Chapter Three
Mireille
We’re all gathered in the parlor of the Balshov mansion, dressed for the opera. Tonight is Anya’s performance, and Dmitri surprised me earlier with a trip to a boutique in Midtown to pick out a gown. But even in silk and diamonds, I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t quite belong here.
I take a sip from the dainty wine glass in my hand, smoothing my free hand nervously down my dress.
I'd hoped the dress would bolster my confidence, with its dipping neckline and shimmering glory, and maybe for a moment it did– that moment when I walked out from the dressing room at the boutique that Dmitri had driven me to.
I remember the way his eyes had darkened with unmistakable lust, the huskiness in his voice when he told me I looked stunning.
My stomach tightens at the memory, and I can feel myself getting all hot and bothered.
So much has happened in such a little time. I feel like a different person since I met Dmitri, more aware of my body, my femininity. He makes me feel things I'd never imagined prior to meeting him.
It's crazy.
I glance toward the fireplace, where Dmitri stands with Alexei and Viktor.
They’re all in formal attire for tonight’s performance—Alexei and Viktor in crisp suits, Dmitri in dark tailored wool with his hair slicked back and a black bowtie hanging loosely at his throat.
Butterflies erupt in my stomach at the sight of him, a familiar giddiness rushing up my chest.
Anya Balshov comes into view, stopping beside Alexei to whisper something in his ear. I watch the mask fall off the man's face for a second before he leans back to look at his wife with a warm smile that transforms his features.
It's easy to see the affection between the two, and for a brief moment, a wishful thought settles in my mind.
Maybe someday, I'll have something like this with Dmitri.
Anya looks up at that moment, and our gazes catch. Her face lights up with a smile, and she waves at me. I return her wave, giving her a small nod when she gestures for me to stay put.
I like Anya Balshov a lot. Have since I met her. There's something about her, a natural warmth that draws people in. Maybe that's why she complements Alexei so well. The eldest Balshov brother’s cold exterior can be intimidating sometimes. All the time, actually.
Anya finishes her conversation with the brothers and walks toward me.
“You look lovely, Mireille. Dmitri has good taste.”
“Thank you,” I say, returning her smile. “And thanks for inviting me tonight.”
Anya waves it off, her smile growing bigger as she starts to talk about tonight’s performance at the opera—she’s singing the lead in La Traviata, and the excitement in her voice is infectious.
From the corner of my eye, I notice Sergei standing a short distance from the brothers, lurking in the shadows like he always does. I suddenly feel the same sense of unease that I did when he opened the door for Dmitri and me earlier.
There's just something off about the guy…
Could it be that I've met him before? But how…?
Just then, he reaches into his pocket, and I watch him take out his phone and raise it to his ear,and that's when I see it: the tattoo crawling across the back of his hand and underneath his shirt cuff.
Then it all comes flooding back.
The memory of my father standing near that van, the man with the same tattoo handing him something small. My stomach knots.
It’s him. The man from the alley.
What’s his connection to my dad?
“Sorry, I need to use the restroom,” I say to Anya with an apologetic smile. “I’ll be right back.”
I turn around and head toward the bathroom, keeping my expression neutral. The moment the bathroom door closes behind me, I grip the sink with both hands, taking in a deep breath. I close my eyes, throw my head back, and take another deep breath, but that doesn't silence the questions in my head.
What's Sergei’s business with my dad?
What had they exchanged?
Does it have anything to do with the Balshov's brothers? With Dmitri?
Should I tell Dmitri? No—I can’t. Not until I understand what’s going on. Dad said it was work-related. Maybe Sergei is some kind of informant. Maybe there’s an explanation.
I splash cold water on my wrists, take one last deep breath, and exit the restroom. As I walk down the long corridor, I suddenly notice a half-open door ahead. As I inch closer, I can hear the low murmur of male voices. I mean to keep walking, but then I hear my name.
“Mireille Turner,” Alexei's voice says. “How much longer are you going to keep this going, Dmitri?”
My feet stop on their own. I drift closer.
“I’m close,” Dmitri answers, his voice steady but strained. “Turner trusts his daughter, and she trusts me. If I stay close to her, I can find out what he’s planning.”
The world narrows to that one sentence.
Alexei’s tone sharpens. “Viktor seems to think you're drifting off plan.”
Viktor’s voice follows, half laugh, half disbelief. “He definitely is. Looks like the Turner girl's got him wrapped around her finger. ”
My breath catches.
They’re talking about me.
About using me to get to my dad.
My chest tightens, and the walls seem to tilt slightly. Dmitri’s voice again, quieter this time. “You wanted information. I’m getting it.”
“Are you?” Alexei presses. “Because so far, I don’t see results. And if Turner moves against us, we’ll all pay for your hesitation.”
There’s a pause, long enough for my pulse to thud in my ears.
Then Dmitri says something that splinters the last of the illusion. “I’ll handle it. She won’t be a problem.”
The floor seems to drop out from under me.
I take a step back, my heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe. I want to run, to get far away from this house, from him, from all of it.
I turn toward the hallway, but I don't get far. Pain suddenly explodes across the back of my skull. The last thing I hear before everything goes dark is a low voice behind me.
“Should’ve stayed out of it, sweetheart.”
