Chapter Seventeen
I threw up again today, the third time in the last couple of days. My head was constantly aching, my muscles and joints hurt—especially my waist—and I was mostly tired all the time.
In my mind, these were all signs of stress and the fact that my monthly visitor was around the corner. Except for the throwing up part. That was new.
My voice of reason had been hinting at something that seemed to be the real cause of my “stress.” But I had deliberately refused to give it a thought. I couldn’t bring myself to even imagine the possibility of that being the case.
So, for the sake of my peace of mind, I chose delusion over fact even though I knew it was only a matter of time before the truth came out. I refused to go down that road because, honestly, I lacked the mental and emotional strength for that.
For over two weeks, I had tried to continue my investigation, but my schedule had been super tight lately. I was always attending never-ending classes early in the morning and returning late in the evening—drained and exhausted.
I was so busy with other academic deadlines that I kept my research assignment aside. For now, at least. And although I barely had any time for myself, a part of me loved it because at least I wasn’t drowning in the thoughts of Anton and his magical touch.
Because I was always on the move, I told myself that was why I was always tired and sick in the mornings. It was nothing serious.
Luckily for me, today, I had enough time on my hands. No important classes. No projects needed my immediate attention. Except, of course, my research assignment.
I slept like a baby last night, completely unaware of my surroundings. It was as though I’d passed out on my bed and didn’t wake up until ten in the morning. The first thing I did once I was awake was run to the bathroom because, for some reason, I was nauseated.
The bathroom door swung open, and I barged inside, dropped to my knees in front of the toilet seat, and vomited. My head was throbbing, and I felt like I had a fever. But this wasn’t the first time I’d experienced morning sickness. I was certain that I’d be fine in a few hours.
I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, flushed the toilet, and rose to my feet. The second I straightened, a wave of dizziness hit me, causing me to stagger for a bit.
“Oh, my God,” I said quietly, my fingers massaging my temples.
I reached the sink in a few strides, turned on the faucet, and washed my hands. The rushing water was cool against my skin, and as my gaze lingered too long, images of my own orgasm flashed through my mind.
Refusing to give in to the memory of that day again, I squeezed my eyes shut and drew a deep, long breath. I washed my face, rinsed my mouth, and then brushed my teeth.
How long are you gonna keep ignoring the signs? Reason asked me.
I refused to respond.
Dizziness, morning sickness, body aches, constant migraines, and vomiting, the voice added. Come on, it can’t get more obvious than that. You’re…
Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say it, Audacity warned.
How ironic, coming from the voice of curiosity.
I had no intention of getting involved in this argument. I just wanted to ignore everything for as long as possible. It was a terrible idea, yes. But at that point, I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to confront these voices.
You’re always pumped up—always ready to go down any rabbit hole in search of answers. But now that it’s about something that would affect our future, you’re suddenly spineless?
Those words stung like a nasty bee.
However, I didn’t respond.
I just stared at my reflection while quietly brushing my teeth. My heart was racing, my mind overrun by a million thoughts. On the surface, I looked like I was in control, but inside, I was a mess—confused, afraid, frustrated, and unsure of anything.
Ignore me all you want, said Reason. But time will tell, Aria. Time will tell.
I finished brushing my teeth, rinsed my mouth again, and dabbed my face with a clean towel before stepping out of the bathroom.
Later that day, while revisiting my ongoing research, I realized there were gaps and inconsistencies in the work that hadn’t been there before. Several key documents I’d previously had access to were missing.
But how?
I knew for sure that I’d written them down, so how did they magically disappear?
My eyes squinted as I stared at my laptop screen, trying to make sense of these omissions. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought someone had tampered with my computer.
Then the question struck me hard.
Wait a minute. Did someone actually hack my laptop? Because that was the only logical explanation. Everything else I’d been working on for months was still intact. However, those documents closest to identifying R.T. and linking him to financial fraud were magically missing.
How?
Why those files specifically?
That would mean whoever erased those notes knew I was on the right track. That meant that I was much closer to finding that man than I thought.
At this point, I wasn’t sure what was more unsettling—the fact that my computer was hacked, or the fact that R.T. already knew I was on to him. He knew who I was, and he had access to my computer.
