Chapter 5 Sasha
Sasha
Around three in the morning, when I can’t sleep, I decide that Tony didn’t know about the car bomb.
It’s simple.
If he had known, he wouldn’t have put himself in the SUV directly behind the target.
He would have found an excuse to delay, take a different route, or be anywhere except close enough to get shredded by shrapnel.
The man fights like special operations, which means he thinks tactically.
Nobody with that training deliberately positions themselves next to an explosion.
So, either he’s innocent, or he’s the most committed operative I’ve met.
I’m betting on innocent. Mostly.
By seven in the morning, I’ve made my decision. Dmitri agrees when I call him, though he insists on additional security measures. By nine, I’m standing outside Tony’s hotel with two of Boris’ men and a key to one of our secure properties.
The hotel lobby smells like stale cigarettes and mold. I take the stairs to the third floor and knock on room 312.
Tony opens the door shirtless, his hair still damp from a shower, and looking entirely too good for someone who almost died yesterday. A towel hangs around his neck, and water droplets trace paths down his chest, his abdomen, and down to his—
I drag my eyes back to his face. “Pack your things. You’re moving.”
“Good morning to you, too.” He leans against the doorframe like he knows exactly what it does to my pulse, and my mouth goes dry. “Moving where?”
“Somewhere safer. Whoever bombed that convoy knows you’re working with us now. That makes you a target.”
“Or it makes me the bomber.”
“If you were the bomber, you wouldn’t have been close enough to get glass in your hair.” I gesture to the small cuts on his scalp. “Unless you’re suicidal, which doesn’t match your profile.”
“You have a profile on me?”
“Dmitri has a profile on everyone. Are you going to pack, or should I have Boris’ men do it for you?”
Tony glances past me to where two very large Russians wait in the hallway. “I’m guessing they won’t be gentle with my belongings.”
“They won’t be gentle with anything.”
“Fine. Give me ten minutes.” He smiles and closes the door.
I wait in the hallway, ignoring the curious looks from Boris’ men. They don’t ask questions. They just stand there and look intimidating, which is what Dmitri pays them for.
Tony emerges eight minutes later in jeans and a black T-shirt that fits him well enough to be distracting. He carries a laptop case and a duffel bag that looks military-issued.
“That’s it?” I ask.
“I travel light.”
We take the stairs down and exit through the back. The waiting SUV is armored, and the driver is one of Dmitri’s best. We climb into the back seat, and the vehicle pulls away from the hotel before the door is fully closed.
“Where are we going?” Tony asks.
“A building in the financial district. Top floor. Dmitri uses it for high-value assets who need protection.”
Tony lets out a high-pitched whistle. “High-value assets. Is that what I am now?”
“You’re a pain in my ass who might be useful. That’s what you are.”
The drive takes twenty minutes through morning traffic. Tony watches out the window, but I can tell he’s also monitoring the reflections. Checking for tails. Assessing threats. The habits of someone trained to survive.
The building is sleek glass and steel, indistinguishable from dozens of other corporate towers in this part of Moscow. We park in the underground garage and take a private elevator to the twenty-third floor.
The apartment is what I expected with Dmitri in charge of decorating. Open floor plan with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Modern furniture in blacks and grays. High-end kitchen appliances. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a study that could double as a panic room.
“Nice digs.” Tony drops his duffel on the couch. “Dmitri has good taste.”
“Dmitri has expensive taste.” I walk to the windows and check the locks. They’re reinforced bulletproof glass. “The security system is state-of-the-art. Cameras in all common areas, motion sensors, and reinforced entry points. Boris’ team monitors everything remotely.”
“Cameras in all the common areas,” Tony raises an eyebrow and smirks, “but not the bedrooms?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not.”
“Good to know.”
“The kitchen is stocked. There’s a gym in the building. If you need anything else, there’s a phone in the study that connects directly to security.”
“And you? Where will you be?”
“Here.”
Tony goes still. “Here as in this building, or here as in this apartment?”
