting while he does it.” Dmitri closes the folder and slides it across the desk toward Boris.
“Dig deeper. I want to know everything about him. Where he’s staying, who he’s talked to since arriving in Moscow, and what he eats for breakfast. If he’s working for someone, I want to know who.”
Boris takes the folder, but doesn’t look happy about it. “And if I find proof he’s investigating us?”
“Then we’ll deal with him accordingly.” Dmitri’s tone makes it clear what that means. “Until then, I want him brought in under the guise of cooperation.”
“Cooperation for what?” I ask.
“Security consultation. We’ll tell him we’re concerned about the gallery attack and want his military expertise on potential threats. We’ll pay him consulting fees and give him access to certain operations. Nothing sensitive, but enough to make him feel trusted.”
Boris shakes his head. “This could backfire spectacularly.”
“It could,” Dmitri agrees, “but right now, we need information more than we need caution. Someone orchestrated that gallery attack. Someone knows Sasha’s schedule and movements. I want to know who, and I think Tony Haugh might be our best path to finding out.”
The room falls quiet. I see Boris weighing risks and potential outcomes the same way he has for twenty years. Finally, he stands.
“I’ll have a full background report by tomorrow morning,” he declares.
“Good. And Boris? Be thorough.”
Boris leaves without another word. The door closes behind him, and I’m alone with my brother again.
“You’re not going to like what I’m about to say,” he tells me.
“Then don’t say it.”
“You’re going to work hand-in-hand with Tony.”
I should have seen this coming. Should have anticipated that Dmitri would use Tony’s obvious interest in me as a tool. But hearing it spoken still makes my stomach drop.
“Dmitri—”
“He’s interested in you, Sasha. He spent an hour talking to you at the wedding, and tonight, he risked exposure to save your life. That interest is an asset we can exploit. If you’re going to stay in Moscow instead of going back to London, then you can at least make yourself useful.”
“I’m not bait,” I snap, glaring daggers at my brother.
“I’m not asking you to be. I’m asking you to stay in touch with someone who clearly wants that contact.
” Dmitri stands and walks around the desk, resting his hands on my shoulders.
“You’re brilliant at reading people. You spent two years authenticating art by spotting tiny inconsistencies and deliberate fakes. Use those same skills on Tony Haugh.”
“You want me to spy on him.”
“Get to know him. Find out what he wants. Determine whether he’s a threat or an opportunity. You’re the one he’s interested in, which makes you the best person for this job.”
I want to argue. To tell Dmitri I didn’t come back to Moscow just to be used as some kind of asset against a man who may or may not be investigating our family. But the logic is sound, even if I hate it.
Tony is interested in me. That interest gives me leverage. And if he’s gathering intelligence on the Kozlovs, staying close to him means I can control what information he gets.
“Fine,” I relent through gritted teeth. “But if I determine he’s a threat, you let me handle it.”
Dmitri’s hands drop from my shoulder. “Define ‘handle it.’”
“I’ll figure that out when the time comes.”
My brother eyes me for a long moment. Then he nods once, quickly and decisively. “All right. But Sasha? Be careful. Men like Tony Haugh are dangerous precisely because they know how to make you forget they’re dangerous.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Dmitri walks back to his desk and sits down. “At the wedding, you looked at him the same way you looked at that art collection in London. Like you wanted to study every detail until you understood what you saw.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “I was trying to figure out if he was a threat.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” Dmitri opens his laptop and starts typing. The dismissal is clear. “I’ll have someone reach out to Tony tomorrow with our offer, then you’ll meet with him to discuss the arrangement in more detail.”
I huff out a breath and turn to leave, but Dmitri’s voice stops me at the door.
“Sasha? When you figure out what Tony Haugh wants, you tell me right away. Not after you’ve decided how to handle it yourself.”
I look back at my brother. He’s watching me with something I can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or warning.
“I will,” I promise.
It’s only partially a lie.