Chapter 25 - Sasha
Sasha
Boris hands me a photograph of a balding man in his fifties wearing an expensive watch.
“Grigory Kuznetsov,” he explains. “One of Ivan’s regular contacts outside the organization. Meets him for lunch every Thursday at the café Kuznetsov owns.”
“You think Kuznetsov’s involved?” I ask.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But if Ivan’s leaking information, he needs a middleman. Someone who can pass intelligence to Adrian without direct contact.”
Tony inspects the photograph over my shoulder. “What do you want us to do?”
“Surveil the café. See if Kuznetsov shows. See who he talks to. Don’t approach unless absolutely necessary.” Boris pulls out a second photo showing the café exterior. “Outdoor seating. Good visibility. You’ll pose as a couple on a date.”
“When?” I ask.
“Today. Kuznetsov usually arrives around two.”
I glance at Tony. He nods.
“We’ll be there,” I confirm.
An hour later, we’re sitting at an outdoor table at Café Pushkin with a clear view of the street. Tony ordered coffee. I got tea. We look like any other couple enjoying an afternoon in the city.
Except we’re watching everyone who passes.
“How well does Kuznetsov know Ivan?” Tony asks, keeping his voice low.
“According to Boris, they’ve been meeting regularly for about six months.” I stir sugar into my tea. “Could be friendship. Could be business.”
“Or it could be dead drops disguised as lunch meetings.”
“Exactly.”
A woman in a red coat walks past. Not our target. I track her anyway until she turns the corner.
“How long do we wait?” I ask.
“Boris said Kuznetsov’s usually punctual, so if he doesn’t show by three, we assume something spooked him.”
I sip my tea and scan the street again. A businessman checking his phone. A mother with a stroller. An elderly couple walking arm in arm. Normal afternoon traffic in central Moscow.
Tony leans back in his chair, the picture of relaxation. But I notice how his eyes never stop moving. How he watches every person who enters his peripheral vision.
“What’s your favorite piece you ever authenticated at Christie’s?”
I draw my brows together and ask, “Why?”
“Because I want to know. We’re sitting here pretending to be on a date. Might as well have an actual conversation.”
I consider the question while watching a delivery truck unload crates across the street. “There was a painting. Attributed to Caravaggio. A collector in Milan wanted verification before auction.”
“And?”
“And it was perfect. Every brushstroke matched his technique. The canvas dated to the right period. Even the frame was authentic seventeenth century.” I turn my tea cup in my hands. “But something felt wrong. The composition was too clean. Caravaggio was messy. This painting felt almost staged.”
“So it was a forgery?”
“The best I’ve ever seen. Whoever created it understood Caravaggio better than most scholars. They didn’t just copy his work; they thought like him. Painted like him. But they couldn’t replicate the chaos that made him brilliant.”
Tony watches me while I talk. Not the street. Not the passing pedestrians. Just me.
“What happened to it?” he asks.
“The collector withdrew it from auction. It’s probably sitting in a vault somewhere. Why do you want to know about this?”
“Because when you talk about art, you come alive. Your whole face changes. It’s the only time you look completely unguarded.”
Before I can respond, something cold splashes my face.
Rain. Coming down in sheets without any warning.
Within seconds, we’re both soaked. Tony grabs the photos and shoves them inside his jacket. I rescue my tea, though it’s already diluted by rainwater.
“Kuznetsov?” I shout over the downpour.
“Not coming in this weather. We should go.”
But I’m looking at him—at us—sitting here drenched like idiots. Water drips from Tony’s hair into his eyes. My blouse is plastered to my skin. We probably look ridiculous.
And suddenly, I’m laughing.
Real, genuine laughter that comes from somewhere deep in my chest bursts out of me, and I can’t contain it.
Tony grins. “What’s so funny?”
“Us. This. All of it.” I gesture at the rain, at our soaked clothes, at the abandoned café around us. “We’re supposed to be professionals conducting surveillance, and instead we’re sitting here drowning.”
He starts laughing too.
“Come on.” Tony stands and grabs my hand. “Before we catch pneumonia.”