“This apartment. Dmitri wants someone to keep an eye on you, and since I’m your liaison, that someone is me.”
He chuckles and replies, “Your brother is using you as a babysitter.”
“I’m an intelligence asset. There’s a difference,” I snap. “Besides, someone has to make sure you don’t contact whoever’s trying to kill us.”
“I told you, I’m not—”
“I know. I believe you. Mostly.” I move toward the primary bedroom. “I’m taking the master. You get the guest room. Don’t touch my things, don’t go through my belongings, and stay out of my way.”
“That might be difficult in a shared apartment.”
“Try.”
I close the bedroom door before he can respond.
Three hours later, I emerge to find Tony doing a security assessment of the apartment, much like I did when we first arrived.
He’s checking window locks, testing door frames, and examining the panic room setup in the study. Professional. Thorough. The kind of check that takes training.
“Find any weaknesses?” I ask from the kitchen, where I’m making tea.
“A few. The ventilation system is the obvious vulnerability. Someone small and flexible could access the ductwork from the floor below.” He points to a vent near the ceiling.
“And the panic room door is reinforced, but the hinges are exposed. Someone with the right tools could remove the pins and bypass the lock.”
“Should I be concerned that you identified those so quickly?”
“You should be concerned that whoever designed this place didn’t.” Tony walks to the kitchen and leans against the counter. “Want me to write up a full report for Dmitri?”
“That’s what he’s paying you for.”
“Is it? Because I’m still not sure what my job is beyond staying close to you and looking suspicious.”
I pour hot water over the tea leaves and don’t respond.
“You know,” Tony continues, “most people who nearly die in a car bombing take a day or two to recover. Yet here you are, moving me into a safehouse and acting like yesterday was just another Tuesday.”
“Yesterday was another Tuesday. This is my life, Tony. Explosions. Threats. Violence. It’s normal.”
“That’s depressing.”
“That’s reality.” I hand him a cup of tea.
He takes it but doesn’t drink. Americans and their coffee.
“I assume you grew up in a normal family, went to a normal school, and enjoyed being a kid. You have no idea what it’s like to grow up knowing that at any moment, someone might try to kill your father. Or your brothers. Or you.”
“You’re right; I don’t, but I know what it’s like to lose people. To watch them die because someone made a bad call or trusted the wrong person. So maybe we’re not so different.”
“We’re very different.”
“Are we?”
The question hangs between us, and I don’t have a good answer. When I don’t respond, he prompts, “Tell me about London.”
“Why?” I ask, tilting my head. “Have you been?”
He nods. “A few times. For work.”
“What kind of work?”
“The kind that required surveillance and patience.” Tony picks up his tea again, takes a sip, and grimaces. “Not my favorite city. Too rainy. Too expensive. Too many people pretending to be something they’re not.”
“Sounds like Moscow.”
“Moscow is honest about its dishonesty. London puts on airs.”
I smile despite myself. “That’s accurate.”
“So, what did you love about it? You said at the wedding that you loved working at Christie’s. What made it special?”
The question surprises me. Not because he’s asking, but because he sounds genuinely interested. The last time we had this conversation, he asked about London as a segue to asking about my family. This time, he seems to care about my answer.
“The independence,” I reply after a moment. “For the first time in my life, I was just Sasha. Not Dmitri Kozlov’s sister. Not part of the Bratva. Just a woman with a skill set and a job I was good at.”
“What did you authenticate?”
“Everything. Paintings, sculptures, jewelry, decorative arts. If it came through Christie’s and needed verification, I examined it.
” I sit on the couch, and Tony takes the chair across from me.
“The work was meticulous. You’re looking for inconsistencies in brushwork, anachronistic materials, signatures that don’t match known examples.
One wrong detail can expose a forgery that fooled experts for decades. ”
“Like the Fabergé egg at the gallery.”
“Exactly. The craftsmanship was excellent, but the gold alloy was wrong. Modern composition instead of the mix Fabergé’s workshop used. Most forgers focus on getting the surface details right. They forget that materials have signatures, too.”
