22. Katerina
KATERINA
The drive is silent except for the low growl of the engine and the occasional crackle of comms murmuring through the small earpieces both men wear.
A voice will murmur something indistinct, followed by a short acknowledgment from the driver or the man beside me, then the silence returns.
Neither of them speaks to me.
Not even a glance in my direction.
I keep my arms wrapped tightly around myself, trying to hold onto what little warmth has finally returned to my body now that the heater has been running for several minutes.
The cold still clings to my skin like a second layer, making my teeth want to chatter every time a gust of wind rattles the car, but at least I’m not at any risk from dying of hypothermia anytime soon.
My eyes stay locked forward. Partly out of stubbornness, partly because I’m painfully aware that even if I tried to bolt now, it wouldn’t end well.
Even if I managed to throw the door open and hurl myself onto the road, risking whatever broken bones the pavement might give me, the cold outside would finish the job within the hour.
So, I stay put.
Trees blur past on either side of the road like black ghosts. Eventually, the overwhelming darkness begins to thin. Streetlights appear one by one along the roadside as buildings slowly replace trees. The distant glow of city lights spreads across the horizon like a low-burning fire.
The streets are empty, snow piling along the sidewalks beneath silent apartment blocks and dark storefronts. The few traffic lights we pass blink lazily between colors, their glow reflecting off the snow-slicked asphalt.
Eventually, the overwhelming darkness gives way to city lights as we finally arrive back in civilization.
I take note of the streets we pass and realize we’re heading to the opposite end of Moscow.
No one is out this time of night, but even if they were, I doubt I’d be able to flag anyone down to help me.
The longer I sit trapped in this car, the more one thing becomes painfully clear. These men are not FSB. At first, I thought the lack of uniforms meant they were simply operating covertly. But now the details are starting to not add up.
Neither of them have any visible identification. Nothing marking them as government agents. And the gun resting at the hip of the man beside me?
That’s the real giveaway.
My gaze drifts toward him again, studying the weapon at his hip carefully.
The faint scuff marks along the metal catch my attention.
Right where the serial number should be.
FSB would never bother removing the serial numbers from their firearms. There would be no point.
Government-issued weapons are tracked meticulously.
If anything, removing the number would create more problems for them, not fewer.
Which means this gun didn’t come from a state armory, it came from somewhere else.
Somewhere unofficial.
A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
So if they’re not FSB…
Then who are they? And the more terrifying question… Who sent them?
The tires crunch over unplowed fresh snow as the SUV turns off the main road and glides down a quieter residential street lined with towering stone walls and wrought iron fences lining both sides of the road.
My body tenses instinctively.
This is it. Wherever they’ve been taking me, wherever this ends, we’re almost there.
The SUV eventually rolls to a stop in front of a tall set of iron gates. For a moment the headlights illuminate nothing but black bars and the snow drift. Then the driver presses a button somewhere on the console, causing the gates to hum softly as they begin to part.
I lean forward just enough to see through the windshield.
What I see makes my stomach twist in confusion.
Because it isn’t a government facility like I’d expected when my home first got raided.
There are no concrete barricades or armed checkpoints to pass through protecting a sterile government building that waits for us just up ahead.
And it definitely isn’t the kind of abandoned warehouse I’d half expected to be dragged into so someone could tie me to a chair and beat answers out of me that I don’t, and have never, had.
Instead, beyond the iron gates sits a massive mansion.
It rises out of the snowy darkness like something out of a painting.
Stone walls climb three stories high, warm golden light spilling from tall windows that overlook a long, sweeping driveway.
A grand portico shelters the entrance, thick pillars framing massive double doors carved with intricate designs.
The grounds are immaculately kept despite the storm.
The entire estate radiates quiet, obscene wealth. The kind that doesn’t come from honest business and climbing up the corporate ladder, but from the kind of power and influence that a man who has never had to hear the word no spoken to him in his entire life has.
My chest tightens.
The realization hits me all at once.
