23. Zoya
ZOYA
I walk through the marble corridors of Maksim's estate with a heavy heart.
The medical staff released me this morning with a clipboard full of instructions about rest and recovery, but they didn't tell me what I'm supposed to do with myself now that I'm mobile again.
The burns on my hands have healed enough that I can grip things without wincing, and the smoke damage to my lungs has cleared, but I still feel fragile in a way that has nothing to do with my physical condition.
It's different here from his penthouse apartment in the heart of the city.
This estate on the outskirts of town is much grander.
The hallways stretch endlessly in both directions, lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men who share Maksim's angular features.
Vetrov ancestors, I assume, watching me from their gilded frames with the same unreadable expression I've come to associate with their descendants.
The marble beneath my bare feet is cold, and I pull the silk robe tighter around my body as I pass door after door of rooms I've never seen inside.
Am I a prisoner here, or am I his wife? The question follows me through the corridors, echoing in the vast spaces between the artwork and the antique furniture.
I wear his ring on my finger, but did I really choose to put it there?
I sleep in his guest room, but I don't know if I'm free to leave.
The guards at the front gate nod respectfully when they see me, but I've never tested whether they would let me walk through those iron doors.
I find myself in the library, a room with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the gardens.
The shelves are filled with leather-bound volumes in Russian and English, and I run my fingers along the spines while I try to make sense of my situation.
Philosophy, military history, poetry—an eclectic collection that tells me more about Maksim than any conversation we've had.
The burner phone weighs heavily in the pocket of my robe.
I've been carrying it for three days, turning it over in my hands and trying to decide whether I have the courage to use it.
The number is burned into my memory, but calling it feels like crossing a line I can't uncross.
Still, I need answers, and Damir is the only person who might have them.
I dial his number and listen to it ring four times before he picks up.
"Zoya?" His voice sounds different—thinner, more strained than I remember. "Christ, I thought you were dead. Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine," I tell him, though the words feel hollow. "I'm at Maksim's estate. They pulled me out of the building before it collapsed."
There's a long pause, and I can hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line. "Good. That's good. Listen, you need to get out of there. Now. Tonight, if you can manage it."
I sink into one of the leather chairs by the window and watch the morning light filter through the trees. "It's not that simple, Damir. I'm married to him."
"That's not real," he says quickly. "Whatever ceremony they put you through, whatever papers they made you sign, it doesn't mean anything. You can walk away from this."
"Can I?" I ask. "Because I signed those papers willingly." Heat creeps into my face as I continue. "Besides, I don’t know where I'd go if I did leave."
"You come to me," he says. "I'll protect you. I'll get you out of the city, somewhere safe where the Vetrovs can't find you."
His words should comfort me, but they don't. There's something desperate in his voice, something that makes me think he's not telling me everything. "Damir, I need to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me."
"Of course."
"The drugs that killed the Bratva soldier. The ones that started all of this." I take a deep breath and force myself to say the words. "Did you mess with them? Did you lace the drugs with fentanyl? Was it a hit?"
The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long that I wonder if the connection has dropped. When he finally speaks, his voice is carefully controlled. "Who told you that?"
"It doesn't matter who told me. I'm asking you."
"The Vetrovs are poisoning your mind," he says, and I can hear anger creeping into his tone. "You've been too close to Maksim for too long. He's making you doubt your own family."
"Answer the question, Damir."
"This is exactly what they want," he continues as if I haven't spoken.
"They want you to turn against me, to believe their lies instead of trusting your own brother.
How long have you been married to him? A few weeks?
And already you're choosing his version of events over mine.
You swore you were only getting close to him to find out what they know. "
His deflection tells me everything I need to know, but I need to hear him say it. "You're not answering me."
"I'm trying to protect you from something bigger than you understand," he snaps. "There are forces at work here that go beyond the Vetrovs and their little power games. If you stay with Maksim, you're going to get caught in the crossfire."
"Your people nearly killed me," I remind him, my voice rising. "They kidnapped me, they held me in a building that they set on fire. How is that protecting me?"
"That wasn't supposed to happen," he says quickly. "The fire was an accident. They were only supposed to keep you safe until I could get you out of the city."
"Safe?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "They took my clothing and made me wear a fucking paper dress, then tied me up and locked me in a room. That's your idea of keeping me safe?"
"Zoya, listen to me?—"
"No, you listen to me." I stand up and pace to the window, looking out at the manicured gardens where everything is orderly and controlled.
