Chapter 31 Adriana
ADRIANA
Bella watches me quietly, her fingers tapping the side of her mug. “Adi, he might not show it, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you. People say things in anger they don’t always mean.”
I want to believe her, but the words feel thin. “He pushed me away before he even knew about the baby. He accused me of things I’d never do. Sometimes I feel like nothing I do will ever be enough.”
She shakes her head, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “You’re not nothing. You’re brave, Adi. Braver than anyone I know. You don’t have to stay somewhere you feel small.”
A lump rises in my throat, but I manage a small, grateful smile. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do next.”
“Take a breath,” Bella says gently. “One thing at a time. Figure out what you want, not what he wants or your family wants.”
I nod, looking out the window at the quiet Brooklyn street. For the first time in days, I let myself imagine something different—a life that’s just my own, a future I get to choose.
Bella’s spare phone buzzes on the table, vibrating against the ceramic mug. She had given it to me to use since I had turned mine off. The last thing I need right now is Dante barging into my life again. I need a little peace and quiet for me and my little one.
I see Alex’s number and answer right away, motioning for Bella to give me a little space.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and brisk. “I got your email—those notes on Luka and the case files you sent over. Something isn’t adding up.”
I close my eyes for a second, relief and worry fighting inside me. “What do you mean?”
“I put a detail out on the guy. Luka’s got priors—minor stuff, but the timelines don’t match. There’s no way he could have taken Samie. His alibi checks out for that night, and for one of the other girls too. I double-checked.”
I nod, scribbling his words in the corner of my notebook.
“I’m trying to get my resources to pull the security footage from Portello,” Alex continues, “but most of it’s corrupted, at least that’s what they’re telling me.”
“They told me the same thing,” I say, sighing. “There’s barely anything left that’s usable. It feels like someone’s cleaning up after themselves.”
Alex pauses, thoughtful. “Do you think Luka was working with someone? Because he’s definitely not the mastermind. There’s no record of him interacting with half the people involved. He’s got alibis for two of the other missing girls, even though their cases match the same profile.”
He adds, “They picked him up leaving the bus station last night. He had a fake passport and a suitcase full of cash. Looked like he was ready to disappear for good. Your tip did good, Adriana, we have him pinned.”
“Has he said anything in custody?” I ask, hope flickering that there’s still a way to break the case open.
“No. Nothing. He’s completely shut down. Won’t talk to anyone—not even a lawyer.”
I chew my lip, remembering the name Mik gave me at the club. “There’s something else. There was a girl who survived—barely. Mik mentioned her. Moe. I want to find her. I think she could have seen something, or know something about what’s really happening. Can you help me track her down?”
Alex hesitates for only a moment. “Send me what you have. I’ll make a few calls and see what comes up.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s good, whatever you did,” Alex says. “Your tip led us to Luka, and I’m sure it’ll lead us to the real killer. Now leave everything else to me.”
“I want to be helpful,” I say.
“I’m not sure your husband would be excited about that.”
I suck in a breath. “You know?”
“What?” He chuckles. “That you’re the wife of the second most dangerous man in New York?”
“Who’s the first?” I ask.
“That’s not important,” he says, and I can almost see him shaking his head. “How did you even get yourself into this mess?”
“Trust me, the irony isn’t lost on me.” I sigh. “But things between us are almost over.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “But it’s good you got out of that world. If you need some help, let me know.”
“I might take you up on that offer sooner than later.”
The call disconnects and I stare down at my hands.
It’s been almost two months since I left Chicago.
The thought hits me as I stare out Bella’s mother’s kitchen window, watching the sun rise over the quiet street.
I haven’t paid my rent in weeks. Last month’s check never even went out.
I’m sure my landlord isn’t thrilled, probably already threatening to change the locks or toss my things in the hallway.
I weigh my options, thinking about what it would mean to go back. Could I slip into my old life, the tiny apartment, the stacks of research, the comfort of being anonymous? Or has everything changed too much for that to ever feel like home again?
Bella comes back into the kitchen, a plate in hand, nudging it toward me. “Come on, try to have something. You haven’t eaten all day.”
