Valerie
There’s no going back now.
My head keeps ringing as the car pulls to a stop.
The gates stand twelve feet tall and are topped with iron spikes that look like they could impale someone.
Patrick somehow did it; he got me into one of the most impenetrable mafia estates.
Here, I die or I die.
Because if I get caught, I’ll die right away, and if I somehow manage to succeed, my cover will definitely be blown, and I’ll still die. There’s no way I can gather intelligence in this fortress without getting caught.
Patrick has sent me to my death indeed.
I press my forehead against the car's window and try to remember how to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth. That's what Tash kept saying while I sobbed into her shoulder at 3 am, unable to sleep because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the spray of red, heard the sound—
Don't. Don't think about it.
The armed guard approaching the car has a gun on his hip, black metal, just like Patrick's, and my stomach lurches so violently I taste bile.
Is this my life now?
"Miss Novak?" the driver, Daniel Cruz, according to his introduction, glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Are you alright?"
"Fine." The lie comes out thin and brittle. "I'm fine."
I'm not fine. I haven't been fine since I walked through my front door a week ago and found my father on his knees begging for his life.
The funeral was yesterday. It was a closed casket because there wasn't enough of his head left to see.
Mom sat in the front row and didn't cry, didn't speak, just stared at the coffin as if she believed that if she stared hard enough, he'd come back.
Ethan and I held her hand and wondered who among us would be next.
The gates swing open with a mechanical hum that sounds too much like the slide of a gun being cocked, and I dig my nails into my palms until the pain drowns out the memory.
We glide onto the cobblestone driveway, and the estate unfolds before me like something from another world.
A sprawling stone mansion with turrets that belong in a medieval castle, grounds that stretch endlessly in every direction, gardens so flawless they seem painted on.
Men in dark suits stand at intervals, all armed and watching our car with flat, evaluating eyes.
This is what my father's world looked like. The world he kept secret from his family.
The world that got him killed. That may get his whole family killed.
My hands won't stop shaking. I clasp them together in my lap and squeeze until my knuckles go white.
When Daniel opens my door, the smell hits me immediately. Chemical burns the back of my throat.
Bleach.
The same smell that filled our living room after the cops left and the cleaning crew came.
The smell of scrubbing my father's blood out of carpet, off walls, out of the grout between floorboards.
I spent six hours on my knees with a brush and a bucket, trying to erase the evidence of what Patrick did, and the bleach soaked into my skin until I could taste it.
And now it's here too.
Two men in coveralls pressure-clean the stone pathway near the side entrance, and the water flowing off is faintly pink.
Oh God. That's blood. They're cleaning blood off the—
"Miss." Daniel's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "This way."
I force my legs to move, but they don't feel like mine anymore. Nothing feels like mine. I'm watching myself walk toward this fortress from somewhere outside my body, as my father's voice echoes in my head.
‘Please, Patrick, I can explain.’
I swallow the bile rising in my throat, knowing that men like the owner of this fortress do not show mercy.
The main entrance features double doors reinforced with iron brackets.
When Daniel pushes them open, I am struck by more wealth than I've ever seen in one place.
Marble floors polished to a mirror shine.
A curved staircase with wrought iron railings.
A chandelier dripping with crystal that probably costs more than my entire education.
But beneath the luxury lies an undercurrent of caution. Security cameras are everywhere, their red lights blinking like watchful eyes. An armed guard stands by the stairs. The windows are so thick they must be bulletproof. Keypads installed on every door.
This isn't a home. It's a prison posing as a palace.
And I'm supposed to steal secrets from the man who built it.
I almost laugh out loud at myself.
My chest tightens, and I can't get enough air. The panic is coming—I can feel it building like a wave about to crash—
"Valerie Novak?" A woman appears from a side corridor, and I recognize her from the video interview.
Sofia Rinaldi. Perfectly put together in tailored slacks and a crisp white blouse, dark hair pulled back so tight it must hurt.
She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"Welcome. I trust your journey was pleasant? "
"Yes. Thank you." The words come out mechanical. I've been practicing them for three days, how to sound normal, how to act like my world didn't end a week ago.
"Excellent. Follow me." She's already moving, heels clicking against marble in sharp strikes that sound like gunshots.
