9. Dmitri
Dmitri
Lock her down, and she only pushes harder.
Every new rule makes Katya more suspicious.
No leaving the penthouse without my permission and with a two-man escort.
No chatting with building staff, who might say the wrong things about my business operations or her sudden appearance in my life.
No access to phones, computers, or communication with the outside world without direct supervision.
I’ve stationed guards in the lobby with clear instructions that Mrs. Kozlov is not to exit the building alone under any circumstances.
The penthouse has become her world, with every entrance and exit monitored, and every interaction controlled.
I frame it all as concern for her delicate condition after the accident, of course. The stress of trying to recover lost memories. The danger of overwhelming her healing brain with too much outside stimulation. The need to protect her from people who might take advantage of her vulnerable state.
What I don’t tell her is that every restriction exists to prevent her from discovering the truth about Alexandra Volkova.
She’s pacing the living room like a caged animal, testing the boundaries of her invisible prison. This morning, I watch her circle the space for the third time in an hour, her movements becoming more agitated with each pass.
“I need fresh air,” she announces as she stops in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Moscow. “Just a walk around the block. Nothing crazy.”
I don’t look up from my tablet as I answer, “The doctors said you should limit physical exertion while your brain heals. Besides, it’s cold outside. You don’t want to risk getting sick on top of everything else.”
“I’m not made of glass, Dmitri.”
“No, but you’re recovering from severe head trauma.”
She huffs and turns from the window to face me, and I catch something dangerous in her posture. The way she plants her feet shoulder-width apart, how her hands hang loose at her sides, and the slight forward lean of her shoulders. It’s subtle but unmistakable.
A combat stance.
“What if I promise to stay close to the building? Just fifteen minutes.”
“What if you promise to trust me when I say it’s not a good idea right now?”
“What if I don’t want to?”
We both know she’s no longer asking about a walk around the block.
“Then I’d remind you that I’m the one who knows what’s best for your recovery process.”
“According to who?”
“According to Doctor Orlov. According to me. According to everyone who remembers your condition before the accident.”
She flinches but rebounds faster than most people would. Another sign that she’s not the helpless victim I’ve been pretending she is.
Maybe my brother was onto something.
“Fine. I’ll stay inside like a good little patient.”
The sarcasm in her voice is new, and it’s sharper than anything she’s shown me so far. I set down my tablet and inspect her face.
“I have meetings today. Business that requires my full attention for several hours.”
“Of course, you do.”
“Boris and Pavel will be here while I’m gone. If you need anything, ask them.”
“You mean my babysitters?”
I grind my teeth and sigh. “Your security detail.”
She laughs humorlessly. “Security from what?”
“From making mistakes that could set back your recovery.”
“Such as?”
“Ignoring medical advice, for starters. Putting yourself in situations you’re not ready to handle, mentally or physically.”
We stare at each other across the room, and I realize this conversation is a chess match. Each of us is probing for weaknesses, testing boundaries, and trying to figure out what the other knows.
“I’ll be back by six,” I tell her as I grab my jacket from the chair.
“I’ll try to contain my excitement.”
The edge in her voice follows me out the door, and I make a mental note to review the security footage when I return. Something about her attitude feels different since our trip to the gallery a few days ago. Almost like she’s planning something.
My meetings with the dock supervisors run longer than expected, and it’s nearly seven when I return to the penthouse. Boris nods as I pass him in the lobby.
“Any problems?”
“No, sir. Mrs. Kozlov stayed inside all day, like you requested. Spent most of her time reading in the living room.”
“Reading what?”
“Art books, mostly. From her personal collection on the shelves.”
I take the elevator up, thinking about dinner plans and how to gauge her mood, when something makes me pause outside the penthouse door. The space feels different, like the energy has been disturbed. Nothing obvious is out of place, but my instincts are screaming that something’s off.
Katya is in the kitchen making coffee, humming softly like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She looks up when I enter and gives me a smile that looks much too plastic.
“How were your meetings?”
“Productive enough. How was your day?”
“Quiet and peaceful. I did some reading, took a long nap, and watched the city from the window. Very domestic and boring.”
“What did you read?”
“Some of those art books from the shelves in the living room. Trying to see if any of the techniques or historical styles might trigger some memories.”
“Did they?”
“Nothing. Still blank.”
She’s lying through her teeth. I can tell because she won’t quite meet my eyes while she talks.
“I need to check something in my office.” I watch her reaction carefully. “I’ll be right back.”
“Take all the time you need.”
I walk down the hall to my home office, making my footsteps purposefully audible so she knows where I’m going. Once inside, I close the door and check my personal computer.
The login history shows unauthorized activity at 2:47 PM. Someone accessed my private files while I was in meetings across town. I scroll through the detailed access log to find which files were opened and viewed.
