Chapter 34
CLARA
I'm still standing at the window, staring down at the grid of Manhattan where life is moving, free and noisy, as snow begins to sift down from the dark, heavy clouds.
But up here, on the thirty-fifth floor of Dmitri's private hotel, everything is silent and suffocating.
I might as well be stuck in the low clouds, watching the flakes pass as they make their way down.
It's been a full day since Dmitri left, since he kissed me goodbye and told me he would come for me when everything was over.
But I have no idea when that will be. Will it be hours?
Days? Months? The guards outside my room have been less than helpful when I ask.
I don't even know whether they speak English, because they won't answer me at all.
I might be safe, but this hotel room might as well be a panic room with a spectacular view. The point is, I can't leave, I can’t call anyone, I can't get a hold of Dmitri, and I don't know when any of this will end.
But it has given me a lot of time to think—too much time.
Is it worth being locked up in a tower like some fantasy princess just to feel secure?
I feel so entirely out of my depth, like I'm actually in a fairy tale, my prince off fighting a war while I'm stuck here.
But I'm not a princess, and I'm not helpless.
I've picked up the phone multiple times to tell Emily to trigger that FBI safe house she was talking about, only to place it back down without making the call.
I know that Dmitri's world doesn't operate the way the rest of ours does, and Andrey certainly doesn't operate the way most of us do.
The majority of us abide by laws that define our lives, create barriers between what we can and can't do.
Barriers don't exist for men like them—they are simply annoyances to get around.
Andrey's specter hovers every time I reach for my phone to call Emily.
What wouldn't he do to get to me? How far do his connections run?
He's already tried to kill me three times, and just like Dmitri said, I know he won't stop.
Can the FBI really protect me against that?
Is every agent so immune to the promise of money and power that I wouldn't be in danger?
Is there any place I can run that he can't find me?
Whenever Dmitri returns—I ignore the small voice that says if he returns—we're going to have a stern talk about locking me away like this. But I don't want to leave the safety he's built for me either.
I don't have a death wish, and I'm desperate to protect my baby.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t hate being locked up.
I get Dmitri’s logic—I really do. I still feel the trauma of the white-hot terror in the moments after the bomb went off, of knowing someone really is trying to kill me.
But logic doesn’t calm the shaking of my hands, and it doesn’t make me feel any less powerless or alone.
I’ve already learned how many footsteps it takes to cross the living room: ten across the cold marble floor, another ten across the silky Persian rug, five to the window, and then back.
I’ve run my hands over the gold-plated fixtures in the bathrooms and the crystal decanters of liquor on the wet bar that I can’t partake in, looked in the fully stocked fridge, and sat in the enormous bathtub that sits beside the glass enclosed shower with so many heads, I can’t even find them all.
I’m climbing the freaking walls.
I’ve tried calling Dmitri, but it always goes straight to voicemail. I wonder what he’s doing out there.
What happens if Dmitri dies? What happens to me and the baby?
If Dmitri is dead, I’m dead. And I don’t know if there’s anywhere I can hide that Andrey won’t find us.
I welcome the noise of the television because I’m desperate for distraction, for some kind of connection to the world outside this fortress.
Unfortunately, the program that pops up first is the evening newscast. The solemn face of one of the news anchors fills the screen.
“Foul play is suspected in the death of Mark Palmer. Palmer, a twenty-three-year-old paralegal at Smirnov Corporation, died late last night in an apartment fire in TriBeCa, which authorities now believe was intentionally set. Palmer was reportedly assisting a police investigation related to a local organized crime syndicate…”
The remote slips from my numb fingers, falling silently onto the thick rug beneath my feet.
Mark Palmer.
I stare at the image of the burned-out apartment building, a cold certainty settling deep in my chest, then sinking like stones to my stomach, heavy and sickening.
Died in a fire.
Mark didn’t just die in a fire. He was silenced. He was shown what happens when someone crosses the Smirnov Bratva. He was a warning to anyone else who might think they can follow in Mark’s footsteps. The fire wasn’t an accident—it was a consequence.
Dmitri told me he would try. He told me he would do his best to try it my way, even though that was not the bratva way.
But he never promised.
The image of Dmitri in my mind, the coldness, that look devoid of humanity, overlays the image of the charred apartment building. My heart doesn’t just ache, it shatters.
I don't have a moment to consider the implications. The door opens so suddenly it startles me, and I jump from the couch before I see who it is. I expect Dmitri or Pavel. But it's one of the guards who stands watch right outside the door.
“We need to go—now.”
I stare at him for a moment, trying to understand. My mind is too full to comprehend what the words mean.
“What?”
“You heard me. Let's go.” He waves impatiently for me to follow him.
“I'm not supposed to leave,” I tell him, as though he doesn't already know, as though that's not the entire reason he's been standing outside the door.
“Pakhan says you must come.”
“Come where?” I glance at my phone, but there is no message from Dmitri giving me instructions or a heads-up.
