11. Katya
Katya
He straightens, smoothing his jacket like he hadn’t just taken me apart on his desk.
I’m still trembling, but Dmitri looks collected, his ruthless mask already back in place.
“So, you think you’re ready for answers?” He moves to the cabinet without looking at me, pouring three fingers of vodka and downing half like it’s nothing. “Fine. I’ll give you the truth.”
“The truth?” My voice is hoarse.
“Yes, my business involves more than shipping legitimate cargo. I move valuable items for people who prefer to avoid government oversight. Sometimes, that means hiring men who solve problems through violence rather than negotiation.”
I run my thumb over my tattoo, surprised by how unsurprised I am by this admission. “What kind of problems?”
“The kind that surface when people get greedy. When they forget who they’re dealing with.” He finishes his vodka and sets the glass down hard. “When they threaten the people I care about.”
“Like me? You expect me to believe that?”
“ Especially you.”
The words should make me feel safe. Instead, they make my skin crawl.
“As I’ve said before, you’re my wife. That makes you a target.” He moves closer, and I fight the urge to step back. “What I haven’t told you is how immediate that threat is. The Borisenkos want our territory. They see you as leverage.”
“The Borisenkos?”
“A rival organization. They were behind the bombing at the gallery where you were injured.”
My stomach drops. “That wasn’t an accident? I thought you said a car drove into the building.”
“No, kotyonok. It was an assassination attempt.”
The pet name makes my chest tighten. Beneath the affection, it feels like manipulation. Like he’s using my emotional response to distract me from asking better questions.
“They tried to kill me?”
“They tried to kill both of us; you just took the worst of it. That’s why the security measures exist, and why I don’t want you wandering around the city alone. It’s not about controlling you; it’s about keeping you alive.”
Something about his story is off. I just can’t see what yet.
“If they wanted us dead, why haven’t they tried again?”
“Because they think you’re no longer a threat to them. The head injury and the memory loss. … They assume you can’t remember anything that might be dangerous to their operations.”
“What would I remember that could be dangerous?”
“You were there that night conducting research for an exhibition about Russian criminal organizations,” Dmitri continues. “You’d been interviewing various family members about their more legitimate business fronts.”
He’s too smooth and practiced. But before I can question him further, he continues.
“You might have overheard conversations or seen documents that could implicate them in activities they prefer to keep private.”
“Such as?”
“Money laundering through art sales. Using gallery exhibitions to transport stolen goods across international borders. The kind of information that could destroy their operation if it reached the wrong people.”
I trace my tattoo again, trying to make sense of the timeline he’s describing. “So, they tried to kill us, but I was the real target?”
“Exactly.” He moves toward me with his arms extended. “That’s why I’ve been so protective. Why the restrictions exist. If they discover you’re recovering your memory…”
“They’ll try again.”
“Without question.”
The story makes sense, but it still bothers me. His eyes don’t quite meet mine. And it’s a little too convenient that my supposed expertise fits so neatly into his world.
Or maybe it’s that thinking about art galleries makes me want to check for weapons and plan escape routes instead of discussing color theory and brushwork techniques.
“There’s something else.” His voice goes gentle in a way that puts me on alert. “Something I haven’t told you because I was hoping your memories would return naturally.”
“What?”
“The attack didn’t just injure you. You lost other people that night. Your cousin Elena and her husband, Adam. They were with us at the gallery.”
The names mean nothing to me, but my chest aches like they should.
“They died?”
“The explosion killed them. You were the only survivor from your family.”
I sink into the nearest chair. I have no parents, no siblings, and now, no extended family. According to Dmitri, he’s the only person left in the world who cares whether I live or die.
“I’m sorry.” He kneels beside my chair. “I know this is a lot to process. I was hoping to spare you the pain until you were stronger. That’s why I shied away from discussing your family.”
His hand covers mine, warm and solid and completely convincing. But the gesture makes me want to pull away and run.
“Elena was my cousin?”
“Your father’s sister’s daughter. You two were close growing up. You stayed in touch even after she moved to St. Petersburg. She and Adam were visiting Moscow for their anniversary, and I suggested they join us at the gallery opening.”
I rub my tattoo frantically now, desperate for any spark of recognition. A face, a voice, a childhood memory—anything that would make these people real to me.
Nothing.
“I can’t remember them.”
“Sometimes the mind protects itself by blocking out memories that are too painful to process.”
“But I should feel something, shouldn’t I? Some sense of loss or grief?”
“You do. You’ve had nightmares almost every night since the accident, haven’t you? Crying out for people whose names you don’t remember.”
I want to believe him. It explains too much: why no family has come, why no one from my past has reached out, why Dmitri is all I have left. And I have been having nightmares.
But this also feels like the perfect trap.
“What happens now?” I ask. “Do I just stay hidden here forever?”
“Until the Borisenkos find a new target or until their organization collapses under legal pressure.” He squeezes my hand. “I have people working on both possibilities.”
“People?”
“Associates who specialize in making problems disappear.”
The casual way he mentions murder should horrify me. Instead, I nod like it’s the most reasonable solution in the world.
“And in the meantime?”
“In the meantime, you’re safe. Fed, protected, cared for. Free to heal and rediscover who you want to be without the pressure of remembering who you were.”
He makes it sound like a gift instead of a cage.
“I know this is overwhelming. But everything I’ve done is to protect you.”
“A future built on lies?”
“The lies were necessary to keep you alive long enough for the truth to matter. But I’m hoping for much more than that with you, my kitten.”
I search his face for any sign that all of this is untrue. But if he’s lying, he’s masterful at it. Every word rings with sincerity, and every gesture screams protective devotion.
“The files I read today,” I begin. “The violence, the criminal activities… none of that bothers you?”
“Does it bother you ?”
I think about the photographs of torture victims, the detailed accounts of territorial disputes settled through execution, and the mentions of bodies that needed to be disposed of quietly.
I should be disgusted. Terrified. Planning my escape.
Instead, I’m fascinated.
“It should,” I admit. “But it doesn’t. That’s what scares me.”
“Maybe you’re stronger than you think. Maybe the woman you’re becoming can handle truths that would destroy other people.”
“Or maybe I was never the person you’ve been telling me I was.”
He stands and pulls me to my feet. “Maybe not. But whoever you were, whoever you’re becoming… you’re mine now. And I’ll kill anyone who tries to change that.”
The possessive edge in his voice should send me running. Instead, it sends heat pooling between my legs and makes me want to inch closer to him.
God, what’s wrong with me?
“I need time to think about all this,” I tell him, though thinking is the last thing I want to do when he’s looking at me like I’m something precious and dangerous at the same time.
“Take all the time you need. Just remember, I’m the only person standing between you and the people who want to finish what they started at that gallery.”
He kisses my forehead, gentle and reverent, before heading toward his office.
“Dmitri?”
“Yes, kotyonok?”
“Thank you. For protecting me. For telling me the truth.”
The corner of his mouth lifts into a crooked smile, and he replies, “Anything for you.”
But as he disappears into his office, I can’t shake the feeling that everything he’s just told me is exactly what he wanted me to hear.
And the truth I need isn’t on his computer.