Chapter 31Elena
31
Elena
T he hospital room is dim, with only the soft glow of a bedside lamp illuminating the space. I sit beside Damir, brushing my fingers against his bandaged side. The white gauze is stark against his tanned skin, a visual reminder of how close I came to losing him. The steady beep of the heart monitor provides a comforting rhythm in the otherwise quiet room.
It’s been two days since I managed to stop the bleeding long enough to get him to the nearest hospital for emergency surgery. Two days of sitting in this uncomfortable chair, watching his chest rise and fall, of doctors and nurses coming in and out, checking vitals, changing IV bags, and giving me sympathetic smiles.
The antiseptic smell of the hospital room burns my nostrils, mixing with the faint scent of Damir’s cologne that somehow still clings to him despite everything. My medical training tells me his color is good, his vitals are stable, and the worst is behind us. My heart, however, refuses to believe it until I see those blue eyes open again.
I reach for the cup of lukewarm coffee on the side table, grimacing at the bitter taste. Hospital coffee is universally terrible, but it’s keeping me awake. I’ve barely slept, afraid to close my eyes for more than a few minutes at a time.
When he finally stirs, his eyelids heavy and breath deep, I exhale sharply, relief washing over me like a tidal wave. “You’re awake,” I whisper, setting down the cup with a shaky hand.
His voice is gravel when he speaks. “Did I die?”
I laugh, the sound watery and soft. “Not yet.”
His fingers brush my wrist, weak but still possessive. Even now, in a hospital bed, with tubes running from his arms, and monitors tracking his every heartbeat, he manages to make me feel like I belong to him. Like I’m the most precious thing in his world.
“The doctors say you’ll make a full recovery,” I say, my voice steadier now. “The knife missed your vital organs. You lost a lot of blood, but you’re going to be fine.”
He scans the room before returning to my face. “Nikolai?”
“Dead,” I confirm. “Anton shot him after he stabbed you.”
Damir nods slightly, wincing at the movement. “Good.”
I take his face in my hands, careful not to disturb the oxygen tube running under his nose. His stubble is rough against my palms. “I need you,” I say, my voice breaking despite my efforts to stay strong. “Our baby needs a father, and this has to be the final fight.”
His eyes widen slightly at the mention of our child as he rests his hand on my still-flat stomach. “How is he?”
“He’s fine. We’re both fine.” I place my hand over his. “The doctors checked me out while you were in surgery. Everything’s normal.”
Damir nods, his expression serious. “I’m out. I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but this was in the works even before you issued the ultimatum. No more. Anton will take over.”
The words I’ve been waiting to hear for months make me gasp softly. The promise of a normal life, away from the violence and danger that has defined our relationship since the beginning, fills me with hope. “You mean it?” I ask, searching his face for any sign of hesitation.
“I mean it.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “I almost lost you both. I won’t risk that again.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tighten. He’s never lied to me beyond some omissions, and after he promised to be honest with me, he has been as far as I know. I trust him. “I love you.” The words are still new on my tongue despite everything we’ve been through.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating. “Say it again.”
“I love you,” I say, leaning closer. “I’m yours, and I’m not leaving.”
We kiss, carefully but deeply. His lips are dry and chapped, but still warm and familiar against mine. I’m mindful of his injuries, keeping my weight off his torso, but I pour everything I feel into the kiss. All the fear of the past two days, all the relief of seeing him awake, and all the hope for our future together.
When we break apart, I rest my forehead against his. “You scared me. When I saw you collapse, when there was so much blood...”
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, taking my hand.
“Don’t apologize. Just keep your promise. No more fighting. No more bratva .”
“No more,” he agrees. “Just you and me and our son, but it will take a few months to get out.”
I smile, picturing it for the first time without fear clouding the image. A normal life. A family. “I like the sound of that, and I understand you can’t just stop overnight.”
