Chapter 17
Celia
I wake to the sound of quiet voices in the hallway outside my room.
For a moment, I’m disoriented, caught between sleep and consciousness, before the events of last night flood back.
Yefrem’s hands on my skin, the way he whispered my name like a prayer, and the feeling of being completely connected to another person for the first time in longer than I care to admit.
The space beside me in bed is empty but still warm. He must have slipped out only minutes ago to avoid being seen leaving my room, maintaining some semblance of professional distance for his men’s benefit. The consideration touches me more than it should.
I stretch beneath the sheets, feeling the pleasant ache in muscles that reminds me of everything we shared. My body carries the memory of his touch, and I find myself smiling despite the uncertainty that awaits us today.
The voices in the hallway grow clearer as I become more alert, recognizing Yefrem and Leonid discussing logistics in rapid Russian punctuated by occasional English phrases. I catch fragments about routes and timing, about Washington being a “fucking minefield” in Leonid’s heavily accented voice.
I shower quickly and dress in more of the clothes Leonid somehow procured for me, opting for dark jeans, a fitted black sweater, and boots that look both practical and expensive.
When I emerge from my room, I find them both in the kitchen.
Leonid stands at the stove making what smells like exceptional bacon, while Yefrem reviews documents spread across the small table.
They both look up when I enter, and I catch something passing between them, a quick exchange that feels significant but goes too fast for me to interpret.
“Good morning.” I pour myself coffee from the pot Leonid gestures toward, noting that it’s as strong and perfect as it smelled.
“Sleep well?” Yefrem’s question carries layers of meaning, and the way his gaze lingers on my face makes heat rise in my cheeks.
“Very well.” I take a seat across from him, close enough to see the documents he’s reviewing are maps and surveillance photos. “What’s the plan?”
Leonid and Yefrem exchange another look, and this time I catch the silent communication that speaks of years working together and trust built through shared danger with mutual dependence.
“We leave within the hour,” Yefrem says, gathering the papers into a neat stack. “It’s about thirty-six hours if we push hard and rotate drivers. We’ll take one overnight stop. If all goes well, we’ll hit D.C. the night after next.”
“I’m coming with you.” I say it as a statement rather than a question, but there’s still uncertainty in my voice.
Yefrem is quiet for a long moment, his coffee cup suspended halfway to his lips. “Yes. Against my better judgment and Leonid’s strong objections, you’re coming with us.”
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by anxiety about what I’ve talked myself into.
Washington D.C., meeting with corrupt federal officials, and navigating a world where the wrong word or gesture could get all of us killed terrifies me, but the alternative—staying behind while Yefrem walks into danger—feels impossible to accept.
“Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t thank me yet. You might change your mind after spending all those hours in an SUV with us.”
Leonid snorts from the stove. “She might change her mind after five minutes of your driving.”
“My driving is exemplary.”
The other man makes a sound of disbelief. “Your driving is terrifying. Remember Prague?”
“Prague was different. We were being pursued.”
“We’re always being pursued.”
The easy banter between them surprises me. This feels warmer and more personal, like family rather than just associates.
“How long have you two known each other?” I settle into my chair and watch Leonid flip something in a different pan from the cast iron one where bacon currently sizzles.
Yefrem glances at Leonid before answering. “Since we were teenagers. Leonid knew my brother Dmitri first.”
Leonid plates whatever he’s been cooking and joins us at the table. “Dmitri and Yefrem arrived in New York when they were fifteen and sixteen, smuggled over in cargo containers. They had nothing but the clothes on their backs and some money their father had hidden before he died.”
“Your parents died in Russia.” I state, remembering fragments of what Yefrem told me that night we buried Lang.
Yefrem nods, his expression growing distant. “Our father got on the wrong side of a bratva group in St. Petersburg. They came to our apartment and shot both our parents—k”
“Before Dmitri shot them,” I say, wanting him to know I was listening before, even though I was somewhat disconnected from reality at the time.
“Da, and our father lived long enough to tell us where he’d hidden emergency money and fake documents. He’d been planning to get us all to America, but he ran out of time.” His expression reflects tight grief for a moment as he falls silent.
