Chapter 10
Tony
Adrian knows I took Sasha to see Petra before I even tell him.
“The British Museum café,” he says the moment I answer his call. “Charming choice. Very public. Very safe.”
I step out onto the hotel balcony and close the door behind me. Sasha’s in the shower, giving me maybe ten minutes before she wonders where I went. Through the bathroom door, I can hear the water running.
My mind wanders to what she looks like in there—wet skin and steam curling around her curves. I shut that thought down hard. “How did you—”
“I told you. I have sources. Did your meeting produce anything useful?”
“Petra confirmed an internal investigation at Christie’s six months ago. Someone was documenting irregularities in art transactions.”
“And?”
“And Sasha’s family name came up multiple times in connection to those transactions.” I watch traffic move through the London streets below. “Right around the time your operation was exposed.”
The line goes quiet for a moment. Adrian’s voice is cold when he speaks again. “She told Petra about me.”
“Petra brought you up. Mentioned that your name came up in the Christie’s investigation. The timing made Sasha suspicious. She wonders if you’re involved in what’s happening now.”
“Good. Let her wonder. Let her get closer to the truth.” Adrian sounds pleased. “The revelation will be so much more devastating when she realizes you’ve been helping me all along. I want her to feel it in her bones, Tony. The kind of betrayal that rewrites everything she thought she knew.”
My stomach turns. “About that—”
“You’re having second thoughts.” It’s not a question. “I hear it in your voice. You’re getting attached.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is to make her fall for you and then destroy her, not to develop feelings. I’m paying you to be a weapon, Tony. Not a white knight.”
I grind my teeth. “I understand that.”
“Do you? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re compromising the mission by being too careful with her.
Too protective.” He lets that hang for a moment.
“Your job from this point forward is to ensure she’s emotionally invested enough that the truth will break her. I want progress reports. Daily.”
“Daily reports weren’t part of our agreement.”
“They are now. Unless you’d prefer to discuss breach of contract penalties?
” Adrian pauses. “Plus whatever additional consequences I decide are appropriate for failing to deliver what I paid for. And Tony? I have people everywhere. If you’re thinking about running or warning her, I’ll know.
And I’ll make sure she suffers twice as much before the end. ”
The threat is clear.
“You’ll get your updates,” I reply through clenched teeth as I add Adrian to the short list of people to kill when this is over. He’s moving toward the top.
“Good. And Tony? Accelerate the timeline. Stop being so careful about her feelings. Make her need you. Make her trust you. Make her fall in love with you.” His voice drops. “I want to watch her world collapse when she learns the truth.”
The line goes dead, and I stand on the balcony for another minute, trying to calm down enough that Sasha won’t immediately sense something’s wrong.
Adrian’s paranoia is getting worse. Following me to London, monitoring my movements, and demanding daily reports.
The man’s obsession with destroying Sasha has made him unpredictable, which makes him dangerous.
I need an exit strategy. Need to figure out how to get out of this contract without ending up dead or broke. The problem is that I can’t see a way out that doesn’t involve either betraying Sasha or paying money I don’t have.
Or killing Adrian.
That option looks better by the minute, and unlike most of Adrian’s problems, I’m one he won’t see coming.
Running isn’t an option. Not with his eyes on us in two countries and a contract that reaches farther than any border.
The worst part is that Adrian’s right. I am getting attached.
I’ve been sabotaging my investigation since day one, feeding him false intelligence, and protecting Sasha instead of gathering evidence against her family. Every instinct I have says this will end badly, but I can’t stop myself.
I go back inside. Sasha has emerged from the bathroom and is staring at the kitchenette.
Her hair is damp and hanging loose around her shoulders, and her thin robe is clinging to her damp skin.
I see the outline of her body underneath, and I have to look away before my thoughts go somewhere I can’t come back from.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“I had a stupid idea.” She gestures at the counter, where she’s laid out ingredients. “I thought I’d make us dinner. Something Russian. I had groceries delivered, but I forgot hotel kitchenettes are useless and I haven’t cooked anything in two years.”
“What were you trying to make?”
“Pelmeni. My mother’s recipe.” She picks up a package of ground meat. “Except I can’t find a rolling pin, and I don’t have a proper pot to boil them in.”
“So, order room service, and try again when we’re back in Moscow.”
“I wanted to do something normal tonight that didn’t involve bombs or threats or people trying to kill us.” She sets down the meat. “I wanted to pretend for a few hours that I’m just a regular person who can cook dinner for someone without it being a disaster.”