Damir shifts slightly in the bed, making room beside him. “Come here,” he says, patting the narrow space.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” I look pointedly at his bandages.
“You won’t.” His voice is firm, brooking no argument. “I need to hold you.”
Carefully, I climb onto the bed, mindful of the IV lines and monitoring equipment. I settle against his uninjured side, resting my head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around me, holding me close.
“The doctors will have a fit if they see me in your bed,” I say, though I make no move to get up.
“Let them,” he says, his voice stronger now. “You’re my wife. This is where you belong.”
I close my eyes, breathing in his scent and feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my palm. For the first time in days, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease.
“When can I go home?” he asks, his fingers playing with a strand of my hair.
“Not for a few days at least. You need to regain your strength, and before you argue, remember I’m almost a doctor. I know what I’m talking about.”
He chuckles, then winces. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”
“Sorry,” I say, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw. “But I’m serious. You’re staying here until the doctors clear you.”
“Fine, but only because you asked.”
I roll my eyes. “Such a generous husband.”
His expression sobers. “I want to be. A good husband. A good father. I don’t know how, Elena. My own father sold me, so I have no model for this.”
The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. Damir rarely speaks of his childhood, of the trauma that shaped him into the man he became.
“We’ll handle it together,” I promise. “Neither of us had great fathers growing up, but we can do better for our son.”
Damir nods, his hand finding my stomach again. “A son,” he says, wonder in his voice. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” I say, placing my hand over his. “In about seven months, he’ll be here, and our lives will never be the same.”
“I can’t wait,” says Damir, and I hear the truth in his words.
I lie against him for a while before I remember a question that’s been plaguing me. “How did you find me? Alexei tossed my phone out the window.”
He stiffens. “Alexei?”
“The one who kidnapped me.”
He scowls. “He’s dead?”
“Yes. I saw his body when we were rushing you out of that mansion.” I speak without sentiment. Was it sad that a young man was killed like that? Yes, but it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been helping Nikolai try to hurt me and my baby to hurt my husband. “And you’re not answering my question.” I narrow my eyes at him, suddenly suspicious. “How did you find me?”
He looks nonplussed for a moment, and then his gaze drops to the necklace I’m wearing. Even before he says it, I grasp what he’s about to reveal.
“There’s a chip in the necklace. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be able to reveal that information to enemies if you were ever captured or interrogated.”
I’m torn between anger and appreciation. “I’m not a pet to tag.”
“Anton said something like that, but I reminded him we track our cherished pets out of love and to protect them. It’s the same for you, kotik .”
I let out an outraged sound. “Now I’m a kitten? You’re not helping your case here.”
He shrugs then winces. “Perhaps not, but the necklace is for your safety, and you will keep wearing it.”
I think about arguing, but he’s tired, and I don’t really care that much. “You should have told me you could track my every move, but in light of everything, I’m glad you could.” I touch the necklace. “I’ll keep wearing it because I like it and choose to.”
“Good enough for me.” He closes his eyes then, clearly having depleted too much strength, so I let the silence lengthen.
About an hour later, a nurse enters the room, clipboard in hand. She raises an eyebrow at me lying in the bed but says nothing as she checks Damir’s vitals.
“Your blood pressure is looking better, Mr. Antonov,” she says, making notes on her chart. “How’s your pain level on a scale of one to ten?”
“Three,” he says, though the tightness around his eyes tells me it’s higher.
The nurse looks skeptical but nods. “I’ll be back in an hour with your medication. Try to rest.” She gives me a pointed look before leaving the room.
“Liar,” I say once she’s gone. “It’s at least a seven.”
“Six, but I don’t want to be sedated again. I want to stay awake with you.”
I shake my head, sitting up carefully. “You need to rest to heal. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”
“Promise?” His voice is uncharacteristically vulnerable.
“I promise.” I squeeze his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Damir’s eyelids are already growing heavy again even without medication, the brief conversation having drained his limited energy. “Talk to me,” he murmurs. “Tell me about our future.”
