Chapter 11Elena
11
Elena
M y hospital shift has barely ended when two men in dark suits approach me in the parking lot. I’m halfway to the SUV where Fydor waits, my mind already on a hot shower and dinner, when they step directly into my path.
“Elena Antonova,” says one of them, flashing a badge that catches the fading sunlight. “We need to talk.”
I stop short, my duffel bag that holds my purse, medical bag, and spare clothes, clutched against my side. “I’m sorry, but who are you?”
“Special Agent Miller,” says the taller one, tucking away his badge. “This is Special Agent Torres. FBI.”
My stomach drops. Damir warned me this might happen, but the reality is still jarring. I glance toward Fydor, who’s now standing alert beside the SUV, his hand inside his jacket. “I need to let my security know?—”
“That won’t be necessary,” interrupts Agent Torres, placing a firm hand on my elbow. “This is just a conversation.”
“Do you have a warrant?” I ask, trying to pull away.
Miller smiles thinly. “We don’t need one for a voluntary interview.”
“This doesn’t feel voluntary,” I say, looking around for Valeriya. She should be nearby, but I don’t see her.
“Please, Mrs. Antonova,” says Torres, guiding me toward an unmarked black sedan. “It’s in your best interest to cooperate.”
Before I can protest further, they’ve maneuvered me into the back seat. The doors lock with an ominous click, and we pull away from the hospital. Through the rear window, I see Fydor speaking urgently into his phone. “This is kidnapping,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“No one said you did,” says Miller from the driver’s seat. “We just have some questions about your husband.”
I press my lips together and say nothing more. Instead, I watch the route they’re taking, noting street names and landmarks. We drive for what seems like forever, taking unnecessary turns and doubling back several times. They’re trying to disorient me and make it harder for me to know where we’re going.
After forty minutes of this circuitous journey, we arrive at a nondescript federal building downtown. They escort me inside, through security checkpoints and down sterile hallways until we reach a small, windowless room with a metal table and three chairs.
“Wait here,” says Torres, and they both leave, closing the door behind them.
The room is freezing, and I dig a sweatshirt from my duffel bag, which they didn’t try to take. After slipping it on, I fold my arms over my chest, both for warmth and to stop my hands from shaking. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, marking each minute of the hour they leave me sitting alone.
When the door finally opens, both agents enter with files and laptops. Miller sits across from me while Torres takes the chair to my right. “Your husband,” Miller begins without preamble, “Is a very dangerous man.”
I swallow, keeping my expression neutral. “He’s an investor.”
Miller laughs, the sound harsh in the small room. “Is that what he told you?”
“That’s what he is,” I insist. “He owns tech companies, real estate?—”
“He’s a killer, Elena,” interrupts Miller, leaning forward. “You know that, don’t you?”
My pulse accelerates, but I maintain eye contact. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Torres opens a laptop and turns it toward me. On the screen is a timeline with dates, locations, and photographs. I recognize Damir in several of them, entering various buildings.
“These were taken over the past six months,” says Torres, his voice gentler than Miller’s. “Notice anything interesting about the dates?”
I shrug. “My husband has business meetings. So what?”
Miller taps the screen. “Each of these locations had a body turn up within twenty-four hours of his visit.”
My mouth goes dry, but I keep my face impassive. “That’s circumstantial at best.”
“Where were you last Thursday night?” asks Miller.
“With my husband,” I say evenly.
“All night?”
“Yes.”
Miller tosses a thick file onto the table, and it lands with a heavy thud. “These are the men he’s killed,” he says, spreading out surveillance photos, documents, and names. “All members of rival organizations. All with distinctive prison tattoos.”
I glance at the photos but quickly look away. “You’re wasting your time.”
Torres slides his chair closer to mine. “Elena, we can help you. Witness protection, new identity, and a fresh start. You don’t have to be part of this.”
“Part of what?” I ask, feigning confusion.
“Your husband’s organization,” Torres says. “The bratva .”
I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Miller slams his hand on the table, making me jump. He pulls out more photos—crime scene images this time. Bodies with execution-style wounds and blood pooling on concrete floors. He spreads them in front of me like a macabre deck of cards. “Your husband did this,” he insists, jabbing his finger at the gruesome images. “These men were all rivals to his organization.”
I push away the photos, my stomach churning. “I have nothing to say.”
“You’re making a mistake,” warns Miller, gathering the photos. “When this all comes crashing down—and it will—you’ll go down with him.”
“Are you charging me with something?” I ask, pushing back from the table.
Before either agent can answer, the door opens. A tall man in an expensive suit enters, briefcase in hand. “This interview is over,” he announces. “I’m Mikhail Seaver, Mrs. Antonova’s attorney.”
Miller stands. “We’re not finished here.”
“Yes, you are,” says Mikhail firmly. “You’ve detained my client without a warrant, denied her right to counsel, and attempted to intimidate her. I’ll be filing a formal complaint.”
Torres and Miller exchange looks that tell me they’re not surprised by Mikhail’s appearance.
