17. Katya
Katya
Boris checks his phone every time he switches guard positions, which gives me about twelve seconds when nobody’s watching the east gate.
I’ve been taking note of security weaknesses all week, moving through the penthouse like someone conducting an invisible inspection.
I time rotations. I mark blind spots. My body files it under muscle memory.
Which should probably concern me more than it does.
I trace my tattoo with my thumb as I study the morning patrol from the bedroom window.
Three guards with predictable routes who put far too much faith in cameras that can be disabled. If someone wanted to breach this building, the path is obvious.
Footsteps in the hallway announce Dmitri’s approach before he appears in the doorway, dressed for business despite the early hour.
“Sleep well?” he asks.
“Well enough. You’re up early.”
“Security consultant arrives this morning. Figured I should be presentable when he assesses how badly we’ve fucked up our defenses.”
I turn from the window. “You hired someone?”
“After what happened to you, it seemed like the smart move.” He lifts his arm and leans against the doorframe.
“Maybe your professionals aren’t as trained as you thought.”
“Maybe not.”
I follow him to the kitchen, where he’s started coffee. The routine feels domestic, normal, except for the way we position ourselves to watch the entrances.
“What kind of consultant?” I ask.
“Former military. Specializes in high-risk residential security.” Dmitri hands me a mug. “Comes highly recommended.”
“By whom?”
“People whose recommendations matter.”
It’s a vague answer, but pushing would seem odd. I sip my coffee and watch him check his phone.
“Will I be meeting this consultant?”
“Probably. He’ll need to assess the entire building, understand how we live here.”
His voice drops lower on the last part. The way he says “how we live” sounds intimate, possessive.
“Understand how we live?”
“Security isn’t just about cameras and guards. It’s about patterns, routines, and vulnerabilities that come from daily habits.”
The explanation makes sense, but something in his tone suggests he’s not entirely comfortable with the arrangement. Like hiring outside help goes against his instincts.
Boris appears in the kitchen doorway, looking more alert than usual.
“Boss, the consultant’s here.”
“Already? It’s barely eight.”
“Said he prefers early assessments. Better baseline readings.”
Dmitri checks his watch. “Fine. Bring him up.”
Boris nods and disappears back toward the service elevator, leaving us alone again.
“Eager,” I comment.
“Professional. I can respect that.”
“Or suspicious. Most legitimate consultants keep normal business hours.”
Dmitri gives me a look. “Since when do you profile consultants?”
Since never, apparently. But something about early-morning assessments feels wrong, like a deviation from standard procedure I should recognize.
“Just seems unusual,” I say instead.
“Everything about our situation is unusual.”
Fair point. Normal couples don’t need military-grade security assessments after kidnapping attempts.
Footsteps on the stairs announce Boris’ return, accompanied by a second set that moves just behind him.
The man who enters our kitchen looks unremarkable at first glance. Average height, dark hair, and the kind of build that comes from functional fitness rather than show.
“Pavel Romanov.” His eyes sweep the exits before he takes Dmitri’s hand.
“Consultant?” Dmitri asks.
Pavel’s gaze flicks over the room. “I solve problems before they get loud.”
They shake hands, and I watch Pavel’s posture remain perfect. Not military stiff, but alert in a way that speaks to extensive training.
“This is my wife, Katya.” Dmitri gestures toward me.
Pavel turns, and when our eyes meet, something moves across his face too quickly to interpret. Recognition? Surprise? Whatever it is, he pulls it back and extends his hand.
“Mrs. Kozlov.”
“Mr. Romanov.”
Dmitri moves closer and settles his hand on my lower back in a gesture that feels like he’s marking his territory. The possessive touch sends warmth spreading through me, and I hate how much I like it. I shouldn’t want to be claimed like this, shouldn't crave his ownership. But God help me, I do.
“Pavel tells me he’s dealt with similar situations,” Dmitri continues. “High-value targets, sophisticated threats.”
“What kind of threats?” I ask.
“Organized crime, mostly. Rival families, foreign interests, and occasionally government agencies, when business activities cross certain lines.”
His phrasing is careful, generic enough to apply to multiple scenarios. But something about his voice triggers a sense of familiarity I can’t place.