“How long does an authentication take?”
“Depends on the piece. A painting might take days or weeks. Jewelry can be faster if you know what to look for. But you can’t rush it. One mistake, and you either pass a forgery as genuine or reject something authentic. Both outcomes destroy reputations.”
“Sounds like high stakes.”
“It was. But it was also mine. My reputation. My expertise. Not my family’s name opening doors.” I take a sip of tea. “When I walked into Christie’s, nobody cared who my brothers were. They cared whether I could tell a real Rembrandt from a skilled copy.”
Tony leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, why did you come back?”
“At first, just for the wedding. But I stayed because my family needed me.”
“Did they ask you to stay?”
“No. They would never ask. They know how much I loved London.” I stare into my tea. “But Alexei was getting married, and there were threats, and I couldn’t stay away knowing they might need help. So, I came back for the wedding, intending to return to London right after.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I didn’t.” I look up at him. “The threats didn’t stop. And now, I’m sitting in a safehouse with a former special operations soldier who claims to be a journalist.”
“I am a journalist. Sometimes.”
I scoff and ask, “And the rest of the time?”
“The rest of the time, I do what needs to be done to pay the bills. Security consultation. Private investigation. Background checks for wealthy clients who want to know if their business partners are legitimate.”
“Is that what you’re doing here? Checking if my family is legitimate?”
“Your family is about as far from legitimate as you can get while still operating businesses that pay taxes.”
“At least you’re honest about it.”
“I try to be.” He studies me with those blue eyes that seem to see too much. “You miss London.”
Tony doesn’t answer. We sit in silence for a moment, and I’m struck by how comfortable it is. How easy it feels to talk to him despite knowing he’s hiding things. Despite the fact that he showed up in Moscow, and my life has been a disaster ever since.
“Can I ask you something?” he finally asks.
I press my lips together and nod. “You can ask. I might not answer.”
“The art authentication thing. Can you use it on people?”
“What do you mean?”
“Reading inconsistencies. Spotting forgeries. Can you do that with people, too? Can you tell when someone is pretending to be something they’re not?”
“Usually.”
“And what do you see when you look at me?”
I could lie or deflect. I could tell him I see what he wants me to see. But something about the way he’s asking makes me want to be honest.
“I see someone who’s very good at playing roles. Someone who knows how to blend into whatever environment he’s in.” I tilt my head. “But I also see someone who’s not entirely comfortable with deception. You’re good at it, but you don’t enjoy it.”
“Perceptive.”
“It’s my job.” I stand and carry my empty cup to the kitchen. “Anything else you want to know?”
Tony follows me. “Yes. When you authenticate a piece, what happens when you can’t tell if it’s real or fake? When the evidence is inconclusive?”
I rinse the cup and set it in the sink. “Then I keep looking. I find more evidence. Consult with experts. I don’t stop until you know the truth.”
“And if you never find conclusive proof?”
“There’s always proof if you know where to look.”
Tony steps up behind me before I can turn around. Close enough to feel his body heat seeping into my back. His hand comes to rest on the counter beside mine, caging me in without touching me.
“Why are you asking?” My voice comes out breathier than I intend.
“Because I think you’re trying to authenticate me.” His breath ghosts across the back of my neck, and I suppress a shiver. “Figuring out if I’m real or a very good forgery.”
I turn slowly, which puts us face to face with maybe six inches between us. His blue eyes are darker this close, and his pupils are dilated. “And you’re curious what conclusion I’ll reach.”
“Very curious.” His free hand lifts, and for a second, I think he’s going to touch my face. Instead, he brushes a strand of hair that’s come loose from my ponytail behind my ear. It makes my pulse jump.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Take your time.” His thumb traces along my jawline, barely a touch. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Then he steps back, and I can breathe again.
“Let me know when you do,” he tells me, then walks back to his room.
I stand there gripping the counter, my heart racing, wondering if I just passed some kind of test.
Or failed one.