29. Anya #2
There’s a line of taxis near the curb. I choose the oldest one because the driver barely looks up from his cigarette.
I open the back door and get in. “South canal,” I say, giving him the street name from memory.
He glances at me in the mirror. “That area is mostly warehouses.”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
I meet his eyes in the mirror.
He looks away first. “Fine.”
The taxi pulls into traffic. I sit back, one hand on my stomach, the other gripping the edge of the seat. The farther we drive from the estate, the louder my thoughts become.
He will search the house.
He will know I left.
He will tear the city apart.
And when he finds me, if he finds me, I don’t know whether he will hold me or rage at me first. I will lose his trust forever.
The taxi turns onto the road leading toward the canal. The buildings grow older, lower, more spread out. Warehouses appear behind rusted fences. Broken windows. Empty lots. Trucks parked in muddy yards.
My heart starts pounding again.
I look out at the gray water of the canal and think of my father.
Then Dmitri.
Then Yaromir.
Then the tiny, impossible life inside me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again.
This time, I know exactly who I mean.
The taxi drops me two streets away from the address.
I don’t let the driver take me closer. Something about the empty road, the rusted fences, and the canal lying flat and gray beyond the warehouses makes instinct finally speak louder than panic.
“Here,” I say.
The driver looks back at me through the mirror. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs, takes the cash, and drives off before I can change my mind.
For a moment, I stand alone on the pavement with the cold cutting through my coat and the smell of damp metal in the air. The south canal district looks abandoned, but not empty.
Empty places feel peaceful. This one feels watched.
The warehouse from Dmitri’s message sits at the end of a narrow service road.
Its windows are mostly broken, some covered with old boards.
The brick walls are stained black near the roofline, and weeds have grown through cracks in the concrete.
An old sign hangs crooked above a loading bay, the name of the textile company faded beyond recognition.
My hand presses instinctively against my stomach.
I should turn around. I know that. Every sensible part of me knows this is wrong.
But then I think of my father somewhere inside, tied up or hurt or waiting for me to do something useful for once, and I keep walking.
My shoes scrape against gravel. The sound seems too loud.
The loading bay door is half-open.
I step inside, and the air changes immediately.
Colder. Stale. Dusty with old fabric and damp wood.
Pale light comes through broken windows high above, catching in the floating dust. The warehouse floor stretches wide and mostly empty, except for a few rotting crates, torn plastic sheets, and rusted machinery pushed against the walls.
“Papa?” I call.
My voice echoes back at me. No answer.
My throat tightens.
“Papa?”
A sound comes from the left.
Slow clapping.
I turn on my heels.
He’s dressed too well for this place. Dark coat, clean shoes, hair brushed back as if he’s meeting me at a restaurant instead of in an abandoned warehouse after threatening to cut up my father.
There’s a faint bruise near his jaw from Yaromir’s fist.
Good. I’m glad it still hurts.
“Where is he?” I ask.
Dmitri smiles.
That smile used to make me feel chosen. Now it makes my skin crawl.
“You came.”
“Where’s my father?”
“You came alone.”
“Dmitri.”
“I wasn’t sure you would.” He takes a step closer. “I thought perhaps my brother had trained you too well already.”
I stay where I am, though every instinct screams at me to move back. “If you hurt him?—”
“You always were dramatic about Sergei.”
“Where is he?”
Dmitri tilts his head. “Do you really care?”
I hate my father enough that the feeling has become part of my bones, but I still hear his voice in my memories. I still see him at dinner, talking too loudly about Volkov connections. I still see the brief flash of fear in his eyes when he told me men would kill him.
“I came,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Now show me he’s alive.”
Dmitri’s smile widens. The truth arrives before he says anything.
My father is not here.
Maybe he never was.
My stomach drops. “You lied.”
He lifts one shoulder. “You wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
The fear changes shape. Anger floods in so fast it almost steadies me.
“You used his phone.”
“He’s very careless with his things.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Nothing that should concern you.”
“You said?—”
“I said what I needed to say.”
I stare at him, suddenly understanding just how stupid I have been.
Not naive. Not trusting.
Stupid.
I walked out of Yaromir’s house alone, pregnant and unguarded, because Dmitri knew exactly which wound to press.
Dmitri watches my face and looks pleased with what he finds there. “Don’t look so betrayed,” he says. “You used to like when I was clever.”
“You were never clever,” I say. “You were just protected.”
His expression hardens. For a second, I see the real Dmitri beneath the charm. The spoiled son. The wounded boy. The man who can’t bear being made small.
Then he moves. Fast.
His hand closes around my arm, and before I can pull back, he drags me against him.
“Let go.”
“Do you know what you did to me?” he says.
His grip bites through my coat.
“I said let go.”
“You made me look like a fool.”
“You did that yourself.”
His face twists. Then his mouth comes down on mine.
It’s not a kiss. Not really.
It’s punishment.
His hand clamps at the back of my head, holding me in place as his mouth crushes against mine.
I shove at his chest, panic flashing bright and violent inside me.
The smell of his cologne turns my stomach.
His body is familiar in the worst possible way, a memory I want scrubbed off my skin.
I make a sound against him and twist hard.
At the edge of my vision, something flashes.
I freeze for half a second.
That’s all he needed.
Dmitri pulls back, breathing hard, satisfaction already returning to his face.
My mouth feels bruised, and my whole body shakes.
Not with weakness. With rage.
“My father isn’t here, he never was.” Bile rises up my throat. I should have trusted Yaromir when he said he was keeping an eye on him. I should have called him. “You planned this.”
He smiles. “Yaromir isn’t the only one who knows how to use a story.”
I slap him. The sound cracks through the warehouse. His head turns with the force of it.
For one beautiful second, he’s silent.
Then he looks back at me slowly. The smile is gone. His eyes are flat and furious. “You little bitch.”
I step back.
He takes one step forward.
I take another back.
The shift happens instantly. The performance drops. The fake tenderness, the old familiarity, the wounded lover act. What remains is a man angry enough to stop pretending he will not hurt me.
My blood goes cold.
Dmitri’s mouth curves again, but this time there’s nothing charming in it. “Run, baby,” he says softly. “Run.”