Chapter 2 - Alexey #2
“Ready?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
She meets my eyes for the first time since the warehouse. Dark green against dark brown in the hazy light of the underground parking structure. They are filled with defiance and a question all at once.
“No,” she says. “But I don’t think I have a choice.”
“No, you don’t,” I confirm.
We step out into the cool concrete silence of the garage. Her sneakers echo softly beside my boots as we head for the private elevator. Surrounding us, the city continues its indifferent rhythm, completely unaware that the slow dismantling of Fadir Klem has just begun in earnest.
Somewhere in the rain-soaked warehouse district, Fadir is already panicking, and I’m sure calculating how much damage this one impulsive rescue has cost him.
He has no idea how much more is coming.
***
The private elevator hums upward in near silence, the only sound the soft mechanical whir and the faint, uneven rhythm of Anja’s breathing beside me. When the doors slide open directly into the penthouse foyer, she hesitates on the threshold. Her eyes widen despite herself.
The space is designed for control with clean lines, muted power, and nothing loud or obtrusive.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap three sides of the main living area, offering a sweeping view of the glittering city skyline and the river below.
Tonight, the rain is finally clearing, leaving the windows’ glass streaked with residual droplets that caught the low ambient lighting like scattered diamonds.
Pale oak hardwood runs throughout, warmed by strategically placed rugs in deep charcoal and slate. A long, low sectional in black leather faces a gas fireplace that flickers to life automatically as the motion sensors pick up our presence.
To the left, the open kitchen gleams with matte-black cabinetry, white Calacatta marble counters, and a massive island that can seat eight without crowding, with a single pendant light hanging above it, casting a soft pool of gold light.
Everything is deliberate. Minimal. Quite expensive. Exactly the way I like it. No clutter, no surprises, but especially no weakness on display.
Anja steps inside slowly, her wet sneakers leaving faint prints on the hardwood. She hugs her arms around herself, shoulders tight, as if the sheer openness of the space makes her feel exposed rather than safe.
Her long black hair falls in messy strands over one shoulder. She looks small against the scale of the vaulted ceilings in the penthouse, even though she is tall for a woman.
Almost vulnerable in a way that twists something unwelcome in my chest.
“This way,” I say, keeping my voice low and even. I lead her down the wide hallway that branches off the main living area. The walls are a soft dove gray, hung with a few carefully chosen abstract pieces of notable artwork. They are nothing personal, nor do they reveal more than I intended.
“Guest room. It’s yours for as long as you need it.” I stop at the first door on the right, directly across from my own master suite.
I push the door open and flick on the lights. The suite is generous with a king bed dressed in crisp white linens and a charcoal throw. A seating area with two deep armchairs and a small round table between them, and a full en-suite bathroom is visible through the open French doors.
Floor-to-ceiling windows here, too, though these face the quieter side of the building with a view of the park beyond. A walk-in closet stands empty on the left. The air smells faintly of cedar and linen, clean and neutral.
Anja lingers in the doorway, fingers brushing the frame like she is testing whether it is real.
“This is… a lot,” she murmurs. Her voice is hoarse, probably from shouting and crying earlier.
“You’ll find clothes in the dresser. Just sweats and t-shirts in basic sizes.
Toiletries in the bathroom. Take whatever you need.
No one will bother you here.” I pause, studying the exhaustion etched into her face.
The dark circles under those striking green eyes.
The way her shoulders still carry tension even in stillness.
“You’re safe, Anja. I meant what I said in the car. ”
“Safe with a man who wires buildings with explosives.” She gives a short, humorless laugh. “Sure.”
“Try to rest. We’ll talk more in the morning,” I don’t argue. There is no point tonight. Instead, I step back into the hallway, wanting to give her space.
She nods once, stiffly, and closes the door between us with a soft click.
I stand in the hallway for a long moment, staring at the polished wood. The weight of the night settles over me like a second coat. I am planning to use her as leverage. Nothing more.
She’s a pretty pawn to make Fadir watch everything he thought he owned crumble slowly. That is still the strategy. Yet the moment I saw his hand rise to strike her, something primitive surged forward and overrode every calculated move.
Protectiveness.
It is inconvenient. Dangerous, even.
I cross into my own suite, closing the door behind me. My bedroom is larger, but no less restrained. It also has a charcoal in color wood headboard, the same expansive windows, and a sitting area with a single leather armchair and a low bookshelf filled with strategy texts and first editions.
I strip out of the damp black suit jacket and shirt, and my muscles, tight from the tension of the evening, begin to relax. The scar along my ribs pulls slightly as I move. Just an old reminder of a lesson learned from when I was young.
As I change into gray sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt for bed, the questions I usually keep locked down rise unbidden.
I feel bad for her. Truly.
She is twenty-one, freshly chewed up and spit out by a man who has preyed on her desperation. No family safety net, no job, and no way home that doesn’t feel like a letdown.
Now she is here, dropped into my world like an unintended complication. A pawn in a game she never asked to play.
And yet… the overwhelming need to shield her refuses to fade. It isn’t just strategy anymore. When she looked at me in the car with those accusing eyes full of fire, trying to cover up her fear, something shifted. A crack in our objectivity I prize.
I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, and drag a hand through my damp hair.
Have I gotten in too deep already?
Fadir Klem needs to be dismantled methodically, publicly, without mercy.
Using Anja Kuzmin as the visible symbol of everything he has lost is still the cleanest path. But if protecting her becomes more important than the plan… if those tantalizing eyes and that quiet steel start to matter beyond tactical advantage, I may have to rethink my strategy.
I exhale slowly, staring at the city lights beyond the glass.
She could be my downfall.
Not because she is weak. No, quite the opposite. Because the more I see of her, the more I suspect she is the kind of woman who can make a man like me forget the rules of the game entirely.
I stand, switch off the bedside lamp, then lie back against the cool pillows. Sleep will come eventually. It always does.
But tonight, across the hall, Anja Kuzmin is lying awake in my guest suite, and for the first time in years, the patient, methodical enforcer in me wonders whether the slow war against Fadir has just gained a variable he can no longer fully control.