"I've been counting dirty money for you for years.
I've kept my mouth shut and my head down and never asked questions about where the cash came from or where it went.
But I'm asking now. Did you plant those drugs? "
The pause is shorter this time, but it's still too long. "Yes."
The word hits me in the chest, and I have to grip the windowsill to keep from falling. "Oh, God."
"It wasn't personal," he says quickly. "The soldier was already marked. He was stealing from the Bratva, skimming off the top. He would have been killed anyway."
"So you decided to kill him yourself?"
"I decided to make his death useful," he corrects. "The Karpin family needed a way to destabilize the Vetrov operation, and the soldier's death provided that opportunity. Two birds with one stone."
I close my eyes and lean my forehead against the cool glass. "You work for them. For the Karpin family."
"I work with them," he says. "There's a difference."
"For how long?"
"Three years. Maybe four. I don't remember exactly when it started."
"And me?" I ask. "What was I? Another useful tool in your arsenal?"
"You were my sister," he says, and his voice cracks slightly. "You were supposed to be safe. You were supposed to stay out of this."
"But I didn't stay out of it, did I? Because you needed someone to count the money, someone who wouldn't ask questions. Someone who trusted you completely."
"Zoya—"
"How many people have died because of your games?" I ask. "How many families have been destroyed because you decided to play both sides?" Anger coils around my chest and I feel like I’m going to lose control.
"I'm trying to survive," he says. "We're all trying to survive. The Vetrovs aren't the good guys in this story, Zoya. They're killers and thieves and worse. At least with the Karpin family, I know where I stand."
"And where do I stand?" I ask. "In your grand plan, where do I fit?"
"You get out," he says firmly. "You disappear. You start over somewhere they can't find you."
"What if I don't want to disappear?"
"Then you're going to die," he says bluntly. "The Vetrovs will use you until you're no longer useful, and then they'll dispose of you. That's what they do. That's what they've always done."
I think about Maksim's hands on my skin, the way his voice softens when we're alone, the careful way he touches me as if I might break. "You're wrong about him."
"Am I? Has he told you he loves you? Has he promised you a future together? Or does he just take what he wants and expect you to be grateful for it?"
The questions sting because they're partially true.
Maksim has never said he loves me—at least not in a way that I believe.
He's never made promises about our future.
But there's something in the way he looks at me, something in the way he held my hand when I was recovering, that tells me Damir's assessment is incomplete.
"I have to go," I tell him.
"Zoya, wait?—"
"No," I say firmly. "I've heard enough."
"Please," he says, and the desperation in his voice is unmistakable. "Just think about what I've told you. Don't let him manipulate you into believing that what you have is real."
I hang up without saying goodbye and let the phone fall from my trembling hands. It clatters on the marble floor, and the sound echoes through the empty library. I sink back into the leather chair and stare at the device, wondering if I've just severed the last connection to my old life.
The conversation replays in my mind as I climb the stairs to the guest room.
Damir's admission that he planted the drugs, his casual dismissal of the soldier's death, his insistence that I'm being manipulated.
The brother I thought I knew, the one who raised me and protected me and taught me to count money with steady hands, is a stranger.
Or maybe I'm the stranger, and he's always been exactly what he is now.
I close the door behind me and lean against it, feeling the weight of everything that's changed. But it's not my room, and this isn't my life. Or maybe it is now, and I just haven't accepted it yet.
I strip off the robe and climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. I close my eyes and try to remember what it felt like when Maksim touched me, the way his hands moved over my skin with a reverence that felt real.
But now I'm carrying his child, and that changes everything.
The knowledge sits in my chest like a stone.
I'm going to have a baby with a man who married me as part of a mission, who's been ordered to get close to me and break me.
A man who might be capable of terrible things but who's never been anything but gentle with me.
Maybe Damir is right. Maybe I've been manipulated so thoroughly that I can't tell the difference between love and control anymore. Or maybe what I feel for Maksim is real, and admitting it is the first honest thing I've done in years.
I pull the covers over my head and try to sleep, but all I can think about is the choice I'm going to have to make.
I can trust my brother, the man who raised me and protected me and then sold me out for money and power.
Or I can trust my husband, the man who married me under false pretenses but who's never hurt me, never lied to me, never made me feel like I was disposable.
The baby growing inside me deserves better than either option. But those are the only choices I have, and I'm running out of time to decide.