Chapter 20 Tony
Tony
Boris unlocks the cell door on day seven, and I know something has changed.
He doesn’t say anything. Just jerks his head toward the hallway and waits while I stand. My legs protest the movement after a week of sitting on concrete, but I don’t complain.
We walk through corridors I don’t recognize. Up two flights of stairs. Past guards who watch me like I’m a bomb that might detonate at any moment. None of them speak. A few spit on the floor as I pass. Can’t blame them for that—I’m the bastard who took a contract to destroy their Pakhan’s sister.
Finally, Boris stops at a door and knocks twice.
“Come in,” Dmitri’s voice calls from inside.
The office is nothing like the warehouse where he interrogated me. Mahogany desk. Leather chairs. Top-to-bottom bookshelves filled with volumes that actually look read. A crystal decanter of vodka sits on a side table next to cut-glass tumblers.
Dmitri sits behind the desk reviewing documents. He doesn’t look up when I enter. I stand there for thirty seconds. A minute. Two. This is a power play, and I understand it. He’s establishing dominance, reminding me who controls my fate.
I can wait.
Finally, he sets down his pen and looks at me.
“Sit,” he instructs.
I take the chair across from him. Boris positions himself by the door with his arms crossed. No one speaks for another long moment while Dmitri finishes whatever he’s reading. When he’s done, he closes the folder and folds his hands on top of it.
“Adrian’s been trying to reach you,” he states. “Seventeen over the past week. Each one more aggressive than the last.” Dmitri slides a phone across the desk. My phone. “He thinks you’re avoiding him because you’re too busy with Sasha to file proper reports.”
I pick up the phone and scroll through the messages. Adrian’s paranoia bleeds through every line. Demands for updates. Questions about why I haven’t responded. Threats about breach of contract. The final message, sent this morning, is just three words: Call me now.
“He’s getting desperate,” I observe.
“Which makes him dangerous.” Dmitri leans back in his chair. “But it also makes him predictable. Desperate men make mistakes. I want you to maintain your cover. Respond to Adrian. Continue to feed him false intelligence while we use your access to identify his source inside my organization.”
“You think there’s a mole.”
“I know there’s a mole. Adrian had information about Sasha’s movements that only came from someone with high-level access.” Dmitri’s voice goes colder. “Someone close to this family has been selling information to a man who wants to destroy us. I need to know who.”
I consider the proposal. Adrian’s going to kill me eventually for betraying him. That’s not a question—it’s just a matter of when. But if I can help Dmitri eliminate the leak first, maybe Sasha will be safer when Adrian finally comes for me.
“I’ll do it,” I declare.
“Just like that? No negotiations? No demands for immunity or protection?”
“What’s to negotiate? You have all the leverage. I’m just trying to keep Sasha alive.”
Dmitri snorts and replies, “You’re either genuinely in love with my sister, or you’re the best operative I’ve ever encountered.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“Not really. Love makes people sloppy. Compromises judgment. If you’re as good as your reputation suggests, you wouldn’t have let yourself fall for the target. Or maybe this is another layer of deception.” He picks up his pen and taps it against the desk. “Either way, you’re useful. For now.”
“What’s the plan?”
“You respond to Adrian. Tell him you’ve been maintaining deep cover with Sasha and that she’s starting to trust you. Provide him with false intelligence about family operations that sounds plausible but won’t damage us if he acts on it.”
He slides the folder across the desk. I flip it open and peruse the contents. Bank account numbers. Wire transfer schedules. Names of fictional contacts in Geneva and Cyprus. It’s thorough work. And it just might do the trick.
“And the mole?” I ask.
“We’ll monitor who has access to the false information you’re feeding Adrian. When that information shows up in his hands through channels other than you, we’ll know who’s been betraying us.”
It’s a solid plan. Simple. Effective. The kind of counterintelligence operation I’ve run a dozen times myself.
“What about Sasha?” I ask. “Will she be part of the planning process?”
“That’s her choice. If she wants to be involved, I won’t stop her. If she wants nothing to do with you, I’ll respect that too.”
“Fair enough.”
He leans forward in his chair, scowling.
“You destroyed my sister’s ability to trust anyone.
You took a contract to break her heart and then acted surprised when the job became complicated.
So no, I don’t think it’s particularly fair that she has to decide whether to work with the man who betrayed her. ”
The rebuke lands exactly as he intended. I deserve every word.
“You’re right,” I concede. “None of this is fair to her.”
“No. It’s not.” Dmitri stands. “You’ll be moved out of the cell. Given a room in the compound. But don’t mistake this for trust, Tony. You’re a prisoner who’s temporarily useful. Boris will have eyes on you at all times. One wrong move and he puts a bullet in your head. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good.” He walks to the door and opens it. “Boris will show you to your new accommodations. There’s a shower. Clean clothes. Food that isn’t three days old. Consider it an upgrade for cooperation.”