I settle back in the chair beside his bed despite his protest, keeping his hand in mine. “First we need to find a house. Something with a yard for the baby to play in when he gets older.”
“The penthouse has a terrace.” His words are slightly slurred with approaching sleep.
“Not the same. I want grass and trees. Definitely a dog. Maybe two or three.”
“A dog?” Damir’s lips quirk up at the corners. “What kind?”
“Something big and loyal,” I say, picturing it. “A German Shepherd or a Husky.”
“I like Huskies,” he says, surprising me. “Had one as a boy, before...” He trails off, not needing to finish the sentence.
I squeeze his hand, encouraging him to continue. “What was its name?”
“Sasha,” he says, a rare smile crossing his face. “She was white with blue eyes. Used to sleep at the foot of my bed.”
“What happened to her?” I ask gently.
Damir’s smile fades. “My father sold her too, for vodka money.”
My heart aches for the boy he was, losing everything he loved to a father who saw him only as a commodity. “We’ll get a Husky then,” I decide. “For you and for our son.”
Damir nods, his eyes drifting closed. “I’d like that.”
I watch as he falls back asleep, his face relaxed in a way I rarely see when he’s awake. The hard lines of the bratva leader softened in slumber, revealing the man beneath the armor—the man I fell in love with, despite every instinct warning me against it. The man who is now my husband, the father of my child, my future.
I lean back in the chair, one hand still holding his, the other resting on my stomach, where our son grows. For the first time since this all began, I allow myself to truly believe in the possibility of a normal life. A happy life with Damir.
The morning sun streams through the hospital window, so I adjust the blinds to keep the light from hitting his face directly. Three days since the surgery, and his color is better, with his breathing more regular. The doctors are pleased with his progress, but he’s still not strong enough for the journey back to Philadelphia.
I check my watch. It’s nearly nine. I’ve been here all night, just like the previous days and nights, with everyone turning a blind eye. My medical credentials help, though I suspect it’s more the emerald necklace and the Antonov name that open doors around here.
Damir stirs, his eyelids fluttering open. Even groggy with medication, he finds me immediately.
“Morning,” I say, moving to his side. “How’s the pain?”
He reaches for my hand. “Manageable.”
I pour him water from the plastic pitcher, helping him take small sips. He brushes his fingers against mine, warm and possessive even in his weakened state.
“The doctor will be by soon.” I set down the cup when he’s finished with it for now. “If everything looks good, they might remove the drainage tube today.”
Damir nods, never looking away from me. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.” I smooth his dark hair back from his forehead. “Our son and I are perfectly fine.”
His hand moves to my stomach, a gesture that’s become familiar over the past few days. There’s nothing to feel yet—I’m barely showing—but the protective instinct is already there for both of us.
A commotion in the hallway interrupts our moment. I straighten, instantly alert.
“What is it?” Damir tries to sit up, wincing at the movement.
“Stay still.” I press him gently back against the pillows. “I’ll check.”
I open the door just enough to peer into the corridor. Two men in dark suits are arguing with the floor nurse, their voices carrying down the hallway. My stomach drops as I recognize Agents Torres and Miller, the FBI agents who interrogated me in Philadelphia.
“I need to speak with Mrs. Antonova immediately,” demands Miller, his voice sharp with authority.
The nurse, a sturdy woman in her fifties named Martha, stands her ground. “As I’ve told you twice now, sir, this is a hospital, not a police station. If you want to speak with any of our patients or their families, you’ll need to go through proper channels.”
“This is a federal investigation,” adds Torres, his tone more measured but equally insistent. “We have reason to believe Mrs. Antonova’s husband is involved in serious criminal activity.”
I step fully into the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me. “I’m right here, Agents. No need to harass the staff.”
Both men turn toward me. Miller’s expression hardens, while Torres offers what I suppose is meant to be a reassuring smile.