I shake my head, managing a weak smile. “I’m not sure I can. I just feel…nauseous.”
Bella sits down across from me, worry in her eyes. “Has Dante tried reaching out to you? Maybe by text?”
I sigh, staring down at the coffee I haven’t touched. “I don’t know. I switched off my phone when I got here. I just…I couldn’t handle it. Not yet.”
She tries to lighten the mood, giving me a teasing look. “I’m sure Dante won’t be thrilled if he finds out you ran away with the Volkov heir. Might bruise that mafia ego of his.”
I try to smile, but the joke hits too close.
My stomach twists with worry, and a flicker of fear runs through me.
I can’t help but think about my sister. Is Julianne still at the apartment?
Did she slip into my old room, settle into my life as if she belonged there more than I ever did?
I wonder if that’s what Dante wanted all along—a Petrova wife, but not necessarily me.
Maybe it’s easier for him if I stay gone. Easier if I just disappear.
Two days pass in a blur of restless sleep and anxious pacing. I try not to think about Dante, but I feel his absence like another shadow, pressing in on me every time I walk past a window. I wonder where he is, if he’s looking for me, if he’s angry or if he’s simply relieved I’m gone.
Curiosity finally wins. I switch my phone back on and flinch at the flood of notifications. I scroll through the missed calls and unread texts.
Where are you, Adriana?
Come home. Now.
Don’t make me turn the city upside down for you.
You think you can just disappear from me? You can’t.
No one else gets to keep you, do you understand that?
Come back. You’re mine.
I won’t let you walk away.
The words send a thrill through me, my stomach somersaulting, cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and longing and something that feels dangerously close to hope. I almost type a reply, almost call him back, but instead I power off the phone and toss it onto the bed, breathing hard.
Before I can dwell on it, Alex calls. I stare at the screen, confused for a second, but then pick up. “Alex?”
“Yeah. I found Moe,” he says. “She’s at a clinic on Fulton. I’m going there now. Do you want to come?”
I nod, suddenly focused. “Text me the address. I’ll meet you there.”
Bella’s already gone to work, so I scribble a note with the address—Gone out for a bit, don’t worry—and leave it on the kitchen table before I hurry out the door, Dante’s messages still burning in my pocket.
The clinic squats at the edge of a nearly deserted Brooklyn block, its brick facade sagging under decades of rain and salt air.
Inside, fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a bleached glow on scuffed linoleum.
The woman at reception barely glances up when Alex leans across the desk, all easy confidence.
“We’re final-year criminology students,” he says, flashing a smile. “We’re gathering impact statements for a victims’ outreach project.”
She pushes a visitor log toward him. He signs for both of us, adds a phony case number, then guides me down a maze of beige corridors until the hush of the building gives way to birdsong.
A steel door opens onto a walled garden dotted with battered café tables.
Fallen petals from a flowering magnolia drift across cracked pavers like scraps of pink paper.
At the far table sits Moe. She’s very thin, bundled in a gray blanket despite the mild air.
Old scars ladder her forearms; fresher bruises bloom at her throat.
A dusty chessboard rests between her elbows, pieces arranged for a game long abandoned.
She stares at nothing, her eyes gone somewhere far behind the walls.
Alex strides over, sets a small digital recorder on the table, and speaks in the coaxing voice reporters use when a deadline is breathing down their necks. “Moe? My name is Alex. This is Adriana. We’re here to help. Can you tell us who hurt you?”
No reaction. He tries again, mentioning Luka’s name, describing Portello, dropping phrases like “putting men behind bars.” Nothing. Moe keeps her gaze fixed on the chessboard.
Frustration flashes across his face. He flips his notebook shut with a sigh. “This is useless. I’m on a deadline and my editor needs a name stat.”
“I didn’t know you were running a story already,” I say.
“I have you to thank for that. You just gave me the biggest story of my life,” he says.
“Let’s focus on Moe first,” I say, not liking the greed in his voice.
I kneel beside the woman, studying the chessboard. A white pawn stands a single square forward from its line, as if someone made the first move and walked away. An idea sparks. I slide a black knight out onto the board, the piece scraping softly.
