Chapter 10 Konstantin #2
Silence answers us, thick and absolute. No television glow in the windows, no footfall on the other side of the door.
I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
I scan the neighboring houses, looking for any sign of movement, but the block is quiet except for the distant rumble of a passing truck and the faint cry of gulls drifting over the rooftops.
Maksim tries the handle, then shakes his head. “Locked from the inside. Curtains drawn.”
“Check the back,” I tell him, moving off the porch and circling the house.
My shoes crunch over gravel and empty bottles.
In the small patch of grass behind the building, the back door is chained, a rusted lawn chair toppled on its side nearby.
I peer through the gap in the curtains, heart pounding, but the kitchen inside is empty.
A mug sits untouched on the counter, half-full, a newspaper folded beneath it, two days old.
I feel the tension in my jaw spread into my chest. The city around us seems to shrink, the night pressing in, every answer just out of reach. For a moment, the only sound is the wind rattling the leaves in the gutter and the impatient scrape of my boots against the concrete.
“He’s gone,” I say finally, voice low, thick with frustration. “And someone wanted him that way.”
I pull out my phone and check the warehouse logs one more time, scrolling back through the last week’s entries, searching for anything—any gap, any late-night swipe, any pattern out of place. Maksim watches me, waiting, his patience stretched thin but holding.
“Try his phone again,” I say, eyes never leaving the screen.
Maksim dials, holding the phone to his ear, but he shakes his head when there’s no response.
I weigh the risk for half a second, then nod at Maksim. “Let’s go in.” He doesn’t hesitate. I draw my knife and slide it between the door and the frame, popping the lock with a short twist. Maksim stands ready beside me, watching the shadows, always alert for trouble.
The kitchen smells faintly sour, like someone left milk out and forgot.
Dishes are stacked neatly beside the sink.
A pair of shoes sits by the mat. Everything looks untouched, not abandoned—just paused, as if Reznikov meant to come right back.
I move through the small, dark house, careful not to disturb anything I don’t need to.
The air is stale, the fridge humming louder than necessary.
We move room to room. The bedroom is tidy, the bed made, though the sheets are wrinkled like someone sat there in the dark for a long time. On the dresser, there’s a cracked photo frame showing a much younger Reznikov with a little girl, maybe his daughter, smiling wide in a summer dress.
I move into the cramped hallway, tracing my fingertips along the faded wallpaper as I think through everything we know about Reznikov—his habits, his routes, the way people like him keep secrets close but not always well hidden.
On impulse, I duck into the small bathroom at the end of the hall.
The medicine cabinet is filled with nothing but half-used toothpaste and expired painkillers, but something odd catches my eye on the inside of the door—a strip of masking tape, pressed flat against the mirror’s metal edge, barely visible unless you’re looking straight at it.
I peel it back and feel something thin and hard taped underneath—a plastic key card, the kind you use at a hotel or private club. There are no markings, just a single strip of numbers pressed into the plastic: 40811.
I hold it up for Maksim to see. “This doesn’t belong here.”
He steps closer, his brow furrowing as he inspects it. “Looks like a room key.”
“Or a secure facility,” I say. I run my thumb over the numbers, thinking.
Maksim checks the tape, then the mirror. “You think Reznikov left this for someone to find, or he just ran out of time?”
I examine it again under the lamp. The number isn’t familiar, but something about it tugs at my memory—hotel keys from the port district, maybe, or one of the exclusive clubs used for off-books meetings.
“Doesn’t matter now.” I pocket the card, weighing its importance. “It’s the only thing in this whole place not meant to be found.”
Sunlight spills across the kitchen floor, warming the marble and catching the edge of my coffee mug.
I sit at the table, watching the key card catch the light as I twirl it absently between my fingers.
The numbers stamped into its surface have already been burned into my mind, but I keep turning it over, searching for meaning in the blank plastic, searching for something I’ve missed.
Nadya’s voice breaks through the quiet. “Are you even listening to me?”
I blink, snapping out of my thoughts. “What?”
She narrows her eyes, folding her arms as she leans on the other side of the counter. “Did you hear anything I just said?”
I set the key down, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “No. Sorry. I was…distracted.”
Her gaze drops to the key. “What’s that?” She reaches out, brushing her thumb over the numbers, turning it in the morning light.
I meet her eyes, deciding in an instant to tell her the truth—most of it, anyway.
“We had a situation at the warehouse last night. Someone hit it, took out two of our guards, torched the control room. Left almost nothing, except a mess and a message. We tried to track down the manager, Reznikov, but he’s missing.
House was empty. We broke in—didn’t find much, except for this.
” I nudge the key card toward her. “It was taped to his bathroom mirror, hidden under the cabinet.”
She lifts the card, reading the numbers, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Any idea what it opens?”
“Could be a hotel, could be a private club, could be nothing,” I say. “But someone wanted it hidden, which means it matters.”
She’s silent for a moment, weighing it in her palm, her eyes distant in that way I know means she’s assembling a plan. “I might know someone who can help,” she says finally, setting the card down in front of me.
I study her. “Who?”
She shrugs, casual as always when she doesn’t want to give too much away. “Just a friend. He’s good with numbers. And patterns. Give me a day or two.”
There’s a flicker of something behind her eyes, but I let it go. We all have people we trust in our own ways. I nod, pushing the key back to her. “Go ahead. Just let me know if you find something I need to see.”
She gives me a small, conspiratorial smile. “You’ll be the first to know.”
My phone rings, Viktor’s name glowing across the screen. I answer, keeping my voice measured, not quite sure what to expect.
“I have news,” he says, and I can almost hear the smirk.
I lean back in my chair, studying the coffee gone cold in my mug. “What kind of news?”
He pauses just long enough to make me wonder if he’s toying with me. “Alexei’s paramour remains in the city. From what I can tell, he’s abandoned her.”
My jaw tenses. “Where is she?”
“That’s the thing,” Viktor says, the sound of waves in the background, seagulls faint behind his words. “I’m still looking. She’s gone to ground, but I thought two heads might be better than one.”
I tap my fingers on the table, letting that settle in. “You think she’s the key to finding Alexei?”
“I think she knows things he doesn’t want anyone else to know.” There’s a beat, and then Viktor’s tone softens, taking on a casual air that’s almost jarring. “Besides, Konstantin, I’d rather this not be just about business. A man can grow weary chasing shadows all day.”
I frown, not quite following. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ll see,” he says, the smile back in his voice. “Come have lunch with me. Down by the bay—place with the red umbrellas. One o’clock.”
I hesitate, running a hand through my hair, feeling the edge of suspicion rise. “Lunch.”
“Lunch,” Viktor repeats, the invitation sounding like a dare and a test at the same time. “Bring your appetite, if not your trust.”
Before I can answer, he hangs up. I stare at the phone for a long moment, weighing the shape of the conversation. Viktor never does anything without purpose, and I know whatever he wants to discuss over lunch, it’s more than just missing women or business alliances.