The vulnerability in her voice catches me off-guard, and I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Show me what you’re working with. Maybe we can salvage it.”
She walks me through her attempt. The dough is too dry, so we add water and knead it until the texture improves. The kitchenette doesn’t have a rolling pin, but a nearby wine bottle works well enough. The pot is too small for traditional boiling, but we can pan-fry them.
“My mother would be horrified,” Sasha jokes as we work side by side. Her hip brushes mine when she reaches for more flour, and I remind myself to breathe. “Pan-fried pelmeni. That’s not how you’re supposed to do it.”
“If they taste good, does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” She rolls out another piece of dough.
“She was an amazing cook. Before she died, I remember standing on a stool in our kitchen, watching her hands move while she explained each step. I was too young to remember most of it, but I remember the cooking lessons.” Sasha places filling in the center of the dough circle.
“These were her favorite. She made them every Sunday.”
“Do your brothers cook?”
“Dmitri manages basic meals. I’m told Alexei has come around, but I’m not brave enough to test that.” She laughs. “They made sure I learned, though. Said I needed at least one normal skill. It’s not as sexist as it sounds, I promise.”
We finish assembling the pelmeni and put them in the pan. The smell fills the small room, and Sasha closes her eyes.
“That’s it. That’s what I remember.”
“Your mother’s recipe?”
“My mother’s kitchen. Sunday afternoons. Being safe.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Thank you for helping with this.”
“You did most of the work.”
“But you didn’t tell me I was ridiculous. You just helped.” She plates the pelmeni and brings them to the small table. “That counts for a lot, Tony.”
We sit down to eat. The pelmeni are misshapen and probably not authentic, but they taste good. Sasha tells me more stories about her mother, about her brothers raising her after the accident, and about trying to find normalcy in a world that never felt normal.
I find myself talking, too. About my uncle in Michigan. About learning to fix cars in his garage. About the one Christmas when he tried to cook a turkey and nearly burned down the house.
“What do you want?” Sasha asks suddenly.
My brain goes straight to the gutter. You. Underneath me. On top of me. Against the wall. I want to hear what sounds you make when you come. I want to know if you taste as good as you smell.
“What?”
“Out of life. What do you want?” She sets down her fork. “You left the CIA. You work contract jobs. You move from place to place. But what do you want for yourself?”
The question stops me cold. I don’t think anyone has asked me that in years. Maybe no one ever has.
“I don’t know,” I admit with a shrug.
“You don’t know, or you’ve never let yourself think about it?”
“Both, probably.” I push food around on my plate. “I’ve spent so long just surviving that I forgot there’s supposed to be more than that.”
“Is that what you’re doing with me? Just surviving?”
“No.” The answer comes out too fast, too honest. “With you, I’m doing something else. I’m just not sure what it is yet.”
Sasha reaches across the table and takes my hand. “When you figure it out, let me know.”
We finish dinner and clean up the kitchenette. The domesticity of it—cooking, eating, washing dishes side by side—terrifies me in ways combat never did. This feels like building something. Like establishing a routine. Like imagining a future that extends beyond the next mission.
Sasha reaches past me for a towel, and her breast brushes against my arm. She doesn’t apologize or move away. I grip the edge of the counter and force myself to keep breathing.
I’ve never wanted permanent things or let myself picture more than a few weeks ahead.
But standing here with Sasha, drying dishes in a London hotel room, I can almost see it.
Mornings together. Shared meals. A life that doesn’t revolve around survival.
Nights in that bed behind us, her body tangled with mine.
The vision scares me more than Adrian’s threats.
In three weeks, I’m supposed to destroy this. Destroy her. Take whatever trust we’ve built and weaponize it in the cruelest way possible. The thought makes me want to put my fist through the wall. Or through Adrian’s face.
“You’re thinking too much,” Sasha observes, hanging up the dish towel.
“Occupational hazard.”
“Well, stop. Tonight’s about pretending we’re normal, remember?” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the couch. “Come on. There’s a terrible British quiz show on that we can mock.”
So, we sit on the couch and watch terrible television, and for a few hours, I let myself pretend this is real.
That I’m not lying to her about everything.
That Adrian’s not waiting for daily reports on how well I’m manipulating her emotions.
That this can somehow end in a way that doesn’t destroy one or both of us.
Pretending doesn’t change reality.
And reality is that I’m running out of time to figure out how to save her from what I’ve already set in motion.
One way or another, someone will die before this is over.
If I had to choose, it would be Adrian.