Chapter 9
Sasha
The moment the door clicks shut behind us, I know I’m in trouble.
We arrived in London three hours ago, checked into a boutique hotel near Mayfair, and discovered that “couple’s suite” means one very large bed and nowhere to hide from the attraction that’s been building since my apartment.
“I can sleep on the couch,” Tony offers, dropping his bag by the door. He’s already scanned the room twice—windows, exits, sight lines. I watched him do it without even thinking.
“Don’t be ridiculous. The couch is two feet long.” I walk to the window and look out at the London streets I used to know so well. “We’re both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
“Right. Not weird at all.”
Except it is weird.
We spent last night with his arm around me on the safehouse couch, pretending we were just reviewing security footage instead of finding excuses to be close.
Now, we’re in London, posing as a couple, about to meet with my former colleague who might have information about whoever’s investigating my family.
And all I can think about is what almost happened before the shooting started.
“The meeting’s not until tomorrow morning,” Tony reminds me, checking his phone. “We have the rest of the day.”
“I should probably prepare. Review what I’m going to ask her.”
“Or you could take a break.” He pockets his phone and looks at me. His eyes travel down my body before snapping back to my face, like he caught himself doing something he shouldn’t. “When’s the last time you just enjoyed being in London? No work or threats, just the city.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Then we’re fixing that.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re walking through a small gallery in Shoreditch that’s showing contemporary Russian artists. The space is intimate, maybe twenty pieces total, and nearly empty on a Wednesday afternoon.
Tony positions himself on the street side as we walk, his shoulder brushing mine every few steps. Dmitri does the same thing. It’s instinct for men who expect danger from every direction.
“How did you know about this?” I ask as we step inside.
“I didn’t. I searched for Russian art exhibitions near our hotel, and this came up.
” Tony studies a large abstract painting.
Even here, surrounded by art, he’s watching the other visitors.
The woman in the corner. The man by the exit.
He keeps his body angled toward the door.
“You mentioned at the wedding that you never get to just look at art anymore. That everything is authentication and analysis. I thought maybe you’d want an hour when nothing’s at stake. ”
“You remembered that?”
“I remember most things you tell me.”
We make our way through the gallery, taking everything in.
The work is modern and bold, nothing like the Imperial pieces I usually authenticate.
A series of photographs documents Moscow’s changing architecture.
Sculptures made from reclaimed Soviet-era materials.
Paintings that blend traditional iconography with contemporary themes.
A man enters the gallery behind us. Mid-forties, expensive coat, his hands in his pockets.
I clock him, noting the bulge near his left hip that could be a weapon or a wallet.
Tony notices, too. I see his weight settle differently, ready to move.
The man walks past us toward the photographs without a second glance, and we both relax fractionally.
This is what our lives are. Never fully at ease, even surrounded by beauty.
“This one’s interesting,” Tony comments in front of a triptych showing three generations of Russian women. “What do you see?”
“You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
I study the piece, letting myself analyze it not for forgery but for meaning.
“The artist is exploring continuity and change. See how the grandmother’s portrait uses classical techniques?
Oil on canvas, realistic rendering. The mother’s is mixed media, blending photography with paint.
The daughter’s is digital, but the composition mirrors the grandmother’s pose. ”
“So, tradition adapting rather than disappearing.”
“Exactly.” I move closer to examine the brushwork on the grandmother’s portrait.
“It’s also about what we inherit versus what we choose.
The grandmother had no choice about her life in Soviet Russia.
The mother lived through the transition.
The daughter has options that her grandmother never imagined. ”
“Which one are you?”
I look at him and ask, “What?”
“In your family. Are you the grandmother preserving tradition, the mother bridging two worlds, or the daughter choosing something new?”
“I don’t know. Maybe all three, depending on the day.” I turn away from the painting. “My grandmother died before I was born, but my mother said I had her eyes. Dmitri and Alexei remember the Soviet era, even if they were kids. I only know the after.”
“Do you wish you’d known what came before?”
