Chapter 21 Adriana
ADRIANA
Of course he doesn’t love me.
Why did I ever let myself imagine he might?
I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, fingertips pressed to the cool glass.
Same eyes, same hair, same pale scar along my collarbone—nothing looks different, yet everything feels stripped bare.
I touch my lips and remember the way he kissed me in the rain, how certain his mouth felt against mine. How certain his words felt afterward.
I don’t love you. I don’t think I can love anyone.
The apartment behind me is still half-unpacked.
A single suitcase in the corner, one of his black suit jackets draped over a barstool, take-out napkins folded beside half-read shipping manifests.
I told myself that once we moved here, I’d feel less like an intruder, but the space still belongs to him—high ceilings, dark floors, cold modern lines.
I move through it like a ghost, touching nothing for fear of breaking the sleek silence he built around his life.
We share the same king-size bed—out of practicality, not warmth. He sleeps on the left, I take the right. A gulf of untouched sheets stays between us. Sometimes, in the small hours, I lie awake listening to the city hum below and wonder if he’s awake too. I never ask. He never turns over.
During the day, he works—meetings, phone calls, hushed conversations on the balcony while I pretend not to listen.
I wander the apartment, flip through art books, brew coffee I don’t finish.
I’ve started counting the cracks in the concrete ceiling above the bed (thirty-six) and the number of cars that honk on the avenue between midnight and one a.m. (anywhere from five to twelve, depending on rain).
It’s a small routine, but it keeps the hours moving.
He stands in the doorway before dawn, jacket half-buttoned, tie hanging loose. “I’ll be gone most of the day,” he says. His eyes are rimmed red from lack of sleep, but his voice is steady. I almost reach out—almost ask him to stay—but the words die.
He leaves, soft shoes on concrete, a quiet click of the front door. When the apartment settles into stillness I carry my laptop to the wide kitchen island. The marble counter feels chilly beneath my forearms, but the hush of the space lets my thoughts line up in a way they never do when he’s near.
I start with what Bella told me. Two girls, Anya and Samie, disappeared after one night at Portello.
Both of them appeared for a fleeting moment in other people’s Instagram stories, laughing under the colored lights, and then they were gone.
Bella’s research ended there because most of the accounts were private and the rest had already been buried under fresh party content.
She warned me that Samie had a boyfriend, a young dealer who sometimes ran errands for the Romanovs.
That single lead keeps tugging at me like thread caught in a doorway.
I create a new Instagram account, complete with an innocuous profile picture—a latte art heart—and no posts. It takes a moment of scrolling through Portello’s location tag before I find Liza, the only one of Samie’s friends who still leaves her page open.
I type slowly, trying to sound like someone who once orbited their circle without alarming her: Hey, Liza. We met at Portello last spring—I was with Dani and the group from Kirov. I lost touch with Samie after that night. Do you know if she’s okay? I keep thinking about her.
I read it twice, decide it feels harmless, and press send. The message hovers in my mind like a held breath.
For a while the apartment is quiet except for the low rumble of traffic ten stories down. I don’t expect Liza to answer quickly, or maybe even at all.
But twenty minutes later, my phone buzzes with a reply.
Hey! Wow, that was forever ago. I haven’t heard from Samie in months.
I think she left with that guy she was seeing?
No one really liked him. Dealer type, always hanging around the Russian tables.
I think his name was Mik or Misha or something.
Last name was Reznikov, I think. Sorry I can’t help more. :/
A second bubble pops up almost immediately.
If you find her, tell her to call home. Her mom’s a wreck.
After I thank Liza for replying, I sit back for a moment, letting the information settle. A name—Mik Reznikov. A dealer, always seen with Samie. It’s the first real thread I’ve had since Bella handed me those screenshots.
I open Signal and scroll through my contacts until I find Alex’s number. He was my colleague at the paper before he moved to New York, but we kept in touch throughout the years.
I type slowly, keeping it light: Alex, you still have your ears in Midtown? I’m trying to find out about a guy—goes by Mik Reznikov.
The message delivers and the app shows him online almost instantly. A few dots flicker. Then: Didn’t think you were still working stories. Reznikov is bad news—coke, pills, low-level Romanov errand boy. Got pinched last year, but charges vanished. Used to run with the Bratva. Why?
