Chapter 5
Zoya
Iforce the sobs back down, swallowing the lump in my throat until it tastes like bile.
Crying won’t bring him back, and it certainly won’t keep me safe.
I set the photo back in its place. My hands are shaking less now.
I don’t have time to waste on crying over something that can’t be changed.
I need a shower, and have something to eat, and then I need to search the rest of Dad’s office and this house until I find the contingency I hope he had in place for me.
Peeling off my yoga pants and sports bra, I throw them in the laundry hamper before turning to the shower.
I crank up the hot water until the bathroom is steamy, then step under, hissing as the scalding water hits my skin.
I scrub at my ankle where the latte burned me, then move to my arms, my chest, trying to wash away the feeling of Alexey’s cold professionalism and the mortuary’s sterile chill.
I stand there until the water runs lukewarm, letting the steam loosen the knot of anxiety in my chest just a fraction.
It’s a temporary fix, but I’ll take what I can get.
Stepping out onto the bathmat, I wrap myself in a thick, Egyptian cotton towel—another luxury paid for with blood money.
Drying off quickly, I move back to the bedroom and pull open the top drawer of my dresser.
I frown as the symmetry of my underwear piles is off.
I push them back an inch and grab a pair of black lace knickers and a matching black bra.
I slide the silk up my legs and clasp the bra.
I stare at the drawer again. I am meticulous about my things.
Everything has a place. To see the neat rows of lace disturbed sends a prickle of irritation through me, warring with the fear.
It must have been Mrs Gable, though she knows better than to rummage.
Or maybe I’m losing my mind. Today has already taken so much; perhaps it’s taking my sanity as well.
I shove the drawer shut with my hip and dress quickly in a black cashmere jumper and tailored trousers. It’s mournful, appropriate for the orphan I’ve just become.
My stomach gives a violent, empty twist, reminding me I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Food first. Strategy second.
I grab the hammer, not trusting anything right now, and unlock the bedroom door and step out into the silent hallway, the shadows stretching longer as the afternoon light fades into a bruised purple evening.
The house feels vast and hollow, a mausoleum built for a family that no longer exists.
Reaching the kitchen, I open the fridge and stare at the contents.
Salad, vegetables, leftover salmon stir-fry from last night.
Nothing looks appealing. I want something substantial and unhealthy. I want pizza.
I keep one in the freezer as a temptation, forcing myself to avoid it with the willpower of a Russian warrior.
But not today. Today, I’m going to eat every last slice.
I yank the box from the freezer, the cardboard cold against my fingertips.
Screw the diet. Today, I’m eating carbs and potentially crying into my mozzarella.
I tear the packaging open with more violence than necessary, tossing the box towards the bin.
It misses, skidding across the slate tiles, but I don’t have the energy to pick it up.
I twist the dial on the oven, the little click echoing too loudly in the silence.
While it preheats, I lean back against the marble island, the hammer resting ominously next to a bowl of organic lemons.
My gaze drifts to the rain-lashed French doors.
I hug my arms around myself, the cashmere offering warmth but no real comfort.
The oven timer beeps, signalling it’s reached temperature. I slide the pizza onto the rack and close the door, anticipating the smell to ground me. I pick up the hammer and move back to Dad’s study.
“Okay. If I were a pakhan for a major Russian diaspora family and I had an only daughter whose lifestyle made me roll my eyes, but I loved her anyway, where would I hide money for her?”
I scan the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lining the west wall.
Dad wasn’t a digital man; he trusted paper, leather, and things he could hold in his hand or burn in the fire.
He used to read me Russian folklore when I was a girl, stories about Baba Yaga and firebirds, warning me that the forest was full of teeth.
I move to the section on classic literature. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Pushkin. The spines are cracked and worn. He actually read these; they weren’t just for show to impress business associates. I run my fingers over the gold lettering of War and Peace. It feels cliché, but clichés exist for a reason.
Right?