“He says to move you now.” The guard takes a step toward me, a menacing bull of a man with dark, hard eyes and tattoos climbing up his neck into his scalp. He keeps his weapons on full display.
I step back and consider my options, of which there are none.
I don't know why Dmitri has ordered me to be moved, unless this place is compromised.
I just wish he had told me, so I would have known before this big brute came in.
But if the hotel is compromised, I do need to go.
Though I don't understand why what felt like a prison suddenly feels like a sanctuary that I'm loath to leave.
“You come. Now.”
It's the guard's last warning and probably his last nerve, and I snap into action. “Okay, I'm coming.”
The other guard at the door glances at me as we pass, and the two exchange a look between them, something I can't quite read, before the big bull escorts me to the private elevator and down to the parking garage.
I realize I'm vibrating with tension as I slip into the sedan with the blacked-out windows.
The guard slides in next to me without a word.
We drive for a while, but I can't tell where we're going, and I give up wondering. Instead, I glance out the window at the passing city, at the bright holiday lights that glow against the darkness.
We finally pull into an alley. Dumpsters overflow with trash on one side, and crates are stacked up around a side door to what smells like some sort of Asian restaurant.
“What is this place?” My stomach tightens as I glance out the window.
The guard gestures for me to exit the car, but I hesitate.
“I'm just going to try and call Dmitri again,” I tell him. “It's not that I don't trust you, but I want to hear it in his own words.”
I take my phone out of my purse and start scrolling. My finger is hovering over Dmitri's name when the guard yanks my phone out of my hand.
“Hey! Give that back.”
There's no response, his expression not changing from the frightening scowl he's worn since I walked into the hotel yesterday with Dmitri. Instead, he makes the exit gesture again and shoves me roughly toward the door.
“Okay, okay. You don't have to be so rude.” I try to cover the fear that is suddenly taking over, making my heart beat so fast I'm afraid it's going to burst.
A shadow separates from the wall as soon as I step away from the sedan. For half a beat, I think the tall figure must be Dmitri or even Pavel. But no, the figure is too heavy, too stocky to be either man. It takes me only a second to recognize who it is.
I take a breath to scream, to move, but two massive arms clamp down on me, one with a hand over my mouth, the other pinning my arms to my sides.
From the corner of my eye, I see Dmitri's guard—the man who's supposed to be protecting me—drop my phone on the ground before smashing it under his heavy boot.
I fight, kicking backward, scratching wildly, but the man holding me is immense. He might as well be a mountain.
“Always so dramatic, Clara. Didn't I warn you something bad was going to happen if you stayed with that bastard?”
The voice is smooth, cruel, and familiar, making my blood freeze in my veins.
Dean steps into the yellow light cast by the lamp hanging above the door. His eyes gleam and his smirk is predatory. His gaze is fixed solely on me, the possessive, cruel gaze I know all too well, but there's also a terrifying level of power.
“You could have come running right back to me, you know? All of this could have been avoided. But you've always been too stupid to see what's right in front of you.”
I'm shaking, not just from the cold, but from the sudden realization of my catastrophic mistake.
With sudden clarity, the last puzzle piece slips into place. That connection between my paralegal Mark, Dean, and Andrey. It's like a gut punch when I suddenly understand that Andrey didn't just pull information from a source—he and Dean are actively working together.
I can see the moment Dean takes in the fear in my eyes.
He steps closer, his face darkening with old anger and bitter resentment.
“Dmitri Smirnov humiliated me. He fucked with my career and thinks that he can steal my woman.
I simply found the means to return the favor, with interest. Dmitri thinks he's such a big shot, but Andrey is ten times the man. Dmitri is too unpredictable in his strategy, and his rage is too easy to manipulate.”
A whimper escapes, defiant as it is frightened, and Dean laughs, a cruel, ugly sound.
“Andrey laid it all out.” His voice is low, triumphant. “We're going to let Dmitri destroy himself, an impulsive, volatile criminal who destroys his own empire. It's kind of poetic, isn't it?”
I glare at him, but he only moves closer.
“Andrey and I have already set the narrative. Dmitri murdered his mole, and when you, his pregnant girlfriend, realized what a monster he truly is, you ran and told me everything.”
Dean grabs my arm and jerks me from the big guard's grasp. His grip is bruising, brutal.
“You're leverage, Clara, the perfect piece of bait to drag Dmitri Smirnov out of the shadows.
He'll come looking for you, and when he does, I'll be waiting with a full file of fabricated evidence and a warrant for murder.
He's going down, Clara, and you're going to help me take him down.
He's going to go to prison thinking you set him up. Genius, huh?”
I look from Dean's possessive fury to the big men in dark suits with frigid eyes, the men that were supposed to be loyal to the Smirnov Bratva, the men who were supposed to protect me.
I realize my fate is sealed, and I fear Dmitri's might be, too, because whatever Dean thinks he's going to do, I know Andrey won't let Dmitri or me get out of this alive.
The worst part of all is Dmitri will die thinking I betrayed him.