Financial records for the organization. Personnel files on my key lieutenants and their operational histories. Detailed accounts of territory disputes and their violent resolutions. Information about shipping routes and cargo manifests.
Shit.
Whoever went through my computer knows everything about the Kozlov’s Bratva operations. They know what I do for a living, how much money we move through various channels, and how brutal we are when crossed or betrayed.
I lean back in my desk chair and consider my options. I could confront her, but that would reveal that I know she’s not as helpless as she pretends. I could increase security measures, but that would only make her more suspicious.
Or I could test her reaction carefully and see how much she understands about what she discovered.
Katya’s still sipping on her coffee when I return to the kitchen, but her posture is subtly different. More alert, and more ready for trouble. She’s expecting a confrontation.
“Everything okay in there?” she asks without turning around to face me.
“Fine. Just checking messages and emails.”
“Anything particularly important or urgent?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
She turns to face me then, and I catch something new in her eyes that wasn’t there this morning. Knowledge. Understanding. The look of someone who’s seen behind the curtain.
“Are you sure about that?”
The question sounds innocent enough, but the way she asks it makes my blood run cold. She knows something. The question is how much.
“Sure about what?”
“Just that we’re married, aren’t we? Your business should be my business, too, shouldn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. I try to keep you separated from the more stressful aspects of my work.”
“How thoughtful and protective.”
There’s that sarcasm again, but stronger now.
“Katya, is there something specific you want to tell me?”
“Such as?”
“Such as how you spent your afternoon. What you did while I was gone today.”
She sets down her coffee mug and leans against the counter, inspecting my face with uncomfortable focus and attention.
“I told you already. Reading and resting. Very boring and uneventful.”
“You didn’t go anywhere else in the penthouse? Didn’t explore any rooms you normally don’t use or visit?”
“Should I have done that?”
The deflection is smooth and professional. Too professional for someone suffering from brain trauma. This is her training peeking through. Even in her state, her operative training has taken hold.
“Most people with memory loss are naturally curious about their environment. They want to understand their space better, find clues about their identity and past.”
We stare at each other across the kitchen island, and the pretense is starting to crack under the weight of what we both know. She knows I know something, and I know she knows I know something.
The only question left is who’s going to break character first.
“The coffee’s getting cold,” she comments, breaking the tense silence.
“I don’t want coffee right now.”
“What do you want, then?”
“Honesty would be refreshing.”
“About what?” She bats her lashes at me.
“About what you found in my office this afternoon.”
Her face doesn’t change, but she straightens up and balances her weight more evenly. Every movement screams professional tactical training.
She doesn’t realize what her body is doing, but I see it clear as day. And the longer she keeps moving like this, the harder it is to keep my lie intact.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The computer, Katya. The files you accessed without permission. The information you now have about my business operations.”
“You know I don’t use computers. The doctor said screen time could trigger severe headaches and setbacks.”
The lie is delivered with perfect conviction, just the right amount of confusion, and innocent concern. If I didn’t have the access logs as evidence, I might buy her performance.
Heavy footsteps in the hallway interrupt whatever response I might come up with. Alexei appears in the kitchen doorway, frustrated and exhausted, with his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up.
“We need to talk immediately,” he says as soon as he’s in the kitchen. “Your security theater is causing serious problems for our operations.”
“What kind of problems?” I glance at Katya, who’s watching this exchange with far too much interest.
“Our best soldiers are asking why they’re babysitting one woman instead of handling business that makes money. Other families are wondering if the great Dmitri Kozlov has lost his focus and his edge.”
“Perhaps we should discuss this privately in my office.”
“Perhaps we should discuss why you need a two-man detail just to keep your wife from wandering.”
“Alexei—”
“No. I want to hear the explanation. Because you’re either terrified of her or terrified for her, and I can’t decide which scenario is worse for our reputation.”
Katya steps toward the kitchen exit. “Maybe I should give you some privacy for this conversation.”
“No, you know what? Stay where you are.” My voice is harder and colder than it’s been in weeks. “You can explain yourself to my brother, too.”
She freezes mid-step, and I catch a flash of genuine surprise. Or maybe anger. With her, it’s becoming impossible to tell the difference.
Alexei looks between us, and his brows pinch together. “What’s going on here, brother?”
“Our guest accessed my personal computer today while I was in meetings. Went through highly confidential files. Learned things about our business operations that could get us all executed.”
I watch Katya’s face, waiting for her reaction. She doesn’t look surprised or confused or frightened like an innocent person should.
She looks like someone whose carefully constructed cover story is finally being questioned.
And that tells me everything I need to know about who I’m dealing with.
My lies won’t hold forever.
If she remembers who she is, I lose her. And I can’t let her go.