“Mrs. Antonova is free to go,” says Torres finally, “But this investigation is ongoing.”
Mikhail places a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go, Elena.”
I follow him out of the building, my legs shaky. Outside, a black SUV waits with Fydor and Valeriya standing beside it. Mikhail walks me to them.
“They knew,” he says quietly as we approach the vehicle. “They knew you were being watched and would have legal representation. This wasn’t about getting information from you so much as it was about rattling Damir.”
“How did you know where I was?” I ask. “I don’t even know you.”
“Fydor called Anton the moment they took you,” says Valeriya before the attorney can answer, opening the car door for me. “Anton sent Mr. Seaver.”
The ride home is tense and silent. I stare out the window, the crime scene photos flashing in my mind. Part of me wants to believe they were fake, staged to provoke a reaction, but another part knows better.
When we arrive at the penthouse, I thank Mikhail before he leaves. Fydor and Valeriya escort me upstairs, then take their positions outside the door. I storm into the penthouse, tossing my bag onto the couch. Damir is already waiting, sitting in his chair and watching security footage on multiple screens.
“They took me,” I snap. “FBI. Just grabbed me outside the hospital.”
Damir exhales slowly, setting down his glass of whiskey. “I know.”
I stiffen. “You knew?”
“Fydor alerted me. I told you they’d come,” he says simply. “I didn’t know when.”
My stomach tightens. “They showed me pictures. Surveillance. Told me I should run.”
He stands, crossing the room with measured steps. “And are you going to?”
I swallow and shake my head.
He stops in front of me, lifting my chin with two fingers. “Then listen to me carefully.” His voice drops, dark and firm. “If they take you again, you say nothing.”
My breath catches. “Damir?—”
“I mean it.” His thumb brushes my jaw. “No names. No details. You’re my wife. That’s all they need to know.”
I exhale sharply, hating how much I trust him. “And what happens if they don’t back off?”
He smirks. “They will.”
I want to believe him. I really do, but the images from those files are burned into my memory now. I pull away from him and walk to his desk. From my pocket, I withdraw one of the photos I managed to take when the agents weren’t looking. I throw it onto his desk. “Explain this.”
Damir picks up the photo and studies it carefully. It shows a man with a bullet hole in his forehead, sprawled on a warehouse floor. The man’s arms are covered in prison tattoos. “This man was trying to take over one of my territories. He killed three of my men before we dealt with him.”
His honesty stuns me. I expected denials, excuses, or maybe even anger that I’d confronted him. Instead, he’s calm and matter-of-fact. “So you admit it,” I say, my voice barely steady. “You killed him.”
“In my world, Elena, it’s kill or be killed.” He sets down the photo. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Try me.”
He studies me for a long moment. “The man in this photo was Boris Orlov. He worked for Nikolai. His brothers Yuri and Sergei still do. Three months ago, he walked into one of my clubs and shot the manager to send a message to me. The man had worked for me for ten years and had three children. Then he killed two security guards who tried to stop him. A few weeks ago, he tried to force Anton to meet with my enemy, and Anton settled the matter permanently.”
I sink into a chair across from his desk. “So this was...revenge?”
“Yes, and justice,” he corrects. “In my world, there are no courts, no trials. There’s only power and those who wield it.”
“And you’re one of those people.”
“Yes.”
I bite my lip. “Do you know how insane this sounds? You’re talking about murder like it’s... business.”
“For me, it is.” He comes around the desk and kneels in front of me. “I’ve never lied to you about who I am. Not really. I’ve just...omitted certain truths.”
“Like the fact that you kill people?”
“I kill enemies who would kill me first,” he clarifies. “Never innocents. That’s a line I won’t cross.”
“Unlike Nikolai?” I ask, remembering our previous conversations.
Damir nods. “Nikolai doesn’t care who gets hurt. Men, women, or children—they’re all just collateral damage to him.”
I stand, needing space. “The FBI thinks they can build a case against you.”
“They’ve been trying for years, back when Nikolai and I were still partners even,” he says, rising. “They won’t succeed.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m careful.” He takes my hand. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” He leads me to a panel on the wall I’ve never noticed before. When he presses his palm against it, it slides open to reveal a security station with multiple monitors.
“After we married, I upgraded the entire building’s security. Every entrance, every exit, every elevator and stairwell is monitored 24/7. The glass is bulletproof. The doors have biometric locks. No one gets in or out without my knowledge.”
I stare at the screens, watching the various feeds. “Why do you have all this?”
“I have enemies. Powerful ones. I need to know we’re safe, especially you when I’m not here.”
“Enemies like Nikolai?”
“Especially Nikolai.” His expression darkens.
I turn to face him fully. “What am I supposed to do with all this? How am I supposed to reconcile the man I’ve come to know with...this?” I gesture to the security monitors and the photo on his desk.