I pull the heavy tome from the shelf and fan the pages. Nothing falls out. No key, no envelope, no secret map. Just the smell of old paper and dust. I shove it back, frustration bubbling up again.
“Think, Zoya,” I scold myself. “He would make it impossible for anyone else to find. But not for you.”
My gaze lands on a small, unassuming volume tucked between two massive history books. The Master and Margarita. It was Mum’s favourite. Dad couldn’t bring himself to read it after she passed. He said it hurt too much to see the words she loved so dearly.
My heart skips a beat. That’s exactly why it’s the perfect spot.
I reach for it, my hand trembling. The cover is faded, the corners soft. I open it, not to fan the pages, but to check the inside cover. There, taped securely with yellowing Scotch tape, is a small silver key. It’s tiny, the kind you’d use for a private deposit box at a bank, not a door.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I breathe, peeling it off carefully. The tape leaves a sticky residue on my thumb.
But a key is useless without a location. Before I can speculate, the oven dings, and I shove the book back into place.
I slip the cool metal into the pocket of my pants, keeping my hand over it as if the warmth of my palm can imprint the jagged edges into my skin. It’s small, but it feels heavy. Weighted with expectation.
I hurry back to the kitchen, the scent of melting cheese and spicy pepperoni acting like a beacon in the gloom. I grab the oven glove and retrieve the tray. I don’t bother with a plate. I slide the pizza onto the wooden chopping board and slice it unevenly, the crust cracking under the pressure.
I take a bite, the molten cheese burning the roof of my mouth. I don’t care. The sharp pain is grounding. For a second, I’m just a girl eating a frozen dinner, standing in her kitchen and not a target for my cousin or whoever murdered my dad.
It makes me wonder who would be so bold. Who knew he would be at the golf course? Who knew he would send his guards away so he could be with that woman?
I blink slowly. The woman. That’s fucking who. Whoever she is, despite being dead, is part of this. She was working for someone, and they took her out at the same time, so she couldn’t rat.
It’s the only explanation. Dad wasn’t careless.
He was lonely. And lonely men make stupid mistakes when a pretty face and a sob story are involved.
I swallow the bite of pizza, but it’s turned to ash in my mouth.
Anger, hot and bright, flares in my chest. If I ever find out who put her up to it, I’ll kill them myself.
I finish the pizza and wash my hands before heading back to Dad’s study.
“Banking info. Where are you?”
I know Dad had several private banking accounts with the country’s top banks, but he wouldn’t make it that difficult. It would be a low-level deposit box in a standard bank on the high street.
But which one?
The closest? I pull my phone out and do a quick search. There is a Metro Bank on Kensington High Street. “Bingo,” I mutter. It closes in half an hour.
Like lightning, I lunge for the stairs, taking them two at a time and bursting into my bedroom.
I grab the bag from under the bed first and then slip my feet into a pair of black ballet flats.
Fishing my keys out of the bag, I check that the money and ledger are still in there.
Satisfied I have them in my possession, I grab a jacket and head downstairs, sweeping through the front door, remembering just in time about the oat milk latte still adorning the front step.
I step over it and open my car, sliding into the driver’s seat.
The black sedan flashes its lights at me, but I ignore them.
I need to drive to the bank, park somewhere and make it in time before they close.
The wipers thrash against the windscreen, fighting a losing battle against the deluge. I check the dashboard clock. Twenty minutes.
In the rearview mirror, the black sedan stays glued to my bumper. My ‘protection.’ The irony tastes like ash. They couldn’t save the Pakhan, but they’re determined to suffocate his daughter.
“Move,” I growl, swerving around a black cab that’s idling in the middle of the road.
I mount the kerb slightly to squeeze past a delivery truck, my tyres splashing through a deep puddle. The Evoque handles the aggression beautifully. I don’t care about traffic laws right now. I don’t care about tickets. I care about survival.
Metro Bank looms ahead, the eagle logo a beacon of corporate stability in my collapsing world.
I swerve into a space on a side street, ignoring the resident permit sign.
