Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Katya
John looked exactly the same every morning. Gray suit. Gray tie. Gray mood. The man was a gray-scale portrait of caution, and I was determined to ruin his day just a little—just enough to bring color back into his cheeks.
“Tell me something, John,” I said, glancing at him from the passenger seat as we cruised through traffic in the bulletproof boredom-mobile. “Have you ever laughed? Not just a polite huff through the nose, but a real, honest-to-God, I-just-snorted-in-public kind of laugh?”
He kept his eyes on the road, unbothered. “I laugh. Occasionally.”
I grinned. “Really? When was the last time? Was that guy, um, Kennedy president?”
“Funny,” he muttered.
“I’m just saying,” I went on, twirling a strand of hair around my finger, “you’re always so… on. Like if you ever loosened up, the entire suit would disintegrate, and you’d be naked underneath, which would traumatize everyone in a three-mile radius.”
That got the corner of his mouth to twitch. Barely. But it was progress.
“I’m paid to be alert,” he said.
“You’re paid to babysit me.”
He didn’t deny it.
The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the Amnesty International offices.
John shifted in his seat but didn’t reach for the door handle yet. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
I tilted my head at him. “The photoshoot? Did I forget to wear pants or something?”
He gave me the look. That somber, grave-eyed protector look he wore like a second skin. “I’m asking if working with Amnesty is worth the attention it’s going to bring. You’re already high profile. You’ve made enemies. This could make things worse.”
I studied him for a moment, then asked softly, “Why do you do this job?”
He blinked, taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“Is it the paycheck?” I leaned in, voice teasing but not unkind.
“Do you just love gray suits and hiding behind mirrored sunglasses? Or is it because you actually believe in something? Because you believe people like me—people who make the impossible choice to leave everything behind—deserve to be protected?”
His jaw tightened.
I clucked my tongue. “Thought so.”
Before he could respond, I hopped out of the SUV. The early morning air carried that faint smell of damp pavement and brewing coffee from somewhere nearby.
John got out, too, gliding around the front of the vehicle to meet me on the sidewalk.
Then it happened.
Voices.
Russian voices.
Fast, heated, and far too close.
I froze, my heart thudding in my chest. For a half-second I wasn’t in Washington anymore—I was in St. Petersburg, ducking into alleyways, watching over my shoulder.
John stepped in front of me so quickly I barely registered the motion.
And he pulled a gun.
I stared at him, shocked. “You—what the hell, you carry a gun?”
“Get back,” he ordered.
But I couldn’t move. Because the voices were still speaking Russian—and now I recognized one of them.
“Katya!”
Alexei Sharapov emerged from the small crowd of Russian-speaking twenty-something’s at the top of the stairs, his grin broad and unbothered. His mop of curls was as messy as ever, and he was waving with all the enthusiasm of a poodle running off-leash in a park.
I exhaled, shoulders sagging.
“Jesus,” I muttered.
John didn’t lower the gun until he had scanned every face, every movement, every angle. Then, reluctantly, he holstered it beneath his jacket.
Alexei bounded over, clapping a hand on one of his friends’ backs and laughing. “Sorry about that. We were just arguing about whether Putin’s election fraud started in 2006 or earlier. Oleg gets loud when he’s losing.”
I gave John a side glance. “See? Not all Russians want to murder me.”
John didn’t look amused.
Alexei reached me, eyes sparkling. “You’re just in time! We’ve decided—you’re going to be on the cover of the next issue, not just a story hidden in the middle.”
I blinked. “I am?”
“You’re our most photogenic revolutionary.” He winked, then turned toward the building. “Come on, everyone’s waiting. We’ve got lights and a makeup person and everything. Don’t worry—we’re not turning you into a Kardashian.”
“A who?”
As we all headed up the steps together, John kept close. I felt the tension still radiating off him, his hand never far from his jacket. But I also felt a strange warmth settle in my chest.
Maybe I was walking into danger.
Maybe I was stupid for being here.
But damn it, I believed in this.
I followed Alexei and his friends through the heavy oak doors of the brownstone. Inside, they all spoke rapid-fire Russian, their voices bouncing off the walls with that particular energy only people under thirty seem to possess.
John trailed behind us like a gray shadow. His eyes cataloged every person we passed.
“So you really think the campaign will reach people in Novosibirsk?” I asked Alexei as we climbed the stairs.