“Mrs. Antonova,” says Torres, extending his hand. “We’d like to speak with your husband.”
I don’t take his hand. “My husband is recovering from a serious stab wound and surgery. He’s not receiving visitors.”
“This isn’t a social call,” snaps Miller. “We have questions regarding the incident at Nikolai Sokolov’s property.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “My husband nearly died. He’s under doctor’s orders to rest and avoid stress. Whatever questions you have can wait until he’s recovered.”
Miller steps closer, invading my personal space. “Eight men are dead, including your ex and Sokolov. Your husband was there. We need his statement now, not when it’s convenient.”
“You need a warrant,” I counter, not backing down. “And even with one, his doctor would advise against any interrogation in his current condition.”
Over Miller’s shoulder, I spot Anton at the nurses’ station, phone pressed to his ear. Our gazes meet briefly before he turns away, speaking rapidly into the receiver.
“Mrs. Antonova,” says Torres, his voice softening, “We understand this is a difficult time, but surely you want to help us get to the truth. If your husband is innocent, his statement will only help clear things up.”
I almost laugh at the transparent good cop/bad cop routine. “Agent Torres, I’m a medical professional. My priority is my husband’s health. He was attacked and nearly killed. He’s the victim here.”
“That’s one version of events,” Miller cuts in. “We have reason to believe?—”
“I don’t care what you believe,” I interrupt. “This is a hospital. My husband is recovering from a life-threatening injury. You’re not speaking to him today.”
Miller’s face reddens. “We can make this official. Get a warrant, bring in hospital administration?—”
“Go ahead,” I challenge. “In the meantime, I’m asking you both to leave. You’re disturbing patients and interfering with medical care.”
Torres places a restraining hand on Miller’s arm. “Perhaps we should speak with Mrs. Antonova instead since she was present at the scene.”
They turn their attention fully to me now, and I realize they’ve pivoted to their backup plan.
“You were there when Sokolov was killed,” says Miller like he already knows that somehow. “You witnessed everything.”
“I was trying to escape after being kidnapped,” I correct him. “I was barely conscious when the shooting started.”
“Yet you managed to perform emergency medical care on your husband,” Torres notes. “That suggests you were quite aware of your surroundings.”
I narrow my eyes. “Medical training kicks in during emergencies. That doesn’t mean I saw who shot whom.”
“We’d like you to come down to the local field office,” says Miller. “Just to clarify a few details.”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’ve already given my statement to the officers who responded to the scene. I have nothing to add right now.”
Miller steps closer. “Mrs. Antonova, obstruction of justice is a serious offense.”
“So is harassment,” interjects a new voice .
We all turn to see a familiar man. “I’m sure you remember me, Agents,” he says with a civil nod. “Mikhail Seaver.” He extends a business card to each agent. “I represent the Antonov family. Any questions you have for my clients should be directed through me.”
Miller glances at the card, his expression souring. “The lawyer again. How convenient.”
“It’s not convenience, Agent Miller. It’s prudence.” Mikhail’s voice is smooth. “Now, I understand you’re attempting to question Mr. Antonov, who is currently under medical care for life-threatening injuries?”
“We need his statement regarding the deaths at Sokolov’s property,” says Torres, his tone more respectful than it had been with me.
“And you’ll have it, once my client is medically cleared to provide it.” Mikhail glances at me. “Mrs. Antonova, I apologize for the delay in arriving.”
I nod, relief washing through me. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Seaver.”
Mikhail turns back to the agents. “Gentlemen, I suggest we take this conversation away from the patient care area. Perhaps the cafeteria?”
Miller looks like he wants to argue, but Torres nods. “That’s reasonable.”
“Mrs. Antonova will not be joining us,” Mikhail adds. “She’s already provided her statement to local authorities, and she needs to remain with her husband.”
“We have additional questions,” says Miller.
“Which can be addressed in a formal interview at a later date, with proper notice and my presence,” Mikhail says smoothly. “I’m happy to schedule that now, if you’d like.”