A parking ticket is the least of my worries when my entire future hangs on a tiny silver key burning a hole in my pocket.
The black sedan drives past, with nowhere to park, and I make a run for it.
I grab my bag, shielding it against my chest to protect the ledger and the cash, and sprint through the rain towards the bank’s glass doors.
My chest heaves as I scan the room. It’s quiet, just a few tellers counting down the minutes to freedom. I march towards the enquiries desk, trying to project the authority of the Antonov name, even though I feel like a fraud in my damp clothes.
“I need to access a safety deposit box,” I tell the woman behind the glass. “Immediately.”
She looks at the screen, then at me, her expression pinching. “Name?”
“Zoya Antonova.”
She taps, and I wait for the axe to drop, but she looks up and smiles. “ID.”
I root around for my purse and show her my driver’s licence.
She nods, satisfied. “Key?”
I dig it out of my pocket and hold it up.
She nods and rises. “This way, please, Miss Antonova.”
My breath has gone shallow. I’m really in the right place.
She leads me into the back, through an alarmed door and into a small room, crammed with safety deposit boxes.
I drop my bag on the table and wait for her to use her master key.
The woman checks the number etched onto my key against her clipboard and leads me to a box at eye level—number 76.
She inserts her master key into the left lock, and I slide my small silver one into the right. My hand shakes, just a tremor, but I grit my teeth and force it steady. We turn them in unison. The mechanism clunks—a heavy, satisfying sound that echoes in the small space.
“I’ll leave you to it,” she says, offering a polite, practised smile before backing out and closing the door.
Silence rushes in to fill the void she leaves. My heart is beating frantically against my ribs as I pull the long metal cassette out. It’s heavier than I expected. I set it on the small viewing table and take a breath that rattles in my chest.
Please.
I lift the lid.
Relief hits me so hard my knees actually buckle, and I have to grip the edge of the table to stay upright.
Cash. Stacks of it. Pound notes, crisp euros, and US dollars bundled in thick rubber bands.
It’s a small fortune and liquid freedom.
It’s enough to vanish. Enough to disappear before Nik can sell me off or bury me next to Dad.
Tucked beside the money is a black velvet pouch, a cheap black burner phone, and behind that is a fake passport back to the Motherland. I gulp and flick it open. It’s for me.
“Jesus, Dad.” I snap it shut and just stand there, staring at the contents, unsure what the hell this is all about. It’s bigger than someone wanting to move in on Mikhail Antonov’s territory here in London. This goes all the way up to the top.
My hands are like ice as I grab the cash and shove it along with the passport and phone into my bag. I pick up the pouch and open it, carefully tipping out the contents. My breath catches. “Fuck.”
Diamonds. At least two million in uncut precious stones.
I was hoping for some cash to make a getaway if needed and to be able to live if Nik cut me off.
But Dad had bigger plans. I scoop the stones back into the velvet pouch, my fingers numb.
Uncut diamonds. Untraceable. Dad didn’t just leave me a nest egg; he left me a parachute.
I shove the pouch deep into my gym bag, burying it beneath the stacks of cash.
The weight of the bag drags on my shoulder as I lock the cassette and pocket the key.
I take a steadying breath, smoothing down my damp cashmere jumper.
I have to walk out of here like I’m not carrying enough contraband to start a war.
“All done?” the teller asks as I step back into the main lobby.
“Yes, thank you,” I manage, forcing a tight smile that feels brittle on my face.
I push through the glass doors and back into the relentless London downpour as the security guard locks the doors behind me.
I clutch the bag to my chest, scanning for the black sedan.
It’s still there, idling further down the road, exhaust pluming white in the chill. They haven’t moved. They’re watching.
I have the means to run now. I could drive to Heathrow, pay cash for a flight to Dubai or Singapore.
But as I slide into the driver’s seat of the Evoque and slam the locks down, I hesitate, and the weight of everything that happened today crashes down on me, leaving me catatonic as I stare at the insignia on the steering wheel.