“With your face on it? Absolutely,” he replied, gesturing wildly. “My cousin says your last album still gets played in underground clubs, even with the ban.”
We entered the offices, where the air smelled of coffee and printer toner. A woman with cropped blue hair looked up from her computer and smiled.
“We’re switching to English now,” Alexei announced to the group, seamlessly changing languages. “Remember, not everyone here speaks Russian.”
I caught John’s subtle relaxation. He understood Russian—part of his job description, I supposed—but he preferred when he could monitor all conversations.
“Katya, this way,” Alexei said, motioning down a hallway.
I recognized the route from yesterday’s interview, where I’d spent hours recounting my escape in painstaking detail. Fun times.
We entered the same room, but it had been transformed. Lights on stands created a makeshift studio, and a thin man with tattooed forearms stood arranging brushes.
“This is Marcus,” Alexei said. “Best makeup artist in New York. Well, the best we can afford.”
Marcus gestured to a high stool. “Sit, please. I need wonderful light.”
I perched on the stool, crossing my legs.
Alexei leaned against the wall, watching as Marcus tilted my chin. “Nothing too glamorous,” he instructed. “We don’t want her looking like a prostitute.”
I snorted. “But that’s exactly the look I’m going for. How else will I afford my caviar habit?”
The room erupted in laughter, except for John, who finally removed his sunglasses.
“No, no,” Alexei said, pulling out his phone. He scrolled for a moment, then held it up triumphantly. “Like this. This is perfect.”
I recognized the image immediately—my last album cover. My hair was a wild mess of black waves, my eyes rimmed with smudged kohl that made them look impossibly large and angry. I was scowling at the camera like it had personally offended me, lips nude, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass.
“I was a little stoned in that picture,” I admitted, studying my former self. That had been right before everything went to hell—before the lyrics that had gotten me labeled an enemy of the state. “Does anyone have a joint? For authenticity’s sake?”
Alexei let out a bark of laughter, but Marcus gave me a disapproving look.
“Drugs are not funny,” he said, dabbing foundation onto my skin with surprising gentleness. “And they ruin the complexion.”
From his position by the door, John cleared his throat. “No joints.”
“Killjoy,” I muttered, but there was no heat in it. I closed my eyes as Marcus worked, feeling the soft sweep of brushes against my eyelids. “What’s the headline going to be? ‘Former Russian Rock Star Still Not Dead’?”
“We were thinking ‘The Voice They Couldn’t Silence,’” Alexei said, his tone turning serious. “With a statement about protesters who’ve disappeared.”
My stomach tightened. Disappeared. Such a clean word for something so ugly.
“Did you hear about Mikhail?” a man asked, his accent thicker than Alexei’s. “Three days ago. Just vanished after his underground show in Moscow.”
The makeup brush paused against my cheek. I kept my eyes closed, focused on breathing. Mikhail Sokolov, it had to be. We’d shared stages once, back when my biggest worry was whether the sound technician would get my levels right.
“No,” I breathed. “I hadn’t heard.”
The room fell silent. Marcus resumed his work, but the mood had shifted. This wasn’t just a photoshoot anymore. This was a memorial.
“Open,” Marcus instructed, and I obeyed as he applied mascara. “You have a good face. Strong. Not afraid.”
I almost laughed at that. If only he knew how afraid I was all the time. How I still woke up gasping some nights, convinced I was back there, running through streets I’d known since childhood, suddenly made foreign and hostile.
“Almost done,” he murmured, adding a final touch to my lips.
When I looked in the mirror he offered, I barely recognized myself. The woman staring back had my features, but something else too—a hardness, a defiance. The makeup wasn’t heavy, but it was strategic, emphasizing the hollows beneath my cheekbones, the intensity of my gaze.
“Perfect,” Alexei declared, clapping his hands together. “Now for wardrobe.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” I glanced down at my black jeans and simple white button-down.
“Nothing,” he assured me. “But we thought—” He gestured to a woman who’d just entered carrying a garment bag. “This might be more impactful.”
The woman unzipped the garment bag with a flourish, and I gasped.
Inside hung a crisp black suit—not a woman’s pantsuit with its tapered waist and feminine cut, but a proper men’s suit with broad shoulders and clean, sharp lines. The kind of suit that said power without speaking.
“We thought this would make a statement,” Alexei explained, watching my face. “The contrast between your face and the masculine silhouette—”
“It’s perfect,” I interrupted, reaching out to touch the fabric. The material was expensive, substantial beneath my fingertips. “Absolutely perfect.”