Then the world fades to black.
***
I don't know how long I’m out, but when I open my eyes, a slow, throbbing ache is blooming at the base of my skull, followed by a rush of nausea. The world shifts in and out of focus before settling enough for me to realize I’m sitting upright, my wrists bound behind me and secured to a chair.
My heart skips.
I look around, blinking away the haze in my head. I wonder if it's the ache making things blurry or if the cream-colored walls actually look familiar. My gaze falls on the long oak table and family portraits on the far wall, and that's when my stomach drops.
I'm in my parents’ dining room.
What the devil is going on?
Someone clears their throat, and I look up to see Sergei standing in a corner by the window, leaning casually against the wall. His expression is blank, but the sight of him sends cold terror coursing through my body.
“You’re awake,” he says simply, his tone more observation than concern.
“Why am I here?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
He doesn’t answer right away. “Wasn’t supposed to go like this.”
“Like what?”
Before he can respond, another voice cuts through the room—a voice that makes my chest seize in relief.
“Sergei, you’ve done enough,” my father says, stepping into view.
“Dad?” I gasp, blinking at him in confusion. “What—what’s happening?”
He looks furious—not at me, but at Sergei. “You attacked my daughter?” he spits.
Sergei’s jaw tightens. “You didn’t tell me you had a daughter who's mixed up with the Balshovs.”
The two men stare each other down, and I finally find my breath. “You—you know each other?”
They both go silent.
And then, slowly, the pieces start falling into place. The meeting in the alley. The exchange. The tattoo.
I shake my head, disbelief tightening my throat. “You’ve been working together?”
I turn to face my dad—the man I’ve looked up to my whole life—quietly demanding an explanation.
He lets out a heavy sigh. “Mireille, please—”
But Sergei cuts him off. “We don't have time for this, Bill. We need to decide what to do with her.”
“What do you mean?” Dad asks. His voice has gone eerily quiet, an indicator of his rage.
“I mean, she knows too much. She recognized me from the restaurant—I saw the way she was looking at me tonight. Then I caught her listening at the door while the Balshovs were talking. She’s a liability now, Bill,” Sergei explains.
My blood turns to ice.
“G-go where, Dad?” My voice breaks. “What is he talking about?”
Sergei turns toward me, arms crossed. “Look, princess. Your old man has too much to lose if word gets out. The Bureau thinks he’s their golden boy, but he’s been playing both sides for years.
Feeding intel to the Balshovs’ rivals, selling it, trading it.
Keeps his record clean, keeps his wallet full.
Imagine what would happen to him if all of that got out. It’ll—”
“That’s enough,” my father snaps, cutting Sergei off.
I've heard enough, too.
I turn my head slowly toward him, keeping my eyes fixed on his. “Dad, is that true?”
He runs a hand through his hair, the controlled composure I’ve always known slipping for the first time. “You don’t understand how it started. They came to me years ago. I didn’t have a choice.”
“You’ve been helping criminals.” The words taste wrong, heavy. “Dad…how could you?”
His voice softens, his expression desperate for…understanding? Sympathy? “Everything I do is for you and your mom, Mireille. I’ve kept this family safe, haven't I?”
My heart is pounding so loud I can barely hear him. “Safe? You think this is safe?” I look from him to Sergei. “You’re both working for the people the FBI’s supposed to be stopping. Dad!”
Sergei shrugs, as if the whole thing is just business. “Everyone trades something. Your father trades secrets.”
I can’t breathe. The room feels smaller, the air thicker.
My father turns back to him. “Get us a moment. Alone.”
Sergei smirks faintly but steps toward the door. “Fine. But one way or another, she needs to be dealt with. If she talks, it’s on you.”
He disappears down the hall, leaving silence in his wake.
My father kneels beside me and begins untying the ropes. “I never wanted you to see this side of me. You weren’t supposed to know.”
Tears sting my eyes. “And Mom?”
“She doesn’t know either. She’s happier that way.”
When the ropes fall away, I rub my wrists, still too stunned to move.
“Sergei said he saw me looking at him tonight. And that he caught me listening at the door.” I swallow hard. “But he already knew about me seeing you two in the alley, didn’t he? That’s why he’s been watching me.”
My father’s face pales. “He mentioned he thought someone had spotted us that day. I never imagined it was you. If only you hadn’t been there…”
My throat tightens. “What's your business with the Balchovs?”
He looks up at me, a frown knitting his brows. “What do you mean?”
“My boyfriend Dmitri. Dmitri Balshov.”
His expression changes instantly, rage flashing across it like lightning. “Dima? The new guy you told me about—that’s Dmitri Balshov?”
I flinch at the fury in his voice. “You know who he is.” It’s not a question.
“I know what he is,” he says bitterly. “What the hell were you thinking, Mireille?”
“Dad, please—”
He pushes to his feet and starts to pace. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into, Mireille. The Balshovs are dangerous. All of them. And if he’s anywhere near you, it’s not because he cares, it’s because he’s using you.”
The words hit like a slap.
That much is true. I heard it myself. But that doesn't make any of what you’ve done right.
“Dad…what are you going to do?”
He looks like he's about to say something, but then his phone starts to ring. He hesitates for a second, then walks away with his phone in hand.