The agents exchange glances. Finally, Torres nods. “Fine. Three days from now, at our field office in Baltimore.”
“I’ll check my client’s availability and confirm. Now, if you’ll excuse us, I need a moment with Mrs. Antonova before we continue our discussion.”
The agents reluctantly move toward the elevator, Miller throwing one last glare in my direction.
Once they’re out of earshot, Mikhail turns to me. “Are you all right, Mrs. Antonova?”
“Yes,” I say, though my hands are shaking slightly. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Anton called me as soon as he spotted them.” Mikhail glances toward Damir’s room. “How is he?”
“Improving. Still weak but stable.” I glance at the agents near the elevators. “They’re not going to give up, are they?”
“No, but they don’t have much. If they did, they’d have warrants, not just questions.”
Anton approaches, his expression grim. “They’ve been asking around the hospital since yesterday. Trying to get information from the staff.”
“Has anyone talked?” I ask.
“Not that we know of. Most of the staff here are loyal to the doctor who treated Damir, and he’s connected to some of our associates in Baltimore.”
Mikhail nods. “I’ll handle the agents. You should get back to Damir.”
“What will you tell them?” I ask.
“Very little,” he says with a slight smile. “That’s what you’re paying me for.”
I glance between the two men. “You knew they’d come, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here.”
Mikhail adjusts his cufflinks. “I’ve been staying at a hotel nearby since you arrived at this hospital. It was only a matter of time before the FBI tracked you here. The shooting at Sokolov’s property was too high-profile to ignore.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” I ask, looking at Anton.
Anton shrugs. “I didn’t want you worried about anything except Damir’s recovery and taking care of yourself.”
I shake my head, exasperated but not surprised. “I should get back to him. He’ll be wondering what’s happening.”
“I’ll deal with our friends from the Bureau,” says Mikhail. “And I’ll brief you both afterward.”
I nod my thanks and return to Damir’s room. He’s fully awake now, his expression alert despite the pain medication.
“The FBI?” he asks immediately.
“Yes. Torres and Miller.” I sit on the edge of his bed, taking his hand. “They wanted to question you about Nikolai.”
Damir’s jaw tightens. “They can’t touch you with Mikhail here.”
“He arrived just in time,” I confirm. “He’s talking to them now.”
“Good.” Damir relaxes slightly. “Mikhail is the best. He’ll keep them busy with legal jargon until they forget what they came for.”
I smile despite my worry. “He seemed very confident.”
“He should be. He’s never lost a case.” Damir shifts, wincing slightly. “Help me sit up more.”
I adjust his bed, then rearrange his pillows to support him better. “The agents want me to come in for questioning in three days.”
“You won’t go alone,” he says immediately. “Mikhail will be with you.”
“I know.” I smooth the blanket over his legs. “Damir, they’re not going to stop. Even if we leave the country like we discussed, they’ll keep looking.”
He grunts. “Let them look. By the time I’m recovered, everything will be in place for our departure. Anton is handling the transition. Mikhail is preparing our legal shield.”
“And what about the baby?” I place a hand on my stomach. “I don’t want our son born into a life of looking over his shoulder.”
Damir covers my hand with his. “He won’t be. I promise you. By the time he arrives, we’ll be settled somewhere safe. Somewhere new.”
I want to believe him. The conviction in his voice makes it easy to imagine the future he describes, a home somewhere warm and peaceful, far from the violence and danger that has defined our relationship from the beginning. “I’m holding you to that,” I say, leaning down to kiss him gently.
He cups the back of my neck, keeping me close. “I’ve never broken a promise to you. I don’t intend to start now.”
The door opens, and Anton enters, his expression carefully neutral. “The lawyer’s handling them, but they’re not happy, especially when he mentioned his friendship with their SAC. The short one with the attitude seems particularly pissed.”
“Miller. He seems to have a personal vendetta.”