I stand and tuck the folder under my arm. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. Thank Sasha. She’s the only reason you’re still breathing.”
He dismisses me with a wave, and Boris escorts me back into the hallway. We walk through more corridors until he stops at a door and unlocks it.
The room is small but clean. Single bed with actual sheets and a pillow. Desk with a lamp. Private bathroom. A window with bars on it that looks out over the compound gardens.
“Clothes in the closet,” Boris grumbles. “You have thirty minutes to clean up. Then we discuss next steps.”
He leaves without another word, locking the door behind him.
I stand in the center of the room and try to process everything that just happened. A week ago, I was convinced Dmitri would kill me. Now I’m being given a room and a mission and a chance to prove myself.
Because of Sasha.
I set the folder on the desk and strip off the clothes I’ve been wearing for seven days. They smell like concrete and despair. I throw them in the corner and step into the shower.
The hot water feels like a luxury I don’t deserve. I scrub until my skin turns red, trying to wash away a week of sitting in that cell replaying every mistake I made. The soap smells like cedar. Normal. Clean. Human.
When I’m done, I stand under the spray for another five minutes, just feeling the heat on my shoulders.
Finally, I turn off the water and dry off with a towel that’s rough but clean. I find the clothes Boris mentioned in the closet. Jeans. T-shirt. Socks. Everything fits well enough.
I get dressed and sit on the bed. The mattress is firm but comfortable. After a week on concrete, it feels like a cloud.
My phone sits on the desk where I left it. I pick it up and scroll through Adrian’s messages again. Each one is angrier than the last. Each one is a reminder of the contract I signed and the consequences waiting for me when he discovers the truth.
But when I think about Sasha in that cell, the way she looked at me, that’s worth whatever Adrian does to me.
A red light above the door blinks. Camera. Boris watching. They’re not handing me a phone without a leash.
I draft a response. The kind of update Adrian expects from a professional operative who’s still on mission.
Deep cover maintained. Target trust increasing. Will have actionable intelligence soon. Stand by.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Boris returns exactly thirty minutes later.
We spend the next hour going over communication procedures. How often I’ll check in with Dmitri’s team. What security measures I need to follow when contacting Adrian. The specific false intelligence I’ll be feeding him and when.
“You’ll report every communication with Adrian within one hour,” Boris explains. “Every call. Every text. We need to know exactly what you’re telling him so we can track it.”
“Understood.”
“The false intelligence in that folder—memorize it. Adrian’s smart. If you hesitate when he asks questions, he’ll know something’s wrong.”
“I’ve done this before.”
“One more thing. Sasha hasn’t decided if she wants to see you. If she does, you follow her lead. You don’t push. You don’t demand. You let her set the terms. Clear?”
“Clear.”
“Good. Because if you hurt her again, Dmitri’s bullet will be a mercy compared to what I’ll do to you.”
He leaves, and I’m alone again with my thoughts and the view of the compound gardens.
I spend the rest of the afternoon reviewing the plan. I commit every detail to memory until I can recite it without thinking.
Evening comes. Boris brings dinner—actual food on actual plates. Chicken, rice, and vegetables that aren’t grey. I eat mechanically, barely tasting anything.
When I’m done, I walk to the window. The gardens below are empty except for a few guards on patrol. The sun is setting, painting everything in shades of orange and gold.
And then I see her.
Sasha walks into the gardens alone. She’s wearing jeans and a sweater, and around her neck is a scarf I bought her in St. Petersburg. Dark blue silk with delicate silver embroidery. I saw it in a shop window and thought it would match her eyes.
She sits on a stone bench and pulls out a book. From this distance, I can’t tell what she’s reading, but I watch the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when it falls forward. The way she bites her lip when she’s concentrating on the page.
She kept the scarf.
Maybe she forgot where it came from. Maybe she just grabbed whatever was closest when she left her room. Or maybe—and this is the thought that makes it hard to breathe—maybe she kept it because some part of her still wants to believe the man who gave it to her was real.
I don’t know which explanation is true.
But for the first time since my cover shattered, I feel something that isn’t despair or regret.
I feel hope.
It’s a fragile thing that could shatter with one wrong word or look from her, but it’s there, persistent, refusing to die no matter how many times I tell myself I don’t deserve it.
Sasha closes her book and stands. She wraps the scarf more tightly around her neck against the evening chill the way she always does it, starting from one end and tucking it just so.
She walks back toward the main house. Doesn’t look up at my window. Probably doesn’t even know which room they’ve given me.
But she’s wearing the scarf.
And that has to mean something.