Moe’s eyes flick toward the square. She reaches out and nudges the white pawn another space. My breath catches. She’s not mute, just waiting for the right language.
I move a bishop. Moe counters with her rook. Each small click of wood on wood draws a little more life into her face. When our quiet game reaches the midpoint, Alex leans forward with renewed impatience.
“This should help,” he mutters.
“What is this?”
Alex doesn’t reply. He pulls a manila envelope from his bag, shaking out a dozen glossy photographs: Luka, several mid-level soldiers, and—my heart jolts—one grainy zoom-lens shot of Dante outside Portello. I snatch for it, but Alex lays the pictures in a neat row beside the board.
“What are you doing, Alex?” I say, my heart sinking.
“Moe, look carefully,” he says, recorder light blinking red. “Which man hurt you? Just point, and we can make sure he never hurts anyone again.”
“Alex,” I plead.
He finally turns to me. “You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment, Adriana. Luka couldn’t have pulled it off on his own, you said so yourself.”
“Alex, this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.”
There’s a thud, and my gaze returns to Moe, who’s observing the pictures blankly. But Alex has her attention now.
Her gaze flits along the faces. My pulse thuds in my ears.
She hovers over Luka’s photo, but her hand drifts on.
She pauses at another unfamiliar face, then keeps going.
When her fingers reach the out-of-focus image of Dante, she stops.
Tears brim in her eyes. She slaps her palm down on the photo and lets out a raw, broken cry that slices the quiet garden wide open.
My stomach lurches the instant Moe cries out, and I stumble away from the table, past the nurse hurrying in, and push through a gap in the hedges. The sudden scent of cut grass and damp earth makes the nausea worse. I bend over and retch into the greenery, shaking so hard my knees nearly buckle.
Footsteps crunch behind me. Alex’s voice follows, cold and impatient. “Don’t be weak, Adriana. We’re close.”
I wipe my mouth, spin around. “Close to what? Destroying lives for a headline?”
He sneers. “Whose lives are we talking about? These aren’t innocent men.”
“We were here to ask about Luka,” I insist. Only now I hear the quaver in my voice, the sudden fear of where this is heading.
Alex turns to me, frustration showing. “All the disappearances follow the same pattern. Someone is trafficking these girls. We need proof it’s one of the bosses. If she can identify him, this ends right here.”
So that’s it. I stand, heart pounding. “You’re chasing a headline.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Adriana. Men like this ruin lives. If we can link the cases, they go to prison for good. I think I know why you’re upset. That’s your husband she pointed at. A little too close to home, perhaps?”
I stare past him, vision blurring. Tears fill my eyes before I can blink them away. “It can’t be,” I whisper, shaking my head. “You saw what Moe’s been through. She’s scared. She could be confused.”
“Or she could be right. You have to face the possibility, Adriana. If Dante Volkov is involved, the sooner we know, the sooner we stop this.”
I press my palm to my mouth, fighting a sob.
The world tilts, the garden spinning around me.
Moe’s scream echoes in my ears, Dante’s face following me like a ghost. I want to run, to hide, to crawl back to the moment before that photo hit the table.
Instead, I feel the truth closing in, cold and relentless.
“It can’t be,” I say again, more to myself than to Alex. But the doubt is already there, heavy as lead.
It hurts to even think it, but the possibility sinks its claws in deep.
What if Moe is right?
What if Dante—my Dante—is part of this nightmare?
I’ve left Julianne alone with him. Guilt squeezes around my throat. I picture her back at the penthouse, trusting him, depending on him, and my stomach flips. If any of this is true, I’ve delivered her straight into danger.
There’s only one person who knows this world and still might listen to me—Maksim. My fingers tremble as I scroll to his number and hit call.
He answers on the second ring, voice brisk. “Adriana?”
“I need help,” I say, the words rushing out in a whisper. “Something’s happened. I can’t explain over the phone, but it’s serious.”
A pause, then a low sigh. “Where are you?”
“Parkside Clinic, back garden. Brooklyn.”
“I’m on my way,” he says without hesitation. “Fifteen minutes. Don’t move.”