Old friend disappeared. I’m just trying to help her mother sleep at night, I reply, letting the lie rest easy between us.
Alex: I don’t know Mik, but you might know someone he used to make deals with. Not sure if he’s still in the game or just lying low.
Me: Anything helps. Thanks, Alex.
I hit send and set my phone aside, feeling the old pulse of adrenaline pick up in my chest. This is the first time I’ve felt it since the Serrano story—since the days when I was more than someone’s wife, when following a lead meant possibility instead of trouble.
It’s a small thing, chasing a ghost through the city’s shadows, but it makes me feel awake for the first time in months.
I’m just closing my laptop when a sudden knock at the apartment door startles me. My heart jumps. I glance at the clock, then back at the door.
I cross the living room, careful to mask my nerves, and open the door. Maksim stands in the hallway, hands in his pockets, looking entirely out of place in the polished glass and marble of the penthouse. He offers a small smile, just the barest flicker at the corner of his mouth.
“Oleg let me in,” he says, glancing behind him at the armed man stationed discreetly at the elevator.
I nod. “Come in.”
He steps inside, and for a moment the silence feels like a third person in the room.
From up here, the city is nothing but a pattern of lights and moving traffic.
The door clicks shut behind us. We’re alone, but not unobserved.
I know Volkov men are stationed on the floor, watching every entry, every exit.
Maksim doesn’t comment on the view or the security. Instead, he studies me, his gaze sharper than I remember. “Heard you left the estate for the city,” he says finally, as if it’s just small talk.
I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “Did you come to see Dante?”
He shakes his head. “No. I came to see you.”
Despite everything, my heart skips. I feel it, sudden and embarrassing—a reminder of another life, another version of myself. I school my expression and try to look unaffected, but inside I can’t help the rush of nerves and curiosity, the sense that the world has tilted just a little.
I gesture toward the kitchen. “Do you want some coffee?” My voice sounds a little too formal, but I can’t help it; Maksim always had a way of making me aware of every word I say.
He follows me, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair. “If you’re having one, sure.”
I busy myself at the machine, grateful for the task. I hear him move behind me, slow, unhurried, his presence settling into the apartment like he belongs. I pass him a cup and try not to stare.
“So,” I say, forcing myself to look up, “why did you really come, Maksim?”
He holds my gaze, eyes searching my face. “I heard you were in the city. Thought you might want a familiar face.” He gives a small, lopsided smile. “Or maybe you just needed a reminder that you’re not alone, no matter what the Volkovs want you to believe.”
I wince slightly.
“Things were that bad, huh?” he says, sitting back in his chair. “Well, I had heard rumors.”
I feel weird bad-mouthing Dante’s family. “Nah, nothing like that.”
“You got better at lying,” he says.
He glances around the apartment, taking in the high ceilings and stark furniture. “So this is home now?” he asks, but his voice is gentle, not judging.
I give a small, self-conscious laugh. “For now, I suppose. It’s very…temporary.”
He nods, looking at me more than the room. “Is he good to you?”
The question catches me off guard. I hesitate, searching for an answer that won’t betray too much. “He’s…not cruel,” I say quietly. “He’s just…who he is. He’s a Volkov.”
Maksim studies me for a moment, something like concern passing through his eyes. “You always deserved better than the world gave you.”
I look away, heat rising in my cheeks. “Sometimes I wonder if anyone gets what they deserve in this family.”
There’s a pause. He sets his cup down and shifts a little closer, his voice softer. “If you ever need anything—if you ever need to leave, or just talk to someone who doesn’t have an agenda—I’m still here, Adriana. I hope you know that.”
His words settle in the space between us, sincere and unhurried. I meet his gaze, searching for the hidden catch, but there isn’t one. Just Maksim, the same as he always was, and for a moment I let myself believe I still have a friend in this world.
“Thank you,” I say, and my voice cracks just a little. “That means more than you think.”
He smiles, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “Good. Because you look like you’ve been carrying too much on your own.”
I clear my throat, trying to sound offhand. “You know, at the ball, you mentioned your club, Portello. Bella said it’s the place to be now, but…” I hesitate, watching his face. “I’ve heard people say something happened there. That someone disappeared. More than once.”