My head snaps toward the man sitting beside me, my eyes widening
One of them.
One of the members of that secret society… the group Aleksandr has tried so hard to keep me away from. The men who quietly control Moscow’s underworld while the rest of the city pretends they don’t exist.
Sheer, overwhelming relief crashes into me so violently, my eyes begin to sting. For a moment, I can barely breathe. The pieces slide together in my mind all at once.
He got my letter.
That’s why someone was waiting for me in the tunnel.
He sent them to come get me.
A shaky breath escapes me as the weight that has been crushing my chest for the past several hours finally begins to lift.
He didn’t abandon me.
The SUV rolls to a smooth stop in front of the mansion’s grand entrance.
Both doors on the left side of the vehicle open at once, cold air rushing inside, chasing away the heat that had just started to unthaw me. The man who pulled me from the tunnel leans back into the car and extends a hand toward me, gesturing for me to come closer.
I slide across the seat without hesitation.
The moment my hand touches his, he yanks me out of the vehicle and hoists me over his shoulder again like a sack of potatoes.
“What—” I start instinctively.
But the protest dies in my throat. This time, I don’t fight him. Honestly, I’m too eager to get inside and see Aleksandr.
The man carries me up the wide stone steps toward the massive double doors of the mansion.
Snow crunches beneath his boots as he climbs, his grip around my legs steady and unbothered by my weight even when I twist around to face where we’re headed.
The other man jogs ahead of us, reaching the entrance first. He grabs the heavy door handles and pulls them open.
Warmth spills out from inside, golden light flooding across the snow-covered steps. The cold that had been clinging to my bones melts almost instantly the moment we cross the threshold. As soon as we’re inside, my eyes lock onto the impressive entrance.
The foyer is enormous—two stories tall with a sweeping staircase curving up along the far wall like something out of an old imperial palace.
Marble floors gleam beneath a massive chandelier dripping with crystal that scatters soft light across the entire space.
Every detail has been chosen with refined taste and more money than most people will ever see in their lifetimes.
It’s just as grand and beautiful as the Volkov estate.
Maybe even more so.
Instead of setting me down once we’re inside, the man carrying me keeps walking as if he’s forgotten he’s even holding me. The heavy front doors close behind us with a deep, echoing thud, sealing the storm outside. He crosses the foyer without slowing and turns down a hallway just off to the right.
I shift awkwardly over his shoulder, craning my neck to see where we’re going. The walls are lined with oil paintings and antique sconces that cast soft pools of light across polished floors. Everything smells faintly of smoke and expensive cologne.
He continues down the hall until we reach a wide, arched doorway.
The room beyond glows with firelight. A large hearth burns along the far wall, flames crackling lazily as they cast warm orange reflections across pale walls and silk-upholstered furniture arranged in a carefully chosen layout.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line two sides of the room and are filled with leather-bound volumes and decorative pieces that look far too valuable to be casually displayed.
It’s the kind of room meant for deals made over drinks, or interrogations disguised as polite conversation.
Before I can even open my mouth to ask where Aleksandr is, he drops me right onto one of the couches beside the fire. The cushions bounce beneath me as I land, the sudden movement jarring enough to knock my focus back on him and not the volumes lining the walls.
My face immediately pulls into a scowl.
“You know,” I snap, sitting upright and brushing my hair out of my face, “you could be more polite.”
The man straightens slowly, rolling one shoulder as if tossing me around required no effort whatsoever. One dark brow lifts.
“For what purpose?” he asks blandly. “You’re not mine to impress.”
Fire ignites instantly in my veins. What an asshole.
“Maybe because I’m a guest?” I shoot back.
He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse before dragging a hand across the side of his face right over the thin scratches my nails left earlier.
“You know, you’re right up Volkov’s alley because you’re just as fucking irritating as he is,” he mutters under his breath.
I stare at him for a moment.
Honestly, I don’t know what I expected. Certainly not hospitality, that’s for sure.