Stop it, Val. They're just footsteps. Just footsteps.
But my heart is racing anyway, and my hands are shaking worse, and I'm following this stranger through a maze of corridors, trying not to fall apart.
The art on the walls is the kind you see in museums. Real paintings with little plaques and dramatic lighting. Between them, mirrors in gilded frames reflect endless versions of me looking small and pale and wrong.
Every door we pass is closed. Every corner has a camera. And I can't stop smelling bleach.
"The east wing is Mr. Volkov's private quarters." Sofia gestures to a corridor blocked by a keypad-locked door. "You're not to enter unless explicitly instructed."
Mr. Volkov. Lev Volkov. The man whose organization my father was supposed to betray. The man Patrick wants me to destroy.
My stomach twists. "Understood."
"The west wing houses staff and service areas. You'll have access to the main floor, kitchen, and designated cleaning zones. Everything else requires authorization." She pauses, studying me with eyes that miss nothing. "You look pale. Are you feeling well?"
"I'm fine. Just... nervous. First day."
Her expression softens slightly. Barely. "Understandable. This position requires discretion and composure. Mr. Volkov values both highly. Can you provide them?"
No. I'm a mess. I'm falling apart. I watched my father die, and now I'm supposed to spy on a Russian mob boss, and I don't know how to do any of this—
"Yes, ma'am."
We continue the tour, and Sofia's voice fades into the background as she explains the rules, protocols, and expectations. All I can focus on is putting one foot in front of the other without collapsing.
The staff quarters are better than anywhere I've ever lived. Spacious, clean room with an actual window overlooking the gardens. En suite bathroom included. Bed that looks like it costs more than my car.
Dad would've loved to see me land somewhere like this. He always wanted better for us. That's probably why he—
I cut the thought off before it can finish.
"Change into your uniform and meet me back here in ten minutes." Sofia's already leaving. "We'll start with the main floor."
The door closes, and I'm alone.
I sit on the bed and pull out my phone with shaking hands. Three missed calls from Mom. Two from Ethan. Seven texts from Tash.
TASH: You got this.
TASH: Remember—nervous is normal.
TASH: Looking terrified is suspicious.
TASH: Breathe. Seriously, Val, breathe.
TASH: Call me when you can.
TASH: Love you.
I want to call her. Want to hear her voice telling me I'm not going to die here. But if I hear her voice, I'll break, and I can't break.
Not yet.
I change into the uniform, black dress, white apron, sensible shoes, and stare at myself in the mirror. I look like I'm playing dress-up. Like a little girl who put on her mother's clothes and is about to be caught.
The burner phone sits at the bottom of my bag, silent and waiting.
I haven't reported anything to Patrick yet. Haven't called, haven't texted. And every hour that passes, I know he's getting angrier.
Last night, he sent a photo of Ethan walking to school. Just walking. Nothing else. The message was clear: I'm watching. Don't forget.
I shove the phone deeper into my bag and go to meet Sofia.
By the third hour, I'm lost.
Not physically lost—Sofia's instructions were clear. But mentally lost, drowning in information I can't process because half my brain is still in that living room watching my father's head blow open.
The main floor is a maze of rooms that all blur together. Formal dining room, sitting room, library, study with a locked door. Sofia shows me where supplies are kept, which rooms need daily cleaning, and which are off-limits.
"You'll start with the guest wing," she says finally, handing me a caddy full of cleaning supplies. "Mr. Volkov is in meetings until this evening. Use the time wisely."
She leaves, and I'm alone in this massive fortress with my thoughts and the smell of bleach that won't go away.
I should start cleaning. That's what a normal employee would do.
But Tash's voice echoes in my head from three days ago, sitting in my destroyed living room while Mom slept upstairs sedated: You need to map his private spaces fast. Patrick will want details. The sooner you give him something, no matter how small, the more time you’ll buy yourself.
I can't do this. I can't—
But Ethan's face flashes in my mind. Ethan crying silently while Dad bled out on the carpet. Ethan asking me if we're ever going to be safe again, and I had to lie and say yes.
Three months. Just survive three months.
I head for the east wing and distract myself with thoughts of how Tash and I became best friends.