Chapter 11 Alina
ALINA
The Popov house looks exactly as I remember it, but somehow it feels smaller.
After the sprawling grandeur of Dimitri's estate with its modern glass and stone architecture, my childhood home seems almost quaint.
The familiar white columns and manicured hedges that once impressed me now feel like a stage set, pretty but hollow.
Alexei parks the SUV in the circular driveway behind us, and I see the front door open before I can even unbuckle my seatbelt.
My mother rushes out, her blonde hair perfectly styled despite the early hour, her designer dress immaculate.
She's crying, her arms outstretched, and for a moment I want to run to her like I did when I was a little girl.
But something stops me.
"Alina! Oh, my darling girl!" She reaches me as I step out of the vehicle, pulling me into an embrace that smells of her expensive perfume.
"I thought I'd lost you. When we couldn't find you at the church, when your father said you'd been taken, I thought.
.." Her voice breaks convincingly, and she holds me tighter.
I stand stiffly in her arms, my body not quite responding the way it should.
There's something performative about her grief, something that feels rehearsed.
The tears are real enough, but they don't reach her eyes.
I've seen my mother cry before, genuine tears when her favorite dog died, when her sister passed away. This isn't the same.
"I'm fine, Mama," I say, gently extracting myself from her grip. "I'm not hurt."
She pulls back, her hands gripping my upper arms as she studies my face. "Are you certain? That monster didn't harm you? Didn't..." She trails off, but the implication is clear.
Heat floods my cheeks as I think about Dimitri's hands on my body, his mouth on mine, the way he held me against the wall. "No. He didn't hurt me."
My mother's eyes narrow slightly, as if she can read the truth in my face. But before she can press further, another figure appears in the doorway.
"Alina!"
Katya runs down the steps, her dark hair flying behind her, and throws herself into my arms. Unlike my mother's embrace, this one feels real. My little sister is shaking, her face buried in my shoulder, and I hold her tightly.
"I'm okay," I whisper in Russian, stroking her hair. "I'm okay, Katya."
She pulls back, her brown eyes swimming with tears. "Everyone said you were dead. Papa said Dimitri Morozov took you, that he probably killed you like he killed Sergei. But I didn't believe it. I knew you were alive. I knew it."
The relief in her voice makes my chest ache, even as I frown at her words that Dimitri killed Sergei. I cup her face, wiping away her tears with my thumbs. "I'm here. I'm safe."
"For now," my mother says, her voice sharp.
She glances at Alexei, who stands beside the SUV with his arms crossed, watching everything with those cold blue eyes.
A dozen of my father's men are positioned around the property, all of them watching Alexei with barely concealed hostility.
"Come inside, darling. You must be exhausted. "
I follow them into the house, acutely aware of Alexei's presence behind me. He doesn't enter, just positions himself in the foyer where he can see both the front door and the hallway leading deeper into the house. My father's men watch him like hawks, hands near their weapons.
The interior of the house is exactly as I left it. Marble floors, expensive artwork on the walls, fresh flowers in crystal vases. Everything perfect, everything controlled. My mother leads me toward the grand staircase, still dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief.
I think about Dimitri's words, about the danger waiting for me outside his protection.
"I need to pack," I say.
Her brows draw down in a confused frown. “Pack? For what?”
Before I can answer, my father does. “She thinks she’s going back to Morozov,” he sneers. “For protection.”
My mother shares a look with Papa, then her mouth tightens, but she nods. "Of course. Katya, help your sister."
We climb the stairs together, Katya's hand in mine. She'll be seventeen soon. Still so young, still innocent of the darkness that runs through our world.
My bedroom is untouched, preserved like a shrine.
The pale pink walls, the white furniture, the collection of books on the shelves.
It feels like walking into a museum of my former life, even though it’s only been a couple of days since I was last here.
I move to the closet and start pulling out clothes, folding them mechanically.
Katya sits on my bed, watching me with worried eyes. "Are you really okay?" she asks quietly. "Papa said terrible things about what Dimitri Morozov might do to you."
I pause, a dress in my hands, and turn to face her. "What did he say?"