Leonid continues the story while Yefrem stares into his coffee. “I was working for Konstantin Volkov then. He was an old friend of their father’s who’d established himself in Brooklyn years earlier. When the brothers arrived, Konstantin took them in.”
“Dmitri was charming,” Yefrem says, finally looking up. “He made friends easily despite being the more ruthless of the two of us. Leonid liked him immediately.”
“Your older brother was impossible not to like.” Leonid’s voice carries sadness that speaks of old loss. “He could talk his way out of anything, charm anyone, and make you feel like the most important person in the room.”
“And you?” I ask Yefrem.
“I was suspicious of everyone, including Leonid. It took months before I trusted him enough to have a real conversation.” Yefrem reaches across the table and briefly clasps Leonid’s shoulder. “Best decision I ever made.”
The gesture is simple but speaks volumes about their relationship. They aren’t just professional partners or even friends, but are a family forged through shared loss and mutual survival.
Apparently deciding he’s had enough reminiscing, Yefrem asks, “Are you ready for this?” He studies my face with intensity that makes me feel like he can see straight through to my thoughts.
“As ready as I can be for something I don’t understand.”
There’s a note of warning in his voice. “You understand more than you think. You’ve seen how quickly things can turn violent, and how decisions have to be made without time for careful consideration.
” He reaches across the table and touches my hand briefly.
“Trust your instincts. They’ve kept you alive so far. ”
The encouragement helps, but it doesn’t eliminate the anxiety building in my chest as we prepare to leave the compound.
I fought for this, so I can’t show second thoughts, but I’m suddenly not sure going along is the best idea.
This prepper’s fortress has become a sanctuary of sorts, isolated and protected from the forces that want to destroy us.
Leaving it feels like stepping back into a world where every interaction could be a trap.
Still, I can’t stay hidden forever. At some point, I have to participate in solving the problems that have consumed my life, rather than just hiding from them.
We load into a dark SUV with tinted windows and license plates that I suspect aren’t registered to any of us.
Leonid drives, Yefrem takes the passenger seat, and I settle into the back with a bag of supplies and communication equipment that looks more sophisticated than anything I’ve seen outside of movies.
Two other SUVs accompany us for a while until they split off to take different routes.
Yefrem shares we’ll rendezvous with them in Virginia.
The first few hours pass in relative silence, with occasional conversations in Russian that I can’t follow. The landscape outside changes from forest to farmland to suburbs, and I memorize landmarks just for something to do.
As the miles accumulate, I begin to notice things about Yefrem and Leonid’s relationship that weren’t apparent in the more formal setting of the compound, like the way Leonid anticipates Yefrem’s needs without being asked, adjusting the temperature or changing radio stations based on subtle cues.
I don’t miss the way Yefrem defers to Leonid’s judgment about routes and timing, trusting his expertise completely.
I appreciate the way they both include me in their conversations more naturally than I expected, explaining references I don’t understand and translating comments made in Russian. They treat me not like an outsider being tolerated, but like I’m part of their small, exclusive family.
“You’re staring,” says Yefrem without turning around.
“I’m observing.”
“What are you observing?”
I hesitate before trying to explain. “The way you two work together. It’s different from what I expected.”
“What did you expect?” asks Leonid.
I consider how to articulate thoughts that are still forming. “Something more hierarchical, I suppose. More formal. You’re the boss, he’s the subordinate… That kind of structure.”
Leonid laughs from the driver’s seat. “He is the boss, but he’s also an idiot who would be dead five times over without proper supervision.”
Yefrem sounds annoyed but is grinning in the visor mirror. “I’m sitting right here.”
“ Da , so you might consider being quiet while I’m telling her about Prague.”
Before Yefrem can respond, I ask, “What happened in Prague?”
“Nothing happened in Prague,” Yefrem says firmly.
“Everything happened in Prague,” Leonid counters with a grin. “Car chase, gunfight, exploding building, and a narrow escape across rooftops in the middle of winter?—”
Yefrem shakes his head. “It wasn’t that dramatic.”
Leonid rolls his eyes. “It was exactly that dramatic. Plus the part where you insisted on going back for the violin.”
“It was a Stradivarius.”
Leonid scoffs. “It was an unnecessary risk.”