“Sometimes. But mostly, I’m glad I didn’t have to live through it.” I walk to the next piece, a sculpture made from old military medals welded together. “My brothers carry that history in ways I don’t. They remember scarcity and fear. I just remember them keeping me safe from it.”
Tony follows me through the rest of the exhibition.
He ducks a bit to avoid a low-hanging installation, and the movement reminds me of how much larger he is than I am.
Broad shoulders, thick arms, and hands that could crush or cradle with equal ease.
I’ve tried not to think about those hands since the apartment.
He asks questions about technique and symbolism, admits when he doesn’t understand something, and listens when I explain. It’s refreshing talking to someone who appreciates art without pretending to be an expert.
By the time we leave, I’ve almost forgotten why we’re in London.
Almost.
“Thank you for this,” I tell him as we walk back toward the hotel. “I needed it.”
“I could tell. You’ve been wound pretty tight since the apartment.”
“Someone tried to kill us. I think that justifies some stress.”
“Fair point.” He guides me around a group of tourists blocking the sidewalk.
His hand lands on my lower back to steer me, and the warmth of his palm seeps through my jacket.
He doesn’t remove it even after we’ve passed the crowd.
“But you’re allowed to take breaks from being in survival mode. Even in our world.”
Our world. Like he’s already part of it. Like he belongs with the Kozlovs instead of just working for us.
Maybe he does. Maybe that’s what scares me. Or maybe what scares me is how much I want him to belong. How much I want those hands on more than just my back.
Back at the hotel, we order room service and eat dinner while watching terrible British television. Tony mocks the accents. I throw a pillow at him. For an hour, everything feels almost normal.
Then, his phone rings.
He checks the screen, and his face goes flat. “Sorry. I need to take this.” He steps onto the small balcony and closes the door behind him.
I can’t hear what he’s saying, but I watch his body language through the glass.
Tense. Unhappy. Whatever the conversation is about, he doesn’t like it.
My training kicks in as I note the way he grips the railing, the rigid set of his spine, and how his free hand keeps curling into a fist. This is a man receiving orders he doesn’t want to follow.
Five minutes later, he comes back inside looking like he wants to punch something.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fine. Just my uncle’s lawyer. Estate stuff that won’t go away.” He tosses his phone on the desk. “Let’s talk about tomorrow. Your contact. What’s her name again?”
He’s lying. His uncle died five years ago. And Tony doesn’t strike me as a man who forgets details.
How much estate business could possibly remain?
I file away the inconsistency and keep my face neutral. Dmitri taught me to gather information before confronting. Alexei taught me that people reveal more when they think you believe them.
“Petra. She worked in the authentication department with me at Christie’s.”
“You trust her?”
“As much as I trust anyone.” I pull up Petra’s contact information on my phone. “She left the auction house six months ago. Around the same time I did, actually. We stayed in touch.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She said she needed a change, but now, I’m wondering if it had something to do with the investigation into questionable transactions at Christie’s.” I set down my phone. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out tomorrow.”
“And if she’s involved? If she’s been feeding information to whoever’s investigating your family?”
Then she’ll learn what it costs to betray a Kozlov.”
The next morning, we meet Petra at a café near the British Museum. Tony chose our table specifically so we had our backs to the wall and a clear view of both entrances. I didn’t comment, but I noticed.
She looks just how I remember her: short dark hair, severe glasses, and the kind of precise appearance that comes from years of examining art under microscopes.
She stands to hug me. “Sasha! It’s been too long.”
“It has. Thank you for meeting us.” I gesture to Tony. “This is Tony Haugh. He’s helping my family with some security concerns.”
Petra shakes his hand. Her eyes do a quick assessment that I recognize from our authentication work together. She’s trying to figure out if he’s legitimate or a forgery.
“Security concerns,” she repeats as we sit. “That sounds ominous.”
“Someone’s been investigating my family’s business dealings. We’re trying to figure out who and why. You said on the phone that you might have information?”
“Maybe.” Her smile is too polished. “It depends on whether you want the truth… or something safer.”
“Always the truth.”