Chapter 30
Alina
Morning light hits my senses, and I flutter my eyes open.
The bed is warm and smells like him and sex.
Every muscle in my body hums with last night’s decisions.
I stretch, wince, and grin anyway. I’m alone, which doesn’t surprise me, but coffee sits on the bedside table, steam curling.
I sit up and drink until the burn says I’m awake.
Glancing at the phone, I pick it up and tap the screen. I’d better call Mina. She will be harassing my dad, no doubt trying to find out if I’m still alive. Dad won’t give her any details, and it will be driving her mad. I smile as I hit dial and wait.
It rings four times before a groggy voice comes on the line. “This had better be life or death.”
I smile despite myself. “Hey, Mina. It’s me.”
A pause and then a hiss. “You. You! You had me worried sick, and you call me with a ‘Hey, Mina, it’s me’?
And that’s it? I saw you hauled out of the club like a package, then nothing.
Jess has been calling me at stupid o’clock, crying, Nadia thinks you’ve run off to Bali with a DJ, and your dad sounded like a landmine when I called him.
He said you’re safe, and then he hung up on me. On me, Alina.”
“I’m safe,” I say. “Promise. A DJ?” Arkady will cringe.
The silence is tight and angry. “Safe with who?”
“My husband.”
She chokes so hard she starts coughing. “Your what?”
“Husband.”
“You got married? Since when is that how your week goes?”
“Since the other night.”
“Who?” Her voice drops. “Did he force you? Are you okay? Clear your throat if you need help, and I’ll call your dad—”
“I’m fine. He didn’t force me. It was all consensual.”
“Who is he?”
“No one you know.”
“This Kade character? From the one-nighter?”
“Something like that,” I say, keeping her in the dark about the Bratva and all things that go bump in the night. She doesn’t know and has no need to.
“Something like that,” Mina repeats, and I can hear her sitting up in bed, the rustle of covers, the specific quality of her silence that means she’s doing the mental arithmetic and not liking where it lands.
“Alina. I love you. You are my best friend. But you disappear from a club in the arms of a man who looks like he eats people for sport, you have a one-night stand with him, and then ring me days later to tell me you married him. What is going on?”
“Nothing,” I say, biting my lip. “I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that. I’m starting to think it’s code for not fine.”
“No code. Mina, just be happy for me. I’m sorry I couldn’t contact you. It’s taken me a while to get my shit together.”
“You don’t say,” she drawls. Silence rains down, and I let it because she needs to process. “Are you sure this is what you want?”
“My dad is aware of everything, and he hasn’t stormed Mayfair looking for me. What do you think?”
She blows out a breath, knowing my point is made. “Fine,” she says. “You had better not have had some stranger as your bridesmaid.”
“I didn’t have a bridesmaid.”
“Good,” she snaps, but I can tell she isn’t mad at me anymore. “I guess no more partying then, unless you drag the husband along,” she adds in a clipped tone that makes me giggle.
“He might surprise you,” I say. “He did, after all, find me there, and you threw a drink in his face”
“Oh, my God! I forgot about that! Is he mad?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“I missed you.”
“Missed you too.”
“Call Jess. She’s been a wreck.”
“I will. Today.”
“And Nadia. She pretends she doesn’t care, but she’s been texting me.”
“I’ll sort it. Send me her number.”
“Okay. I’m going back to sleep now, you bitch.”
She hangs up, and I sit with the phone in my lap for a moment and let the warmth of it settle before I call Jess. She picks up on the second ring.
“Alina.” My name comes out in two syllables of pure relief. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God! Mina just texted me! You got married?”
I blink and then snort. Mina works fast. “Yes. Presumably, I don’t need to add anything else,” I say, my tone bone-dry.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m good. Better than good. I’m great.”
“Really?” She sounds sceptical.
“Really,” I say, and I mean it. “I know it’s mad. I know it looks completely unhinged from the outside. But I’m good, Jess.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Arkady.”
“Is he good to you?”
The question lands somewhere soft and unexpected, the way Jess’s questions always do. She doesn’t go for the throat the way Mina does. She goes for the thing underneath the throat, the part you weren’t guarding because you didn’t think anyone would look there.
“Yeah,” I say. “He is.”
“Okay.” A beat. “Okay. Then I’m happy for you.” And she means it, which is the thing about Jess. No performance. No dramatics. Just the clean, uncomplicated warmth of someone who loves you and decides that’s enough information to go on. “But you have to bring him to meet us. Properly.”