She looks down at her hands. "That Dimitri is a monster. That he kills people without mercy. That he probably..." She swallows hard. "That he probably forced himself on you."
The words hang in the air between us. I think about Dimitri's kiss, the heat of his body against mine, the way my own body responded despite everything. There was no force involved. If anything, I'd been the one pulling him closer.
"He didn't," I say firmly. "Dimitri saved my life, Katya. He pulled me out of that burning church when I was frozen in shock. If he hadn't, I'd be dead."
"But Papa said—"
"Papa says a lot of things." I return to my packing, my movements sharper now. "Not all of them are true."
Katya is quiet for a moment, then asks in a small voice, "Are you coming back? To stay?"
I want to tell her yes, want to promise that I'll be here to protect her, to keep her safe from whatever darkness is brewing. But I think about the pendant around my neck, the panic button Dimitri gave me. I think about his warning that my father is not the man I think he is.
"I don't think so," I admit. "It's complicated."
We work in silence for a while, filling a suitcase with clothes and personal items. Photos from my childhood, jewelry my grandmother left me, books I've loved. As I pack, I find myself looking around the room with new eyes, searching for something I can't quite name.
Evidence. Proof. Anything that might confirm or deny what Dimitri suggested about my father.
"Katya," I say carefully, "where's Mama?"
"Downstairs, I think. She was going to make tea." Katya tilts her head. "Why?"
"I need to get something from Papa's study. Can you keep watch? Let me know if anyone's coming?"
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by fear. "Alina, if Papa catches you in his study—"
"He won't. Please, Katyusha. I need to know the truth."
She hesitates, then nods. "Five minutes. That's all I can give you."
I kiss her forehead and slip out of my bedroom, moving quietly down the hallway.
My father's study is at the end of the corridor, a room I've been forbidden to enter since I was a child.
The door is closed but not locked. I glance back at Katya, who's positioned herself at the top of the stairs, then slip inside.
The study is exactly as I remember it. Dark wood paneling, leather furniture, shelves lined with books my father has never read. His massive desk dominates the space, its surface clear except for a laptop and a crystal tumbler with amber liquid inside. Vodka, probably. It's barely noon.
I move quickly to the desk, trying drawers. Most are unlocked, filled with mundane items like pens, notepads, business cards. But the bottom right drawer is locked. I pull harder, but it doesn't budge.
My heart is pounding now. I glance at the door, listening for footsteps, then search the desk for a key. Nothing. I'm about to give up when I remember something from childhood. My father used to hide spare keys in a small box on his bookshelf, disguised as a leather-bound book.
I find it on the third shelf, pull it down, and sure enough, there are several small keys inside. The second one I try fits the locked drawer.
Inside is a folder, thick with documents. I pull it out with shaking hands and flip it open. Financial records. Bank statements showing large transfers of money. And communications, printed emails between my father and someone named Kozlov.
My blood runs cold. The Kozlov family. One of the Morozovs’ biggest rivals. Dimitri mentioned them, said they might be involved in the church attack.
I scan the documents quickly, my Russian good enough to understand the implications. Payments. Agreements. Plans for "restructuring territory" after "the wedding". My father's signature at the bottom of several pages.
He knew. He knew about the attack. Maybe even helped plan it.
The betrayal hits me like a physical blow. I grip the edge of the desk, trying to breathe, trying to process what I'm seeing. My father sold me to Sergei Morozov, knowing that Sergei would die at the wedding. Knowing that I might die too.
I hear footsteps in the hallway and quickly shove the folder back in the drawer, locking it. But I'm not fast enough. The study door opens, and my father walks in.
Viktor Popov stands in the doorway, his expensive suit perfectly tailored, his silver hair immaculately styled.
For a moment, his face shows the concerned father he's been playing for the cameras.
Then his eyes drop to the desk, to the small box of keys still sitting on the surface, and his expression transforms.
The mask drops completely. What's left is something cold and dangerous, something that makes my skin crawl.
He steps inside and quietly closes the door behind him, the soft click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the silence.
"Alina," he says, his voice perfectly calm. "What are you doing in my study?"