He pulls me into a nearby doorway. The overhang provides some shelter, but we’re already completely wet. My hair hangs in dark ropes down my back. Tony’s shirt clings to his chest, showing every muscle.
“Well, that was productive,” he mumbles as he wrings water from his sleeve.
“Boris is going to love this.” I lean against the door, catching my breath. The laughter feels good. Like releasing something I’ve been holding too tight for too long.
When was the last time I laughed like that? Really laughed without thinking about who was watching or what it meant?
“We should call for a car,” Tony suggests, pulling out his phone.
“Or we could walk.”
“Walk? It’s pouring.”
“We’re already wet. What difference does it make?” I step out from under the overhang into the rain. “Besides, when’s the last time you just walked in the rain?”
Tony pockets his phone and joins me on the sidewalk.
“You’re insane,” he states.
“Probably.”
We walk through the downpour, not hurrying, just making our way through the city while everyone else huddles under awnings or runs for shelter. It feels freeing somehow. Like we’re the only two people who aren’t afraid of getting a little wet.
“Tell me the rest of the story,” Tony prompts. “About the Caravaggio forgery.”
“What else is there to tell?”
“How did you know for certain it was fake? You said something felt wrong, but that’s not proof.”
I think back to those days in the Christie’s authentication lab. Hours spent examining every inch of that canvas under different lighting. “There was a signature hidden under layers of varnish. The forger had signed their work, knowing nobody would ever see it unless they looked very carefully.”
“That’s bold.”
“That’s arrogance. They were so proud of their work they couldn’t resist leaving their mark.” I sip my tea. “Caravaggio never signed anything. His ego was in the painting itself, not some hidden message for future authenticators.”
“Did you ever find out who created it?”
“No. The signature was just initials. The collector didn’t want to pursue it further. I guess it was too embarrassing to admit he’d been fooled.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a while. The rain starts to let up, becoming a light drizzle instead of a downpour.
“Can I ask you something?” Tony ventures.
“Another question?”
“Do you miss it? Working at Christie’s. Having that life in London.”
I consider how to answer. “I miss the work. I miss feeling like I was building something of my own. Something that had nothing to do with my family’s name or reputation.”
“But?”
“But I was also running away. Pretending I could separate myself from who I really am. From where I come from. Turns out you can’t outrun your own blood.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“I don’t know yet. Ask me again when this is all over.”
The compound comes into view. Guards at the gate. High walls. The world I was born into and tried to escape.
Tony stops walking. “Sasha.”
I turn to face him. We’re both still damp from the rain. His hair is starting to dry in messy spikes. I probably look like a drowned rat.
“Thank you.”
I tilt my head to the side and ask, “For what?”
“This afternoon felt…like we’re two people who enjoy each other’s company instead of two people trying to figure out if the other one is lying.”
He’s right. I wasn’t analyzing his motives or questioning his intentions. I was just enjoying being with him.
That realization should terrify me. It should send me running back to my careful defenses.
Instead, it just makes me want more moments like this.
“We should get inside,” I reply. “Before Boris sends a search party.”
Tony nods, but he doesn’t move. Just keeps looking at me with those blue eyes that warm me from the inside out all on their own.
“Sasha—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off. “Don’t say whatever you’re about to say. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not ready to hear it. And I don’t think you’re ready to say it.” I start walking toward the gate. “Let’s just let today be what it was. Something good. Something simple. We don’t need to complicate it.”
He catches up to me in three long strides. We reach the gate and the guards wave us through. Back to the compound. Back to the mission and the surveillance and the dance of figuring out who’s betraying whom.
But something’s changed. I feel it in the way Tony walks beside me. In the way I’m not constantly bracing for him to hurt me again.
Maybe Katya was right. Maybe the man matters more than the mission. Maybe actions after the truth comes out count for more than the lies that came before.
I’m not ready to fully trust him yet. Not ready to stop protecting my heart.
But for the first time since I learned the truth about his contract with Adrian, I’m willing to believe that maybe—just maybe—we’re building something real.
And that possibility terrifies me more than any threat from Adrian ever could.
Because Adrian can only hurt my family. Tony has the power to destroy me.
The question is whether I’m brave enough to let him try not to.