“Most federal agents do,” says Damir dismissively. “They build their careers on high-profile cases.”
Anton moves to the window, peering through the blinds at the parking lot below. “They brought backup. Two more agents in a car outside.”
“Standard procedure,” says Damir calmly, though his hand tightens around mine. “They’re just trying to intimidate us.”
“It’s working. At least on me.”
He strokes the inside of my wrist. “Don’t let it. They have nothing but suspicions. If they had evidence, they’d have warrants.”
The door opens again, and Mikhail enters, looking completely unruffled despite what must have been a tense conversation. “They’re leaving. Reluctantly, but they’re leaving.”
“What did you tell them?” I ask.
Mikhail sets his briefcase on the small table by the window. “I reminded them of the legal consequences of harassing a victim of violent crime, especially one under medical care. I also mentioned my friendship with their Assistant Director.”
“Do you actually know their Assistant Director?” asks Anton, looking impressed.
Mikhail’s lips quirk in a small smile. “I know his wife’s divorce attorney. It amounts to the same thing.”
Damir chuckles, then grimaces at the pain the movement causes. “Always three steps ahead, Mikhail.”
“It’s why you pay me so well.” Mikhail turns to me. “They’ve agreed to postpone your interview until next week. By then, we’ll have a better strategy in place.”
“Thank you,” I say sincerely.
He nods, then turns back to Damir. “We should discuss your options. The sooner we get ahead of this, the better.”
“Not now,” I say firmly, noting the lines of pain around Damir’s eyes. “He needs to rest.”
He studies Damir for a moment, then nods. “Of course. Perhaps this evening when you’re feeling stronger.”
“I’m fine,” Damir insists, though his pallor suggests otherwise.
“You’re not, and pushing yourself will only delay your recovery.” I look at our attorney. “He’ll strategize with you when he’s discharged.”
Damir starts to argue, but Mikhail just nods. “The lady has spoken.”
Anton moves toward the door. “I’ll check the perimeter to make sure our friends have actually left.”
Once he’s gone, Mikhail turns to me. “I’ve been staying at the Harborview Hotel, just ten minutes from here. I’ll be available whenever you need me.”
“You knew they’d come,” I say again, not a question this time.
“I anticipated it,” he corrects. “The FBI has been building a case against Damir for years. They’re not going to let an opportunity like this pass.”
“An opportunity like what?” I ask. “My husband being stabbed?”
“A direct connection to Nikolai Sokolov. They’ve suspected Damir’s involvement with the Bratva for some time, but they’ve never been able to prove it. Now, they have a violent incident involving known Bratva members, multiple casualties, and your husband at the center of it.”
I protest. “I was kidnapped.”
“And that will be central to our defense, but the FBI sees patterns, not isolated incidents. They’ll try to connect this to other events, other suspicions.”
Damir’s expression remains impassive, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes. “What’s your recommendation?”
“For now? Rest and recover. Let me handle the legal maneuvering. Once you’re stronger, we’ll discuss your long-term strategy.”
Damir nods, his eyelids growing heavy. The morning’s excitement has clearly drained what little energy he had.
“I’ll leave you to rest.” Mikhail picks up his briefcase. “Elena, I’ll be in touch about the interview preparations.”
“Thank you again,” I say, walking him to the door.
Once Mikhail is gone, I return to Damir’s side. His eyes are closed, and his breathing evens out.
“You should sleep,” I whisper, brushing his hair back from his forehead.
“Stay,” he murmurs, not opening his eyelids.
“Always,” I promise, settling into the chair beside his bed.
As Damir drifts off, I watch the steady rise and fall of his chest, grateful for each breath. The FBI, the Bratva , the uncertain future—all of it fades against the simple fact of his survival.
For now, that’s enough.
