8. Katya
Katya
The gallery downstairs isn’t about art. It’s a front.
I know it the second we step inside.
“I need to handle some things with my associates,” Dmitri explains as he guides me to a plush leather chair in the lobby area with his hand resting firmly on my lower back. “It shouldn’t take long.”
The way he says “associates” makes it clear these aren’t legitimate business partners. More like the kind of people who solve problems with violence instead of lawyers.
“Can I look around while I wait?” I keep my posture upright, ready to move if needed, though I have no idea why.
“Stay in the lobby. And please don’t talk to anyone.” His fingers squeeze my shoulder once before he steps back, a gesture that feels more like a warning than affection.
The “please” sounds polite, but his tone says it’s not a request. I watch him disappear through a door marked “Private” and wonder what kind of art gallery needs that much security.
The lobby is impressive, with marble floors, expensive-looking paintings on the walls, and the kind of setup that screams money. But something is off about it. It’s too clean and too perfect, like a movie set instead of a business.
“Beautiful pieces, aren’t they?”
I turn to find a young woman about my age approaching with a warm smile.
She’s wearing the kind of outfit that says, “art professional”.
Black dress, tasteful jewelry, and her hair pulled back in a sleek bun.
But her hands flutter nervously at her sides, and she keeps glancing toward the private door.
“They are,” I agree, though I’m not sure I mean it. To me, they look like a preschool tossed paint on a canvas. “Do you work here?”
“Marina Listov. Assistant curator.” She extends her hand for me to take and adds, “And you must be Mrs. Kozlov.”
The way she says my married name makes me study her face more carefully. There’s something nervous about her smile, like she’s been told what to say.
“‘Katya’ is fine. How long have you worked here?” I shake her hand and notice how quickly she pulls away and wipes her palm against her dress.
“About six months. It’s a wonderful opportunity.” She gestures toward one of the paintings. “This Kandinsky piece just came in from a private collector. Your husband has exquisite taste.”
“Does he spend much time here?”
“Oh, well…” Marina glances toward the private door Dmitri disappeared through, then back at me, worrying her lower lip. “He’s very hands-on with acquisitions. Makes sure everything is handled properly.”
“Acquisitions. That sounds interesting.”
“Yes, he’s quite… thorough in his business dealings.” She wraps her arms around herself, and the way she emphasizes thorough makes my skin crawl. She’s talking about something much darker than buying paintings.
“Have we met?” I tilt my head. “You seem familiar.”
“I don’t think so. Though I’ve heard so much about you from the other staff.” Her voice pitches higher, and she takes a small step backward.
“What kinds of things?”
Marina’s smile falters, and she glances around the empty lobby like she’s checking for witnesses. “Just that you’re recovering from an accident. Everyone’s been very concerned.”
“Everyone?”
“Well, your husband is quite… protective of you. He made it clear that your privacy and well-being are his top priorities.” She fidgets with her jewelry, twisting a ring around her finger. “It must be difficult, not remembering things. Has anything here triggered any memories?”
“No. Nothing feels familiar.” I keep my voice casual, but I’m watching every micro-expression on her face.
“That’s probably for the best.”
Her face goes pale as soon as the words come out, and her hand flies to her throat.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, just… fresh starts can be good sometimes. New beginnings.” She forces a laugh that sounds brittle and fake.
But she’s already said too much, and we both know it.
“Marina, can I ask you something?”
She clears her throat and nods. “Of course.”
“What do people around here really think of my husband?”
She freezes like I’ve just asked her to confess to murder, and her eyes go as wide as saucers. “I’m sorry?”
“Everyone seems so nervous around him. The waiters at restaurants, the staff here... it’s like they’re all afraid of him.” I gesture around the lobby, noting how empty it is despite being prime business hours.
“Mr. Kozlov is a very… influential man. People respect that.” Her hands are shaking now, and she stuffs them into her pockets to hide the tremor.
“Respect or fear?”
“I… I couldn’t say.” She takes another step back, putting distance between us, continuing to throw looks at the private door like she’s expecting Dmitri to burst through it any second.
“Marina, I’m not going to get you in trouble. I just want to understand my life.” I soften my voice, trying to seem less threatening.
“Your life is what he tells you it is.” The words come out flat, like she’s quoting something she’s heard. Then she realizes what she’s said and claps her hand over her mouth as her eyes fill with panic.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean?—”
“Yes, you did. And I think you’re right.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I can see her deciding whether to trust me or run. Her breathing has quickened, and she keeps shifting her weight from foot to foot.
“How much do you know about what he does?” I ask as I move closer, so she doesn’t have to speak loudly.
“I know enough to keep my mouth shut and do my job.”
“Which is?”
She glances around the empty lobby again and lowers her voice until I have to strain to hear. “Making sure the gallery looks legitimate while other business gets handled upstairs.”