“You don’t have to reconcile anything,” he says quietly. “You can walk away. I won’t stop you.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” His gaze holds mine. “I’ll make sure you’re taken care of and set up somewhere safe where Nikolai can’t find you if you feel endangered. Or you can return to your life as it was before you met me.”
I search his face, looking for deception, manipulation, or anything that would make this decision easier. All I see is honesty and something that looks dangerously like caring. “And if I stay?”
“Then you accept me as I am. All of me. The businessman and the bratva leader. The husband and the killer.”
I close my eyes, weighing my options. I can leave and start over somewhere new, finish my medical training, become the doctor I’ve always wanted to be, and live a normal life. Or I can stay with a man who kills his enemies, who lives by a code I can barely comprehend. A man who, despite everything, has shown me more honesty and respect than anyone else in my life besides my mother. “I need time to think.”
Damir nods. “Take all the time you need.”
I move toward the door, then pause. “Those men the FBI showed me... Were they all like Boris? Killers themselves?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t harm innocents, Elena. Ever. That’s a promise I can make.”
I nod slowly, processing this. “I’m going to take a shower.”
As I walk away, I realize I’m not as horrified as I should be. Maybe it’s shock, or maybe it’s because deep down, I already knew of what Damir was capable. I just didn’t want to admit it to myself.
The hot water does little to wash away the images in my mind—the crime scene photos, the surveillance timeline, and Damir’s calm confession. I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink, trying to make sense of it all. When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel, he’s sitting on the edge of our bed.
“The FBI will come back. They’ll try again, maybe harder next time.”
“I know.”
“Are you afraid?”
I consider the question carefully. “Not of them. Not exactly.”
“What then?”
“Of making the wrong choice.” I sit beside him, keeping distance between us. “Of becoming someone I don’t recognize.”
He takes my hand, his touch gentle despite everything I now know about him. “I never wanted to drag you into this life.”
“You didn’t exactly give me much choice,” I remind him. “Marry me or lose your medical career wasn’t much of an option.”
“I know.” He looks genuinely regretful. “I saw a solution that benefited us both, and I took it. I’m not used to considering...feelings.”
“Clearly.”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “For what it’s worth, I’ve never regretted marrying you.”
I study our joined hands. “Even though I now know enough to potentially destroy you?”
“You won’t.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I trust you,” he says simply. “More than I’ve trusted anyone in a very long time.”
His words settles over me. Trust, in his world, must be incredibly rare. Precious. “I need to know something. Those security measures, the bodyguards, all of it—is it really necessary? Am I really in danger?”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “Nikolai would use you against me in a heartbeat, and now that the FBI has approached you directly, they’ll be watching. Waiting for you to make a mistake they can exploit.”
I nod slowly. “So, this is my life now. Being watched, guarded, and interrogated.”
“For now, until Nikolai is dealt with and the federal investigation loses steam.”
“And how long will that take?”
“I don’t know. Months. Maybe longer.”
I stand, needing to move. “I should be horrified by all this. I should be running for the door.”
“Why aren’t you?”
It’s a good question I’ve been asking myself since the moment those FBI agents approached me. The answer comes to me suddenly, with startling clarity. “Because despite everything, I feel safer with you than I ever have before.” I turn to face him. “Is that crazy?”
“No,” he says, rising to meet me. “It’s human to want protection and security.”
“It’s more than that. When I’m with you, I feel...seen. Like you understand parts of me that no one else does.”
He steps closer, his hand coming up to cup my cheek. “I do see you, Elena. All of you.”
I lean into his touch, closing my eyes. “I don’t know if I can be the wife of a bratva leader.”
“I’m not asking you to be.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “I’m just asking you to be my wife. The rest, we’ll figure out as we go.”
I open my eyelids, meeting his gaze. “No more secrets. If I stay, I need to know everything, no matter how ugly.”
“Everything. No more secrets.”
I inhale and exhale slowly. “Show me the security system again. If this is my life now, I need to understand how it works.”
He nods, taking my hand. He leads me back to the hidden panel, opening it to reveal the monitors once more.
“The entire building is on a closed circuit.” He points to different screens. “These are the main entrances. These are the service areas. Every person who enters or exits is logged and tracked.”
I watch the screens, seeing staff members, residents, and delivery people going about their business, unaware they’re being monitored so closely. “What about inside the penthouse?” I ask.
“Only in the common areas. Never in the bedrooms or bathrooms. I value privacy too much for that.”
I nod, somewhat relieved. “And my bodyguards? Fydor and Valeriya?”
“They report directly to me. They’re two of my most trusted people.”
“And if the FBI approaches me again?”
“Call Mikhail immediately.” He frowns slightly. “Say nothing until he arrives, no matter what they show you or tell you.”
I turn to face him fully. “I need you to promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“No innocents,” I say firmly. “Ever. I can accept that your world has different rules and different justice, but I can’t accept civilian casualties.”
“You have my word,” he says solemnly. “No innocents.”
I search his eyes, looking for any sign of deception. Finding none, I nod. “Okay,” I say quietly. “I’ll stay.”