“You have experience with government surveillance?” I ask.
Pavel focuses on me when he replies, “Some. Spent time around people who wear badges and hate paperwork.”
“Which branch?”
“Classified, I’m afraid. Even former personnel can’t discuss operational details.”
A standard answer, delivered with charm.
“Of course,” I reply. “Operational security.”
The phrase feels natural coming out of my mouth, which should probably concern me. I raise my eyebrows slightly at my choice of words.
“Exactly. You seem familiar with military terminology, Mrs. Kozlov.”
“My husband’s business involves security considerations. You pick up the language.”
“Indeed.” But his eyes linger on my face like he’s trying to coax something else out of me. “Mr. Kozlov mentioned a recent incident. Attempted extraction?”
“Six men, coordinated operation,” Dmitri confirms. “They held my wife for approximately six hours before we recovered her.”
“Short timeline. Teams plan for half a day before anyone’s close. You were hours.”
“We got lucky and found the details quickly.”
“Or they got sloppy.” Pavel looks at me again. “How did you handle the experience, Mrs. Kozlov?”
“Better than expected.”
“Self-defense training?”
“Something like that.”
“Formal instruction?”
“I seem to have some instincts.”
Pavel nods. “Stress responses can reveal capabilities people didn’t know they possessed.”
The comment feels loaded with meaning, like he’s talking about something specific rather than making a general observation.
“Mr. Romanov,” I begin, “what does a comprehensive security assessment involve?”
“Perimeter analysis, personnel evaluation, and protocol review. I’ll need to understand your daily routines to identify patterns that might create vulnerabilities.”
“Such as?”
“Guard rotations, delivery schedules, maintenance windows. Any regular activities that create predictable opportunities for hostile surveillance.”
Each phrase feels familiar in a way that makes my skin prickle with unease. Not fear, but recognition of concepts I shouldn’t understand this clearly.
“How long will this take?” Dmitri asks.
“Several days for the initial assessment. Longer if we identify significant weaknesses that require immediate attention.”
“What kind of weaknesses are you looking for?”
Pavel’s gaze shifts between Dmitri and me before answering. “Sophisticated extraction attempts don’t happen overnight. Someone spent considerable time analyzing your security, identifying optimal approach routes, and timing guard rotations.”
“You think we have a surveillance problem,” I muse.
“I think someone knows more about your daily routine than they should. The question is how they acquired that information.”
Translation: Either we have a security breach, or someone’s been watching us longer than we realized.
“Where would you like to start?” Dmitri asks.
“Perimeter assessment first. Then, I’ll need to observe normal daily activities and understand how you move through the building.”
“Normal activities.”
“Morning routines, meal patterns, recreational habits. Anything that creates regular, predictable behavior.”
I catch Pavel watching me while he explains this, like he’s particularly interested in my routines. When he’s done speaking, we stare at each other for a moment that feels full of recognition. Like we’re both trying to place where we might have met before.
“Well,” Dmitri interjects, “sounds like you have your work cut out for you.”
“Indeed.” Pavel pulls his attention back to Dmitri. “I’ll start with external perimeter assessment and work inward. I should have preliminary findings by this evening.”
“Excellent.”
“One more thing,” Pavel adds, looking at me again. “I’ll need your eyes on patterns in the house. Civilians spot habits that trained people overlook.”
The request sounds reasonable, but something about it rings warning bells in my head. Like he’s fishing for information that has nothing to do with security improvements.
“Of course,” I reply, because refusing would seem strange.
“Perfect. I’ll begin immediately.”
Pavel shakes Dmitri’s hand again, nods politely to me, and follows Boris toward the exit. But I catch him glancing back once before disappearing down the stairs.
I trace my tattoo while staring out the window, watching Pavel emerge onto the grounds below.
He studies sight lines and approach routes like he knows what he’s doing, but something about the way he keeps glancing up at the building, toward our kitchen window, makes me think his real assessment has less to do with our security vulnerabilities and more to do with me.
“You’re doing it again,” Dmitri observes.
I turn from the window. “Doing what?”
“That thing where you watch people like you’re taking notes for a report.”