I sit stiffly in the interrogation room, my back straight against the uncomfortable metal chair. The Philadelphia field office is exactly as I remember, being sterile and cold, with a distinct smell of industrial cleaner and nervous sweat. The fluorescent lights overhead create harsh shadows across Agent Miller’s face as he stares at me from across the table.
My arms are crossed over my chest, partly as a defensive posture and partly to hide the slight tremor in my hands. I’m not afraid so much as just angry and exhausted. The past week has been a blur of hospital rooms, medication schedules, and hushed conversations with Mikhail about what to expect today.
“Let’s go through this again,” says Miller, tapping his pen against his notepad. “You’re claiming you have no knowledge of your husband’s business dealings with Nikolai Sokolov?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “We’ve been over this three times already.”
“Humor me.” Miller leans forward, his tie dangling dangerously close to the coffee cup between us.
Mikhail shifts beside me, his expensive suit rustling softly. He places a hand on the table—not touching me, but close enough to remind me he’s there. His presence is reassuring, like having a shield between me and Miller’s aggressive questioning.
“My husband is an investor and philanthropist,” I say, keeping my voice level. “His legitimate businesses are well-documented. I’m a medical student. I don’t have time to review financial statements or attend business meetings.”
“Yet you married him after knowing him for what, a few weeks?” Miller’s eyebrows rise. “That doesn’t strike you as unusual?”
“My personal life isn’t relevant to your investigation.”
“It is when your personal life involves marrying a suspected criminal.”
I uncross my arms and place my palms flat on the table. “Suspected by whom? You’ve been investigating my husband for years and have yet to charge him with anything.”
Agent Torres, who has been silently observing from the corner, steps forward. “Mrs. Antonova, we’re trying to understand what happened at Sokolov’s property. Eight men are dead. Your husband was stabbed. You were kidnapped. These aren’t normal occurrences for most people.”
“They aren’t normal for us either,” I snap. “I was taken against my will by men working for Nikolai Sokolov. My husband came to rescue me. He nearly died in the process. We’re the victims here, not the perpetrators.”
Miller scoffs. “Victims don’t typically have the resources to mount private rescue operations.”
“My husband has security personnel. When I was taken, they tracked me and came to get me. What would you have had him do? Wait for the police while I was held captive by a madman?”
“A madman you claim you’d never met before,” Torres interjects.
“I hadn’t.” I meet his gaze directly. “I’d never seen Nikolai Sokolov before that day.”
Miller flips through his notes. “Yet your ex-boyfriend, Casey Harris, who is dead, worked for him. Are we supposed to believe that’s a coincidence?”
My stomach twists at Casey’s name. “Casey betrayed me long before I met Damir. I had no idea who he was working for or in what he was involved.”
“So you maintain that your husband had no prior relationship with Sokolov?” Torres asks.
“I didn’t say that.” I choose my words carefully, just as Mikhail instructed. “I said I had never met him. My husband knew him years ago, before I came into the picture. They had a falling out. That’s all I know.”
“A falling out that resulted in eight dead bodies,” Miller mutters.
Mikhail clears his throat. “Agent Miller, if you have evidence connecting my client’s husband to any crime, I suggest you present it now. Otherwise, this line of questioning borders on harassment.”
Miller ignores him, focusing on me. “You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Antonova. Top of your class at medical school. Are you really asking us to believe you had no idea what your husband does for a living?”
“I know exactly what my husband does,” I say coolly. “He runs several technology companies, invests in real estate, and funds medical research, including a grant program at my hospital that supports residents working in underserved communities.”
“And the other businesses?” presses Miller. “The ones that don’t appear in annual reports?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Miller slides a photograph across the table. It shows Damir with Anton and several other men I don’t recognize, standing outside what looks like a warehouse. “This was taken three months ago. Care to explain what your husband was doing there?”
I glance at the photo without touching it. “I have no idea. I don’t track my husband’s movements.”
“Convenient.”
“No, Agent Miller, it’s called trust. I trust my husband.”