I took the garment bag from the woman, who pointed toward a folding screen in the corner of the room. “There’s a dress shirt and shoes behind there already.”
As I walked toward the screen, the conversation behind me shifted. Someone mentioned a band playing at some place called the Mercury Lounge next weekend.
“They’re incredible live,” a woman’s voice enthused. “Nothing like their recordings.”
“I’ve got tickets to Phoebe Bridgers next month,” another voice chimed in. “Anyone want to come?”
I stepped behind the screen and began changing, listening to them debate the merits of various venues, upcoming shows, festival lineups. Their voices washed over me, passionate and excited, and something in my chest ached with a familiar longing.
God, I missed it. The stage. The lights. But especially when a crowd became one breathing organism, pulsing with the same electricity that runs through your veins.
As I buttoned the slightly too large dress shirt, I thought about the song I’d finished writing yesterday. My first in English. The words had come haltingly at first, but then in a rush, like water breaking through a dam. I’d scribbled the lyrics in my notebook, humming the melody under my breath.
The suit fit perfectly, as if tailored for me. I rolled up the sleeves a little and left the top two buttons of the shirt undone.
When I emerged from behind the screen, the chatter died instantly.
“Holy shit,” Alexei breathed.
Everyone was staring. I straightened my shoulders, suddenly self-conscious.
“What? Is something wrong?”
“No,” the blue-haired woman whispered. “You look... devastating.”
John shifted his weight, his gaze flickering over me with something I couldn’t quite read. Approval? Concern? Both?
“The camera is going to love you,” Marcus declared, stepping forward to make minute adjustments to my hair, brushing it back from my face.
I looked around the room at all these young, passionate people talking about music and concerts, and suddenly I couldn’t hold the question back anymore.
“Are any of you musicians?” I asked.
A few hands went up hesitantly.
“I play bass,” the blue-haired woman offered.
“I’m Petyr,” said a lanky guy with an undercut, leaning against the door frame. His accent was more Polish than Russian. “I play guitar in a band called Razorwire. We’re a punk outfit. Pretty underground, but we’ve got a following.”
“Punk?” I perked up, suddenly more interested. “What kind? Old school? Hardcore? Pop punk?”
“Anarcho-punk with some post-hardcore elements.” He grinned, revealing a chipped front tooth. “I’ve heard bootlegs of Crimson Silence. Your old band, right? You guys were fucking raw. That song ‘Blood on the Kremlin Walls’? Legendary.”
Alexei clapped his hands together. “This is fascinating, but we have a schedule. Katya, can you stand in front of that green screen?” He pointed to the back of the room, where a massive bright green backdrop had been set up.
I nodded and walked over, still focused on Petyr. “You guys have any recordings I can hear?”
“Yeah, I’ll send you our SoundCloud,” he said, following me. “We’re not polished like your old stuff, but we’ve got energy.”
A woman with a camera slung around her neck entered, nodding briskly to everyone before unpacking her equipment. She tested lights, adjusted reflectors, and checked settings with practiced efficiency.
“How’s the scene here?” I asked Petyr, standing where the photographer directed me. “I used to play vast arenas, but by the time I defected, we were stuck doing gigs in other countries, and only occasional underground shows in Russia. Putin didn’t want us corrupting the youth.”
“Not quite that dramatic, but we’ve got our spots.” Petyr leaned against a table, watching as the photographer positioned a soft box. “Basement venues, DIY spaces. Nothing like what you’re used to, I’m sure.”
“I started in basements,” I reminded him. “Twenty drunk kids and a PA system that blew out every third show.”
The photographer interrupted, asking me to tilt my chin slightly, turn my shoulders. I complied while continuing the conversation.
“We’re playing Friday at this warehouse space in Bushwick,” Petyr said. “Our drummer broke his wrist, so we’ve got a session guy filling in. It’s not the same.”
“Drummers,” I said with a knowing grin. “Always the problem children.”
“Look straight ahead, please,” the photographer called out, adjusting her aperture.
I faced forward, staring into the lens with what I hoped looked like revolutionary intensity rather than constipation.
“You know,” Petyr said casually between shots, “we’ve been talking about doing some new material. More political stuff. Something with teeth.” He hesitated, then added, “Any chance you’d want to jam with us sometime? No pressure. Just for fun.”
I froze for a moment, then a huge grin split my face.
“I’d love to.”