Chapter 17
THEA
The fire escape rattles under my weight.
I’m three stories up, clinging to rusted metal, the crappy latch on my bathroom window clear in my mind. Rain begins pattering down, the gray sky turning darker.
It takes a little doing, but I’m soon at my apartment. I look in through the frosted window that leads into the bathroom. I place my hands on the top and push, and—
It moves.
“Yes!” I nearly shout the word, the rumble of far-off thunder accompanying my excitement.
Raising the window up a bit, I slip my fingers underneath and pull with all my might. It opens further, and soon it’s enough for me to climb through.
Once inside, I sit down on the cool pink tile floor and catch my breath.
The bathroom seems surreal after living at Gabriel’s place.
I’m keenly aware of just how tiny it is, with barely enough space for the tub, the sink, and the toilet.
The whole thing would fit right into the en suite shower at Gabriel’s, with room to spare.
I notice other details—the cracked tiles, the perpetually dripping faucet, the mildew in the corners. The cheap, tropical-themed shower curtain I’d bought at a bodega for six dollars.
Home, except it doesn’t feel like home anymore. I haven’t been at Gabriel’s for even a full week, and already the life I used to live feels strange, alien.
After several minutes, I stand and move to the sink, splashing cold water on my face as I try to steady my breathing. The reflection in the mirror stares back—pale, wild-eyed, terrified.
What am I doing here?
I need clothes, money. I remember I still have my old iPhone, the one I never turned in when I upgraded. I can’t call anyone with it, but it still has apps I can use to help me with whatever my next move is. And, most importantly, Gabriel can’t track it.
I have to disappear.
Rain patters harder and harder on the window, another rumble of thunder sounding, a flash of lightning illuminating the room.
Months. That’s how long Gabriel had said his plan had been in the works. Months. Had he been spying on me? Why?
My hands are still shaking when I dry my face. I crack open the bathroom door and peer into the hallway.
Empty.
The apartment is silent, aside from the familiar sounds of pipes groaning, the upstairs neighbor’s TV, and traffic from the street below.
I slip into the bedroom.
My old mattress sits on the floor, the sheets tangled. My closet doors are open, just as I left them. I pull open the drawers to my dresser and start grabbing things, shoving them into the little space left in the duffel bag.
I’m reaching for the drawer that contains my old phone when I hear voices.
Male. Low. Coming from the living room.
I freeze.
“Fucking ridiculous, man. Three days sitting in this dump.”
“Boss says we wait; we wait.”
Russian accents.
Shit.
“For what? She’s been gone a week. She’s not coming back here any time soon.”
“You want to tell Kolya that? Be my guest. I’m sure he’d love to hear your input.”
My blood turns to ice.
Kolya.
I edge toward the bedroom door, my heart hammering. Through the crack, I can see them.
Two men. Both big, both armed with guns holstered at their hips, visible under their jackets. One is leaning against my kitchen counter, eating from my box of Kashi. The other’s sitting on my couch, his feet on my cheap Ikea coffee table, scrolling through his phone.
“I’m just saying,” the one on the couch continues, “this is a waste of time. If Moretti’s got her, she’s locked down tight. She’s not going to just waltz back into her old apartment—he wouldn’t let her.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“Yeah, well, I got better shit to do than babysit some rundown apartment in fucking Bushwick.”
“Like what?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
I press my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle my breathing.
My mind races. I need to get out—now. I need to slip through the hallway and back into the bathroom and out the window before they notice me.
I take a deep breath, then gently push open the bedroom door and step into the hallway. Just one more step, and I’ll be in the bath—
SLAM.
I know right away what it is. The bathroom window doesn’t just have a crappy lock—it also has a nasty habit of shutting on its own.
Both of the men’s heads snap toward the sound, and I manage to rush back into my bedroom before they notice me.
There’s nowhere to go.
I don’t have a second more to consider just what the hell I’m going to do before the first man appears in the doorway.
Our eyes meet.
“Shit! She’s here!”
I grab the lamp from the bedside table and throw it at his head. He ducks, and it shatters against the wall next to him.
“Don’t let her get away!” he shouts.
I bolt for the door and try to shove past him, but he catches my arm, yanking me back.
“Let me go!”
“Boss wants you alive, dorogoya. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
The second man is already there, blocking the other side of the hallway. There’s no way out.
I twist anyway, trying to wrench free, and manage to knee the first guy in the stomach. He grunts, his grip loosening just enough for me to break away.
But the second man is already moving, grabbing me from behind as I try to rush past him. He locks his arms around my waist, lifting me off the ground.
“No! Stop! Please!”
“Relax. We’re not going to hurt you. Boss just wants to confirm—”
“Confirm what?” I’m screaming now, kicking, clawing. “Let me go!”
“That it’s really you,” the first man says, straightening up and rubbing his stomach where I hit him. “Teodora Fetisov.”
The name makes me freeze.
“What? What did you just say?”
“Teodora—”
The shot is so quiet that I almost don’t hear it. Just a soft pfft, like air escaping a tire.
The first man’s head snaps back with a red mist. Then he’s falling, crumpling to the floor in a heap.
The second man—the one holding me—goes rigid.
“What the—”
Another pfft.
His grip releases and he staggers, clutching his throat, blood pouring between his fingers. Another pfft, this one to the head, and he falls, too.
I’m standing there, hands and face splattered with blood that isn’t mine.
I turn to see Gabriel in the doorway, gun raised, silencer attached. His expression is cold, controlled, and lethal.
Our eyes meet.
“Thea,” he says quietly, shutting the door behind him, “step away from the bodies.”
I can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even begin to process what’s happened.
“Now, Thea.”
I stumble toward him, nearly tripping over one of the men’s legs.
Gabriel moves farther into the room, his gaze sweeping the space. He checks everywhere, confirming that the threat is neutralized.
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Everything feels so surreal and dreamlike, as if I’m underwater.
He clicks the safety on the gun and holsters it, crossing over to me. His hands frame my face, tilting it up to the light.
“You’re covered in blood.”
“It’s not mine.”
“I know.” His thumb brushes my cheek. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes.” My voice cracks. “I’m not hurt.”
“Grazie a Dio.” He pulls me against him, one hand cradling the back of my head.
“They were waiting for me.” I whisper the words into his chest. “They said—they said—”
“I know what they said.”
“Teodora Fetisov.” I pull back, looking up at him. “What does that mean?”
His jaw tightens. He looks off to the side, as if trying to figure out the words.
“Gabriel. Who is Teodora Fetisov?”
“You are.”
His answer doesn’t make sense.
“What?”
His lips form into a hard line.
“Come with me.”
He holds out his hand.
“We need to leave before someone reports the disturbance. My people will clean this up. You’re never coming back here, understood?”
I nod dumbly.
He offers his hand again.
“Come with me, Thea.”
I stare at his hand for a long moment.
And then I take it.