3. Zoya
ZOYA
I unlock my apartment door and step inside, already cataloging what needs to disappear. The cramped space feels smaller now, each corner holding evidence of Damir's world. I move through the rooms with methodical focus, gathering the pieces that could tie me to his business.
The first burner phone goes into a plastic bag.
Then the second. Three notebooks filled with names and numbers follow.
I pull out the loose floorboard near my bedroom window and retrieve the stash notes Damir insisted I keep—backup locations for money drops, contact codes, emergency protocols I never wanted to memorize but did anyway.
Everything goes into the bag.
In my bedroom closet, behind a stack of folded sweaters, I find the envelope with my false identity papers. Mila Kozlova. I practiced the signature until it felt natural. The documents are clean, professional work that cost Damir more than he should have spent. I slip them into my jacket pocket.
The money takes longer to move. I access three different accounts from my laptop, transferring funds to a fourth account I opened months ago under Mila's name.
My fingers move across the keyboard with the same rhythm I use to count cash at the track—steady, automatic, efficient.
Twenty-seven thousand rubles. Not enough to disappear forever, but enough to buy time.
I delete the browser history, then delete it again from the trash folder.
The plastic bag of evidence sits on my kitchen counter, waiting. I'll burn it all tomorrow, somewhere safe and far from here. Tonight, I need to know who's watching me.
I peer through the gap in my curtains at the street below. A black sedan sits parked across from my building, the same model I've seen twice today. A man leans against the driver's side door, his posture casual but alert. Even from three floors up, I recognize the set of his shoulders.
The enforcer from the track.
My pulse quickens, but I don't step back from the window. Instead, I study him. He checks his phone, scans the street, then looks directly up at my building. Not searching—knowing exactly where to look.
They've been watching me longer than I realized.
I grab my keys and jacket, then head for the door. If he's going to follow me, I need to understand how committed he is to the surveillance. More importantly, I need to know if he's alone.
The stairwell reeks of someone's burnt dinner as I descend. I take the steps slowly, giving myself time to think. When I push through the building's main door, the night air hits my face with the bite of early autumn. The man straightens but doesn't move away from his car.
I turn left toward the convenience store on the corner, my footsteps deliberate on the cracked sidewalk. Behind me, a car door closes with a soft thud.
At the store, I buy a bottle of water I don't need and take my time choosing a newspaper. Through the window, I watch him position himself across the street, hands in his pockets, eyes tracking my movements.
I exit the store and turn right, heading back toward my building but taking the long route around the block. His footsteps follow, maintaining distance but never losing me. When I turn down a side street and then double back, he's still there.
He's good at this. Patient. Professional.
But he's also alone.
I complete the circle and find myself back where I started, standing on the sidewalk in front of my building. He's returned to his position by the car, watching me with the same steady attention he showed at the track.
The smart move would be to go inside, lock my door, and plan my next step from safety. The smart move would be to assume he's dangerous and keep my distance.
Instead, I cross the street.
He doesn't move as I approach, but his posture shifts almost imperceptibly. His hands come out of his pockets. His weight settles differently on his feet, suggesting he's preparing for an attack or pursuit.
"You're not very subtle," I say when I'm close enough that we don't have to raise our voices.
"I'm not trying to be subtle."
His voice carries the same calm authority it had at the track, but up close, I notice details I missed before. The sharp line of his jaw. The way his dark hair falls across his forehead. The cold hazel of his eyes that seems to see everything and reveal nothing.
"Most people would be intimidated," I continue, stopping just outside arm's reach.
"Are you intimidated?"
There's heat in the question, in the way his gaze moves over my face. Not the clinical assessment of an interrogator but the focused attention of a man looking at a woman.
I take another step closer. "Should I be?"
The air between us tightens. I can smell his cologne now—something dark and expensive that doesn't match the casual leather jacket he wears. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a moment before returning to meet mine.
"That depends on what you're planning to do next," he says.
I could walk away. I could go upstairs and pretend this encounter never happened. I could keep my head down and hope the Bratva loses interest in me.
Or I could take the risk and turn it into an opportunity.
The thought crystallizes as I look at him. This man—this enforcer—he's here because they're hunting Damir. That much is obvious. But if he's watching me, it means they think I know where my brother is. They think I'm useful. And if I'm useful to them, then maybe they're useful to me too.
I need to know what they know. How close are they to finding Damir? What exactly do they want with him? The original plan was to run, to grab my false papers and disappear before they could connect me to my brother's business. But running means going in blind, and blind means dead.
This enforcer could be my way in. If I can get close to him, make him see me as harmless—maybe even make him want to protect me—I might learn enough to save both our lives.
"I was thinking about getting dinner this week," I say, my voice softer now, almost conversational. "Thursday, maybe. Do you know any good places?"
His expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tilt of his head—surprise, maybe, or amusement.
"I might know a place."
"Eight o'clock?"
"Where?"
I name a restaurant in the city center, upscale enough to feel safe but not so expensive that it seems suspicious. He nods once, then extends his hand.
"Maksim Vetrov."
The surname makes my pulse skip. Vetrov—I know that name from the track, from whispered conversations about the families who run this city. His handshake is firm, controlled.
"Zoya," I say, meeting his eyes directly. There's no point in lying about something he already knows.
"I'll see you Thursday, then." I step back, breaking the tension but not the connection. "Try not to follow me until then. It's distracting."
I turn and walk back toward my building, feeling his eyes on me with every step. At the entrance, I glance back once. He's still watching, but there's something different in his posture now. Less predator, more man.
The apartment feels different when I return to it. Not safer, exactly, but charged with new possibilities. I've just invited danger into my life deliberately, but I've also potentially found my way to the information I need.
I sit at my kitchen table and let the full scope of what I'm attempting settle over me. Maksim Vetrov isn't just any enforcer—he's connected, important enough to be assigned to hunt for Damir personally. That means he knows things. Timelines. Plans. Maybe even why they want my brother so badly.
The money I transferred tonight was meant to fund my escape. Now I'm thinking it might fund something else entirely. If I can make Maksim trust me, if I can convince him I'm not a threat, I might learn enough to get Damir out before they find him.
It's dangerous. If he realizes I'm playing him, if he discovers who I really am, I'll end up dead or worse. But the alternative is running blindly into a world where I don't know the rules, don't know who's hunting us or how far their reach extends.
At least this way, I'll be close enough to the source to see them coming.
Thursday can't come soon enough.