Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I RINA
I stand at the top of the basement stairs for a count of ten, the metallic tang of copper still coating the back of my throat.
I have someone to find.
I sprint back to our suite, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs.
I burst into the massive walk-in closet, my eyes scanning the rows of designer silk and tailored wool that had been bought for me upon my arrival. I scramble to the back, and find a pair of thick, matte black leggings—something heavy that won't catch the light.
I dig through a drawer of sweaters until I find a plain black hoodie. It’s oversized, probably meant for lounging, but the hood is deep enough to swallow my face. I pull it on, shove my hair into a tight, low bun and yank the hood up.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. My face is pale, the smear of blood Mikhail left on my jaw now a dried, brownish streak. I scrub it off with a shaking hand.
I check my burner phone. It’s a cheap piece of plastic, but it’s my only lifeline.
I shove it into the hidden pocket of my leggings along with a wad of cash I’ve been collecting in bits and pieces from Mikhail’s dresser.
I don’t have a car. I can’t call a ride—the Morozovs probably have a flag on every app within five miles of this estate.
I head to the guest room at the very end of the west wing. It overlooks a patch of the garden that the security lights don't quite reach. I open the window, the hinges letting out a tiny, agonizing creak. I freeze, holding my breath, listening for the heavy tread of boots in the hallway.
Nothing.
I climb onto the sill. The cold air bites at my cheeks, a sharp contrast to the humid steam of the sauna earlier. It’s a twelve-foot drop to the mulch below. Not impossible, but my ankles are already protesting the idea.
Better a broken ankle than a broken life, Ira. Jump.
I dangle from the ledge, my fingers screaming as they grip the stone, and I let go. I hit the ground with a muffled thud, rolling into the damp bushes just as a flashlight beam sweeps across the brickwork above me.
I press my face into the dirt, the scent of wet earth filling my nose. Stefan’s voice carries over the wind.
"Check the perimeter of the west wing. The Boss wants eyes on everything while he's out."
"Copy that," another voice grunts.
I wait until the light fades, my pulse thumping in my ears like a drum. I stay low, crawling through the hedges until I reach the wrought-iron fence near the service entrance. There’s a gap near the bottom where the brick has crumbled—I found it during my "meditative walks".
I squeeze through, the metal catching on my hoodie. I hear a soft rip. I don’t stop. I run until I’m several blocks away, blending into the early evening crowd in a nearby neighborhood.
The coffee shop is a hole-in-the-wall place called The Grime . It’s perfect—dimly lit, smells like burnt beans, and the teenagers behind the counter are too busy on their phones to notice a woman in a black hoodie sitting in the corner.
My contact is already there. He’s a wiry man named Aris. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week, nursing a cup of tea like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
I slide into the booth opposite him. "You're late," he mutters without looking up.
"I was busy getting away without my husband noticing," I snap, my voice low. "Thank goodness I showed up at all. What do you have, Aris? Tell me you didn't call me out here for another dead end."
Aris finally looks at me, his eyes darting to the door. "I found the trail, Irina. It wasn't easy. Your father’s people... they bury things deep."
"I know how Boris works. Just get to it."
He reaches into a battered satchel and pulls out a photocopy of a transfer ledger. The ink is faded and blurry. He slides it across the sticky table.
"This is from the private clinic in Jersey," he says, his voice a frantic whisper. "Ten years ago. There was a payment made—heavy, six figures. It wasn't a donation. It was for a 'specialized transition' of a ward."
My fingers tremble as I touch the paper.
This is it. This is what I have been looking for, for a decade. Ten years of looking for a ghost.
"Where?" I breathe.
"The trail leads back to the suburbs of New Jersey. The person... they weren't sent to Europe. They were never out of reach. They were moved to a private residence, masked by a shell company."
"New Jersey," I repeat, the words feeling heavy.
He’s been here? He’s been around me this whole time?
"Who signed for the transfer? Who authorized the move?" I ask.
Aris points to the bottom of the page. There, in a cramped, elegant script, are two initials: PB.
The world goes quiet. The sounds of the espresso machine and the muffled chatter of the patrons fade into a high-pitched ring. Petrov, Boris.
My father.
He lied. He looked me in the eyes for ten years and told me he was lost to the system. He told me the records were burned. He told me he was gone.
"PB," I whisper, my eyes stinging. " It was always him."
"There’s more," Aris says, leaning in closer. "The residence... it’s tied to a trust fund that gets refilled every quarter. It’s active, Irina.
Whoever is in that house, they’re still there.
But the security... it’s high, for sure.
Not just guards. Electronic. You try to get close, and the alarms go off in your father’s office before you hit the front porch. "
"I don't care about the alarms," I say, my voice turning to iron. "I need an address, Aris. I need a street name."
"I’m working on it. But I need more than cash this time. Your father is starting to notice the holes in his database. If I keep digging, I’m a dead man."
"I’ll get you whatever you want," I say, grabbing his wrist. My grip is tight enough to make him wince. "You find me that address. You find out exactly which house in Jersey has my life locked inside it, or I’ll tell Mikhail exactly who’s been helping me."
Aris pales. "I… I will do my best."
"I’ve had enough," I snap. I slide the wad of cash across the table and stand up. "Find him, Aris. Don't make me come looking for you."
I walk out of the coffee shop, the cool air hitting my face like a slap. I’m vibrating. It’s hope. It’s a frantic, terrifying hope that makes my legs feel like they might give out.
New Jersey. PB.
I start walking back toward the estate, my mind racing. I need to get back inside before Mikhail returns.
The jog back feels shorter. My adrenaline is fuel. I reach the iron fence and squeeze back through the gap, my hoodie catching again, the tear widening into a jagged line.
Shit. I’ll have to burn this.
I walk through the gardens, staying in the shadows. Stefan is still patrolling, but he’s focused on the front entrance now. I reach the west wing window and look up.
It’s still open.
I grab the ivy-covered trellis and start to climb. My sneakers slip on the damp wood, a piece of the lattice snapping with a loud crack . I freeze, my heart stopping.
"Who's there?" a guard shouts from around the corner.
I don't breathe. I press myself against the brick, my eyes closed, praying the shadows are deep enough to swallow me whole.
"Probably just a raccoon," another voice says. "The woods are full of 'em."
"Check it anyway."
I hear the crunch of gravel. He’s coming.
I don’t have time for slow and steady. I lunge for the windowsill, my sneakers scrambling for purchase on the brickwork.
My fingers catch the stone ledge, scraping the skin off my knuckles.
I haul myself upward, my lungs burning, and tumble through the window just as a flashlight beam sweeps the trellis below.