What else did he have access to?
My heart skipped a beat, my eyes discreetly scanning the room. Could my place have been bugged? Were there hidden cameras and microphones planted in my apartment?
The possibility alone made my pulse race and my palms sweaty. That would explain why I always felt like I was being watched. On campus, on the streets, at the café—wherever I went, I felt eyes on me.
These people were watching me. They were watching my every move, so it wasn’t crazy to think that they bugged my place.
Who was R.T.?
I thought the people watching me were the Bratva. I thought the eyes I always felt on me had something to do with what I witnessed at Meridian Solutions. Now, with the documents about R.T. being intentionally deleted from my computer, I wasn’t even sure who exactly was after me.
However, I was almost certain R.T. was involved because why else would only the files on him be deleted?
Was R.T. working with the Russian Bratva?
The more questions I had, the more my head hurt. It was so frustrating that these people knew who I was and I hadn’t the slightest clue who they were.
A lot was happening at the same time: the Bratva, R.T.’s real identity, my mystery man—who, by the way, I hadn’t seen in a while—and the situation with Anton. I felt like I was losing my mind because I had a thousand unanswered questions that wouldn’t let me be.
I drew a deep breath and decided to pull up the few blurry images of R.T. available online. With my chin under my palm, I stared at the photos one after the other, trying to find something I might’ve missed before.
And to my surprise, I did.
I spotted something I didn’t pay attention to earlier. A small tattoo of a cross positioned at the back of his neck. From the angle at which this particular photo was taken, the cross tattoo was the only thing that was visible.
My eyes squinted, and I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs. I swallowed hard as I zoomed in on the tattoo, my hands trembling.
The reason for this sudden fear was because I recognized that ink. It was identical to the one I spotted behind Anton’s neck when we were fucking in his office. The same design in the exact same position.
Coincidence?
I highly doubted it.
My pulse quickened as cold sweat trickled down my left temple.
The more I studied the blurry photos of R.T., the more I saw the similarities between him and Anton. They both stood six-plus feet tall with the same build. And when I zoomed in on R.T’s watch in one of the photos, I realized it was the same one Anton wore at the Hargrove Annual Investment Summit.
A strange heat spread through my body, making me feel hot all of a sudden. The dryness in my throat made it hard to swallow as my heart sank into my stomach.
I recalled how he smoothly avoided the cameras during the gala. He’d said it was because he didn’t want the press spreading a false narrative or something of that nature. It was a lame excuse, but it made sense now.
R.T. was Anton Vasylenko.
The realization hit me harder than anything would’ve prepared me for. I mean, I’d always suspected that Anton was hiding something up his sleeve. But I didn’t expect this to be this.
Immediately, my brain began putting the pieces together. If Anton and R.T. were the same person, that would mean Anton was the one who tampered with my computer.
I thought about Meridian Solutions and the tall Russian man whose presence alone scared the shit out of me.
I recalled how this whole thing started right after I witnessed what I did in that building.
And now I was beginning to see the possibility that Anton-slash-R.T.
was the same man from Meridian Solutions.
Fuck.
My hands flew into my messy hair, and I reflexively rose to my feet, panicking.
Had I fucked the most dangerous man in my investigation?
I paced the length of my room, absently chewing on my nails as I thought about how this whole thing was a setup. We didn’t meet in my favorite café by accident. No. That event was orchestrated by him.
My heart was racing like a galloping horse, my heaving chest too tight for me to breathe.
I wasn’t completely certain of my assumptions, but with what I’d gathered, I was 85% sure that I was on the right track.
But wait, if Anton Vasylenko was R.T., and R.T. was the Mafia boss, Rodion Tarasov, then who was my mystery man? And why did Anton’s touch and presence feel an awful lot like my mystery man’s?
Deep down, I suspected all three men were the same person. But I needed proof. If I could get access to the CCTV footage of the festival on campus and footage of the café where I met with Daniel Whitfield, then I’d have the answers I so desperately needed.
My mystery man was present in both cases, and I didn’t bother with the alleyway incident because there weren’t any cameras in that area.