“Other business?”
“The kind that involves men with guns and conversations about people who don’t pay their debts.” Her voice cracks slightly on the last word.
“And what do people think about my marriage?” I watch her face carefully, noting how she flinches at the question.
Marina’s face goes even paler, and she looks like she might be sick. “People think it’s very sudden. Very convenient.”
“Convenient how?”
“Mrs. Kozlov—Katya—I can’t—” She shakes her head frantically, backing toward the wall.
“Please. I need to know.”
“People are saying you appeared out of nowhere. No family, no friends, no history with him before a few weeks ago. Some think you saw something you shouldn’t have, and now he’s keeping you quiet.”
“By marrying me?”
“By making you think you married him.”
The room tilts, my stomach drops. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“I’ve worked in Moscow long enough to know how men like your husband operate. Loose ends don’t walk around freely. Either you disappear permanently, or you become useful to them in some other way.” She’s speaking faster now, the words tumbling over each other.
“And how am I useful?”
“I don’t know. But whatever happened to you, whatever or whoever you were before… he needs you to forget it and become something else.” She glances at her watch as panic creeps into her voice. “He’s been in there too long. He’ll be back soon.”
Before I can ask more questions, footsteps echo from the hallway behind the private door. Marina jumps away and starts talking about the paintings in a bright, fake voice.
“The brushwork in this period really shows the influence of German Expressionism?—”
The door opens, and two men in expensive suits walk out, followed by Dmitri. The men nod respectfully at him and head for the exit, looking relieved to be leaving.
Dmitri’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he approaches us. “I see you’ve met Marina.”
“She’s been telling me about the gallery’s collection.”
“Has she?” His green eyes fix on Marina, and I watch her shrink into herself, her shoulders hunching forward. “How informative.”
“Mr. Kozlov, I was just—” Marina’s voice is barely more than a squeak.
“I’m sure you were just doing your job. Weren’t you, Marina?” He doesn’t raise his voice, but something in his tone makes her take another step backward.
“Yes, sir. Absolutely.”
The fear in her voice is unmistakable. Whatever power Dmitri holds over people, it comes from violence, not respect.
“Well, I’ve finished my meeting.” He moves to my side and places his hand on the small of my back with just a little too much pressure. “Ready to go home?”
“Actually, I was hoping to look around more. Marina was just about to show me some pieces upstairs.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible today. Perhaps another time.” His fingers press deeper into my back in a warning.
“Of course.” Marina nods so hard that her hair starts to come loose from its bun. “Maybe when Mrs. Kozlov is feeling more up to it.”
“Maybe.” Dmitri’s tone suggests otherwise.
He guides me toward the exit, his hand not leaving my back as he steers me. I turn back to Marina before we leave.
“Thank you for the conversation. It was… enlightening.”
Her eyes widen, and she nods before she wraps her arms around herself again.
We’re halfway to the car before Dmitri speaks again, and he lengthens his stride, so I have to hurry to keep up.
When I match his pace, his eyes flick down to my stride. Just a glance, sharp and measuring, like he’s watching how I move. It’s over in a second, but it leaves me unsettled.
Like he recognized something I didn’t.
“What did you and Marina discuss?”
“Art. The gallery’s collection. Nothing important.”
“Really? She looked rather nervous when I came out.”
“Maybe she’s just not used to talking to the boss’s wife.” I shrug, trying to project indifference.
“Maybe.”
I can feel tension radiating from his body by the way his jaw is set and the controlled anger in his voice. He knows I was asking the wrong questions, and Marina gave me the wrong answers.
“Katya.” He yanks me to a stop by the elbow, his grip iron-hard.
“Yes?”
“In the future, I’d prefer it if you did what I asked. I told you not to speak to anyone.”
“Are you forbidding me from talking to people?”
“I’m asking you to be more careful about who you trust.”
“And who should I trust?”
“Me.” The word comes out flat and final. An order instead of a request.
I yank my arm free and cross my arms over my chest. “What if I don’t want to?”
He goes very still, and the mask slips for a moment. I see something cold and dangerous in his eyes that makes every instinct I have scream danger.
“Then you’d be making a mistake.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It’s a fact. I’m the only person in this city who cares whether you live or die. Everyone else sees you as either an opportunity or a problem to be solved.” He steps closer.
“Which one am I to you?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and that hesitation tells me more than words could. His hands clench and unclench at his sides before he says, “You’re my wife.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer that matters.” He jerks the car door open for me and holds out a hand in a silent request for me to climb in.
I slide into the passenger seat as my mind races with everything Marina said. If even half of it is true, my life is a lie. My marriage, my identity, my supposed recovery… all of it is fabricated.
The question is why. What did I see or do or know that made Dmitri decide I needed to become someone else?
And what happens when I remember who I really am?