Chapter Thirteen
The morning light filters through the heavy drapes of the penthouse, gray and indifferent. I wake up alone, the space beside me already cool. The sheets still smell faintly of him.
I don’t let myself linger on the intimacy of the night before. The vulnerability I showed, the confession about my parents, the way he held me while I cried… it feels like a fever dream now. A lapse in judgment that I can’t afford to repeat.
I’m not here to be comforted. I’m here to find out what happened to Ayaan.
Throwing the covers off, I slide out of bed. My legs feel shaky, a lingering effect of the nightmare and the emotional aftermath. I force them steady. I have work to do.
Nikita is already gone. I heard the front door close an hour ago, the latch clicking shut with finality. He didn’t wake me to say goodbye. He didn’t leave a note. Just the silent absence that tells me he’s back in his element—handling business, giving orders, being the Bratva lieutenant.
Good. His absence is my opportunity.
I grab my phone and slip out of the bedroom, padding barefoot down the hallway. The penthouse is quiet, the staff discreetly invisible. Anna is likely in the kitchen, and the security detail is stationed at the perimeter, leaving the inner sanctum largely unmonitored.
Except for the cameras.
I know they’re there. I felt Nikita’s eyes on me yesterday when I tested the handle of the locked office. He’s watching, or someone is.
Except he gave me access.
I intend to find out why.
The door to the secondary office is closed but not locked. I push it open, stepping inside quickly. The room is spacious, lined with filing cabinets and a large mahogany desk that smells of leather and old paper.
I don’t touch anything at first. I just look.
Scanning the room, I note the order. Everything is labeled, categorized, filed with the precision of a man who treats chaos like a personal insult. This isn’t just organization; it’s a defense mechanism.
I pull out my phone, opening the camera app. I won’t waste time trying to read everything. I’ll document it.
Moving to the first cabinet, I start flipping through files. It’s all mundane. Administrative noise.
I snap photos of the headers, the dates, the signatures. I don’t know what will be important yet, so I capture it all. I move efficiently, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
Halfway through the second cabinet, my fingers brush against a file that feels different. Thicker and older.
I pull it out. The label is faded, the typewriter font slightly misaligned. “Project Archangel - Debt Recovery.”
My breath hitches.
The date on the tab is two years ago.
Two years ago. The summer Ayaan disappeared.
My hands tremble as I flip the cover open. The papers inside are yellowed at the edges, covered in dense, handwritten notes and stamped approvals.
I don’t read the whole thing, but I scan for anything important. I see references to The Shark, a loan shark Ayaan mentioned once in passing. I see transfer requests for large sums of cash—fifty thousand, then another twenty.
And then, on the third page, I see it.
Subject: Smith, Ayaan.
The words blur before my eyes. I have to blink to clear them, forcing myself to focus.
Action: Asset seizure initiated.
Disposition: Transferred under external handling.
Transferred. The word echoes in my head, loud and deafening. He might not be dead.
I flip to the next page, desperate for more.
Note: Subject requires specialized containment. Psychological evaluation indicates high resistance. Authorization for Level 5 protocol approved.
Level 5. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds ominous. It sounds permanent.
I keep going, my heart in my throat. I see a signature at the bottom of the authorization form. It’s not Nikita’s. The names are P. Solokov and L. Colombo.
Lorenzo Colombo. I know that name.
Then I see another note, scribbled in the margin in handwriting I recognize instantly. Sharp, slashing, arrogant.
The initials are N.G.
Nikita Gromov.
He knew.
The realization hits me like a physical blow, knocking the air out of my lungs. I grab the edge of the desk to keep from falling over.
He didn’t just know about Ayaan. He oversaw the operation. He signed off on the transfer. He made sure there were no loose ends.
I think about the ring he wore at the gala. The silver band with the black stone that belonged to my brother.
Rage, white and hot, floods my veins. I want to scream. I want to tear the room apart. I want to find him and make him tell me where Ayaan is.
Instead, I force myself to breathe. To focus.
I snap photos of the file. Every page. Every note. Every damning signature.
There’s nothing. Just a code number. “Site 4.”
I’m about to dig deeper, to search for other files that might reference the site code, when I hear it.
There are footsteps in the hall. Panic spikes, sharp and sudden.
I slam the file shut and shove it back into the cabinet. I close the drawer, my fingers fumbling with the handle. It slides shut with a soft click.
The footsteps are getting closer.
I turn and scan the room. Did I leave anything out of place? Is the chair at the right angle? Are the files disorganized?
Everything looks… normal.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the racing of my heart. I straighten my shirt, smooth my hair. I walk to the door, opening it just as the footsteps reach the threshold.
Nikita stands there.
He’s wearing a long coat, the collar turned up against the chill. He looks imposing, dangerous, and utterly in control.
Our eyes meet.
I know I look guilty. I know my face is pale, my eyes too wide, but I try to mask it with indifference.
“You’re back early,” I say, my voice sounding steady to my own ears.
He studies me for a long moment, his gaze dissecting. He looks past me, into the office, scanning the room with a predator’s precision.
“Meeting was cancelled,” he says, stepping closer. “What are you doing in here?”
“Bored,” I lie, keeping my body relaxed. “I was looking for something to read. This place is like a library, except all the books are about murder and money laundering.”
He doesn’t smile. He reaches out, taking my chin in his hand, tilting my face up to the light.
“You’re flushed,” he observes.
“It’s warm in here.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I think I might be dehydrated. I’ll get some water from the kitchen.”
He stares at me, his expression unreadable. He knows something is off. He can sense the shift in the air, but he doesn’t know what.
He can’t know about the file. He can’t know I saw the signature.
“You should be in the dining room,” he says, finally dropping his hand. “Anna is making lunch.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You’ll eat.”
He walks past me into the office. I stiffen, waiting for him to go to the cabinet. To check the file. Instead, he walks to the desk. He picks up a pen, twirling it between his fingers.
“I have a gift for you,” he says, his back to me.
The non-sequitur throws me off. “A gift?”
“Turn around.”
I hesitate, then do as he asks.
He moves behind me, his presence a wall of heat at my back. I feel him reach out, something cold brushing against my neck.
I look down.
A pendant.
It’s heavy and gold, with a large, dark stone set in the center. An onyx, maybe, or a black diamond. It’s beautiful, but it feels like a weight.
“It belonged to my mother,” he says, fastening the clasp. “She gave it to me before she died. I want you to have it.”
I reach up, touching the stone. It’s smooth, cold against my fingertips. “Why?” I ask, turning to face him.
“Because you’re my wife,” he says simply. “You need to learn that being mine comes with benefits as well as restrictions.”
The words twist in my gut.
He thinks he’s claiming me. Nikita has no idea that I’m currently holding the evidence of his crimes against my family in my pocket.
I look up at him, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Good.” He leans closer, his face inches from mine. “Wear it tonight. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“To meet someone.”
“Who?”
“A friend.”
He doesn’t elaborate. He just turns and walks out of the room, leaving me standing there with the stone burning a hole in my chest.
I watch him go, my hand clenching around the phone in my pocket.
The photos are safe. The evidence is secure.
I touch the pendant, the gold chain biting into my skin.
I’m not just a victim anymore. I’m a player in this game, and I have the winning hand in my pocket.
I just have to figure out how to play it.