“Maybe I am.”
“Our security consultant?”
“Anyone who enters our space. Habit now, I suppose.”
Dmitri comes up behind me and wraps his arms around my torso. “What do you see when you watch him?”
I let myself sink into his embrace for a moment, craving this closeness even though part of me knows I should resist. I’m losing myself in him more each day, and that should terrify me. Instead, it makes me want to lean back and let him support all my weight.
“Professional competence. Military training that he’s trying to downplay. I think he has extensive fieldwork.”
“Fieldwork?”
Before I can answer, my phone vibrates with a text from Dr. Sokolova. Session this afternoon? Important developments to discuss.
I show Dmitri the message. “More therapy.”
“Good. Maybe she can help you feel more comfortable about having our new visitor around.”
“Or maybe she just likes billing your insurance.”
Dmitri laughs. “You don’t trust her.”
“I don’t trust anyone whose job involves getting inside my head.”
“Not even me?”
I look at him, noting the way he’s positioned himself between me and the kitchen entrance again. Always ready, always watching. “You’re different.”
“How?”
“You don’t pretend to know what’s best for me. You just try to keep me safe.”
His arms tighten possessively around me. I should step away, maintain some distance to protect whatever’s left of my independence. But his arms around me feel like the only solid thing in a world full of questions I can’t answer.
“And Dr. Sokolova?” The roughness in his voice makes something in my belly clench with want.
“Dr. Sokolova acts like she already knows who I’m supposed to be, and she’s just waiting for me to remember.”
“Maybe she does know. Maybe that’s how therapy works.”
“Maybe. Or maybe she knows things about my past that she’s not sharing.”
Dmitri takes hold of my shoulders and swivels my body to face him. “Katya, do you want to remember? Your past, I mean. Who you were before the accident.”
The question makes my chest tighten with something dangerously close to panic. What if remembering means losing this? What if the woman I was before wouldn’t want the things I want now?
I tilt my head, considering the question. “I don’t know. Some days, I think it would be easier to just start fresh. Build a new identity from scratch.”
“And other days?”
“Other days, I think pieces are missing that I need to understand. Like whatever I was before, it’s still part of who I am now.”
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Dr. Sokolova. 2 p.m. appointment confirmed. Please bring your recent dream journal.
“Dream journal?” Dmitri reads over my shoulder.
“She wants me to write down what I remember from nightmares. Says it might help identify suppressed memories.”
“And do you? Write them down?”
“Sometimes. When they seem particularly vivid or specific.”
Dmitri just nods, as if he’s afraid to dig into the subject much more.
“The men who took me,” I begin, changing the subject, “mentioned government operatives. Said I might have training that would help me resist interrogation.”
“Did they?”
“They also called me Alexandra.”
Every muscle in Dmitri’s face goes still, as if he’s trying to hold the expression in place. “Alexandra.”
“The name felt familiar when they said it. Not like a mistake, more like something I should recognize.”
“But you don’t remember being called that?”
“No. Just... recognition without context.”
“Memory fragments. Dr. Sokolova says that’s normal with traumatic amnesia.”
“Does she? Or does she say what you want to hear?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean that maybe everyone’s a little too eager to explain away the things that don’t fit the story you’ve told me about who I am.”
Dmitri moves away from the window, creating distance between us. “What story is that?”
“Art curator. Accident victim. Devoted wife recovering from memory loss.” I turn to face him. “What if none of that is true?”
“Then what would be true?”
“I don’t know. But watching Pavel work down there, seeing how he moves and thinks... feels familiar. Not like watching a stranger, like watching someone whose methods I understand.”
Dmitri runs his hand through his hair, a gesture I’ve learned means he’s thinking hard about something he doesn’t want to discuss, before he turns and walks out of the kitchen.
As he disappears into his office, I touch my lips where I can still feel the phantom pressure of his mouth. I’m falling for him harder each day, and I don’t know if that makes me smart or the biggest fool in Moscow. What I do know is that I'm in too deep to care.
Outside, Pavel has completed his initial sweep and is heading back toward the building. At the end of the day, he’ll return with observations and recommendations that might alter how we live here.
But something tells me the real changes are just beginning.