Torres pulls out another photo. This one shows Damir shaking hands with a heavyset man in an expensive suit. “Do you recognize this man?”
I study the image. “No.”
“That’s Boris Orlov. He was found dead in the Delaware River two months after this photo was taken.”
I keep my expression neutral, though my heart rate picks up. “That’s tragic, but I don’t see what it has to do with my husband.”
“They were business associates.”
“My husband has hundreds of business associates. I don’t know them all.”
Miller slams his hand on the table, making me jump despite my determination to remain calm. “You’re telling us you don’t know anything?”
“I’m telling you,” I say coolly, “My husband is an investor and philanthropist. If you have a crime to charge him with, I suggest you do it. Otherwise, I’m done.”
Mikhail slides a folder across the table. “I suggest you stop harassing my client. Mr. Antonov has an airtight alibi for every incident under investigation, and you might want to check with Assistant Director Donovan. I know his ex-wife’s attorney.”
The room goes silent. Torres’ eyes widen slightly, and Miller’s face flushes red.
Mikhail smirks. “It’s amazing what influence an ex-wife wanting more alimony can wield.”
Torres’ jaw tightens, but Miller clearly knows it’s over. The mention of their superior has changed the atmosphere in the room completely.
I stand, grabbing my coat from the back of the chair. Without another word, I walk toward the door, not looking back at either agent. Mikhail follows closely behind me as we navigate the maze of hallways in silence until we reach the elevator.
Once the doors close, I let out a long breath. “That was unpleasant.”
“You did well,” he says, straightening his already perfect tie. “They were fishing. If they had anything substantial, they would have led with it.”
“What was that about Donovan’s ex-wife?”
A small smile plays at the corner of Mikhail’s mouth. “Assistant Director Donovan is going through a messy divorce. His wife hired one of the most aggressive divorce attorneys in the city, who happens to play poker with me twice a month.”
“Is that true?”
“The part about the poker games? Yes. The rest is...strategic implication.”
The elevator doors open to the lobby, and we step out. The security guard at the front desk nods to us as we pass.
“Will they leave us alone now?” I ask when we push through the glass doors into the bright afternoon sunlight.
Mikhail adjusts his sunglasses. “For a while. They’ll regroup and try to find another angle, but it’s over.”
A black SUV idles at the curb with Anton behind the wheel. He nods when he sees us, and I feel a wave of relief. The familiar vehicle represents safety, a barrier between me and the world of federal investigations and interrogation rooms.
“How’s Damir?” he asks as we approach the car.
“Restless. He’s called three times asking for updates.” Anton smiles.
I smile too despite my fatigue. “I told him to rest.”
“Since when does the pakhan take orders?” says Anton, his voice light but his eyes serious while scanning the street around us.
“Since his doctor wife told him to,” I say, sliding into the back seat.
Mikhail joins me while Anton pulls away from the curb. The tinted windows shield us from view, and I finally allow my shoulders to relax.
“They mentioned Boris Orlov,” I say quietly. “Said he was found in the Delaware River.”
Mikhail and Anton exchange a glance in the rearview mirror.
“That happened before you and Damir met,” says Mikhail carefully. “It’s not connected to the current situation.”
“Was Damir involved?”
Anton shakes his head. “No. I was. Boris refused my refusal to betray Nikolai, and it escalated. What was done had to be done.”
I stare out the window at the Philadelphia skyline. The city looks more dangerous. Or maybe it’s just my perception that’s changed.
“You’re having second thoughts,” says Mikhail.
“No.” I turn back to him. “I made my choice when I stayed after learning the truth. I’m not running away now.”
“Good,” says Anton, “Because Damir needs you more than he’s ever needed anyone.”
The rest of the drive passes in silence. I watch the city blur past, thinking about the interrogation room, about Damir recovering at home, about the baby growing inside me. My hand drifts to my stomach, still flat but harboring our future. Whatever comes next, I’ve made my decision. I’m in this, all of it, for better or worse.