Chapter 8
LYRA
The Greek bakery is closed, its awning pulled in. The laundromat’s fluorescent glow spills across the sidewalk. A couple walks by with a dog. A delivery guy on an e-bike zips past.
A completely normal evening in Astoria, that is, aside from the man across the street.
He’s standing under the awning of the hardware store, which closed two hours ago. He’s wearing a dark jacket, his hands in his pockets, as he faces my building. But most disconcertingly of all, he’s not on his phone, nor does he seem to be waiting for anyone.
He’s just there. Watching.
At least, I think he’s watching. It’s hard to see where his eyes are from beneath the brim of his hat.
I step back from the window, my heart rate ticking up. It’s not panic, not yet. But it’s that unmistakable low hum that happens in the back of your head when you know something’s off.
My gaze flicks over to my phone on the coffee table. I could call the police, but what would I say?
There’s a man standing on a public sidewalk across the street from my apartment.
They’d just laugh and hang up on me.
I think of Ethan, but I don’t have his number.
Julian.
I consider the option for exactly one second before I dismiss it. No, I’m not going to call Julian Volkov because of some random guy, standing across the street. I’m a grown woman living in New York. I’ve dealt with far worse than this on my own.
I take a sip of my tea and turn back toward my living room.
My apartment might only be 600 square feet, but it’s my 600 square feet. It’s a one-bedroom on the third floor of a pre-War walkup on 30th Avenue, sandwiched between a Greek bakery and a laundromat that fills the stairwell with the scent of warm cotton.
It’s barely bigger than Julian’s office, but I’ve made it my own. Bookshelves line the hallway, and there’s a secondhand velvet armchair by the window that I reupholstered myself. There are fairy lights strung along the ceiling and plush rugs covering the hardwood floor.
There’s a corkboard above my desk dotted with contacts from the foundation, event timelines, and a photo of my parents at their thirtieth anniversary dinner, which makes me smile every time I look at it.
Normally, my place is enough. I’ve never been the kind of girl who wanted an Upper East Side penthouse.
But tonight, it feels like a fishbowl.
I have to leave, go for a walk, and get some fresh air, something other than pacing around, feeling like I’m being watched.
I set my mug down, then pull on a tracksuit and sneakers, before grabbing my keys and phone. I head out into the hallway and down the back stairs.
The rear exit opens onto the alley behind the building. The alley is narrow and dimly lit, with dumpsters on one side and a chain-link fence on the other. The smell of pad Thai wafts out from the Thai restaurant behind me.
I head to the end of the alley and cut through to Broadway, aiming to get to a place that’s well-lit, with plenty of witnesses, before trying to figure out whether or not I’m really being watched.
I make it exactly four steps before a black SUV pulls to the end of the alley, blocking my exit. The windows are tinted, and I can’t make out who’s behind the wheel. My blood runs cold as I realize there’s no one around.
I work my keys in my hand until the pointed end is jutting out between my fingers, the way my dad taught me. It feels silly. What, I’m going to fight off a car full of thugs with the keys to my house? But in the moment, it’s all I have.
The driver’s door opens, and Julian Volkov steps out.
There’s a nonchalant expression on his face.
He’s not in a suit, which right away throws me for a loop.
Instead, he’s in faded jeans and a black short-sleeve Henley, his Bratva ink on full display.
He looks completely different from the man I know at work or from the gala.
Holy hell. This version of Julian Volkov makes my brain short-circuit and my panties wet.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I say.
“I don’t kid around.”
“You’re parked in my alley. What the hell is going on?”
“I’m checking on you.”
He says it like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like I should expect him to be here.
“You’re checking on me? At ten o’clock at night? In an alley?”
I don’t need to guess whether or not he’s armed. The guy’s probably got a whole arsenal in the back of that SUV.
The corner of his mouth moves into that now-familiar near smirk.
“I was planning on knocking on your door, then I saw you leave.”
“So you were watching me?”
“I prefer the term being vigilant.”
I lean back against the brick wall of my building and cross my arms, letting out a heavy sigh. It takes conscious effort to physically hold myself in place, so I don’t shove him or scream at him—or worse.
“I don’t need you checking on me. I’ve lived in this city for seven years. I take the subway and I walk home alone. I’ve been fine.”
“You’ve been fine because no one was watching you before.”
The words hit hard. Does he know about the man across the street?
“What do you mean before?”
“I mean that forty-eight hours ago, you were anonymous. Just another face in the crowd. Now you’re not.” He leans back against the side of the SUV, arms crossed, as if mirroring my posture.
“Ethan told me that he walked you to the station, that Sophia harassed you. He also told me that you took the E train and made it home without incident.”
“He reports back to you, and?”
“Correct. That’s his job.”
“Being a spy is part of his job?”
“As of today, his job is to keep you alive.”
I open my mouth to tell him that he’s being dramatic, that this is Astoria, one of the safest freaking neighborhoods in the city. The only threat around me is overpaying for a mediocre smash burger.
But then I stop myself. Julian is here, standing in my alley, behind my building, at ten o’clock at night, in jeans and a Henley, with no driver and no entourage. Just him and an SUV with blacked-out windows.
That’s when I notice that the look on his face isn’t angry, possessive, or controlling.
It’s worried.
He’s quietly, stubbornly, and stoically worried, in the way a man who doesn’t know how to say I was thinking of you, so instead drives to Queens to make sure I’m not in danger.
“There’s someone watching my building,” I blurt out.
The shift is instantaneous.
“Where?”
“Across the street. In front of the hardware store. Dark jacket. Baseball cap. He’s been there since I got home. At least, I think he has.”
Julian’s lips form a thin line. He slips his phone out of his pocket, scrolls, then places a call.
“Ethan. 30th Avenue, Astoria. Yeah, Lyra’s building. We’ve got a watcher across the street. Hardware store, southeast corner. I want an ID, and I want to know who sent him.” A pause. “No, she’s with me.” Another pause. “Get it done.”
He ends the call, then glances at me with an expression that doesn’t invite debate.
“You’re coming with me.”
“Julian—”
“Lyra.”
With that, he opens the passenger door. “Someone is watching your home. We can argue about my methods tomorrow. Tonight, you’re getting in the car.”
I look at the open door before glancing back down the alley and toward the rear entrance of my building, where, suddenly, my tiny apartment with its fairy lights, and velvet armchair, and front door lock that doesn’t seem to work half the time, feels very exposed.
I look at Julian, then get in.
We don’t speak until we’re over the bridge into Manhattan. The city scrolls past the tinted windows as I watch the streetlights dance on Julian’s jaw and hands. My gaze traces the dark ink winding up his forearms.
I glance down and realize that the keys are still clutched between my fingers, the shiny end of my front door key poking out.
I relax my grip and lean back into the leather seat.