“I’ll work on it.”
“Soon.”
“Soon,” I agree, which is a promise I have no idea how to keep. But I’ll keep it anyway, because Jess has never once asked me for anything I couldn’t give her.
We hang up, and I place the phone back on the bedside cabinet so I can finish my coffee.
Mina must have gone back to sleep because she hasn’t sent Nadia’s number, so that text will have to wait.
I pull on an oversized tee and a pair of soft shorts and go downstairs in bare feet, coffee mug in hand.
The house is quiet. Last night’s furniture arrangement has already been corrected.
The chairs are back where they belong. The drinks cabinet is closed.
If you didn’t know what happened in this room twelve hours ago, you’d never guess.
I find Elena in the kitchen.
“Sit,” she says, without turning from the hob.
I sit.
She puts eggs in front of me four minutes later. Scrambled, soft, with toast cut on the diagonal. They’re perfect. Elena clearly has opinions about how a pakhan’s wife starts her morning.
“He’s in his office,” she says, refilling my mug without being asked.
“I wasn’t going to ask.”
“You were going to think about asking and then pretend not to.”
She bustles off, and I eat everything on the plate before rising and placing the dishes in the dishwasher. I carry my mug down the hall and knock twice on the office door.
“Come in.”
Arkady sits behind the desk, the laptop open, a coffee at his elbow.
He looks up when I push the door open, and something in his face shifts, barely perceptible, the particular quality of a man who has been alone with something heavy and is quietly relieved to have the company, even if he’d never say so.
“You don’t have to knock.”
“It’s rude not to.”
He smiles, and I nearly melt.
“Did you speak to your friends yet?”
I nod. “Mina and Jess are both up to speed. I don’t have Nadia’s number. Mina said she’d text it.”
Moving to one of the chairs opposite the desk, I sit and curl my legs up. “What are you doing?”
He frowns. “Business.”
“Does that mean shut up, Alina. It’s none of your business?”
He chuckles. “Something like that. But don’t take offence. There isn’t much you can do about an arms deal going down in ten minutes in Brixton.”
“Okay, nope, I’m out.” I stand up. “I’ll see you later.”
He nods, still looking at his laptop.
I make it to the door when he says, “One hour. Be ready to move out.”
“Move out where?” I ask.
“Out,” he says. “Practical clothes.”
I stare at him for a few seconds but realise I’m not getting fuck all from him apart from that, so with a sigh, I leave him to it and head to the kitchen to drop off my mug before running up the stairs to hit the shower.
As the water beats down on me, my thoughts race. Where is he taking me?
Wherever it is, it will involve running. Or the possibility of running. If it were out to brunch, he would’ve said wear something nice. Practical doesn’t bode well for Mimosas and Eggs Benedict.
I condition my hair and stand under the spray longer than I need to, running through possibilities.
Practical could mean a lot of things in this world.
It could mean a drive somewhere that requires a fast exit.
It could mean standing in a cold warehouse while Arkady discusses something I’m not supposed to hear but will hear anyway.
It could mean something I haven’t thought of yet, which is the category that worries me most.
I shut off the water and towel-dry quickly, then stand in front of the wardrobe and make a decision.
Dark jeans, thick enough to handle a scrape if I need to move fast. A fitted black long-sleeve tee.
My white trainers are clean but not precious.
I pull my hair back into a low ponytail, no product, nothing that needs maintaining.
I skip the jewellery except for the rings, which aren’t optional.
It’s raining, so I grab a lightweight raincoat suitable for Spring.
My gaze lingers on the gun, and after two seconds of debate, I snatch it up with a shrug and shove it in the inside pocket of the jacket.
I look at myself in the mirror and decide I look like a woman who can ‘move out’ to somewhere.
Good enough.
I make it downstairs with ten minutes to spare.
Dima is in the hallway with his jacket on, which tells me we’re not doing a practice run.
Arkady appears a few seconds later, dressed in dark jeans and a black jacket over a fitted tee.
No suit. No cufflinks. This is a different version of him, stripped back and functional, and somehow more dangerous for it.
He looks me over once, top to bottom, and nods. That’s apparently the dress code approved.
“Where are we going?” I try again.
“You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.” He moves past me toward the front door, where Dima is already holding it open.
I fall into step behind him because there’s nothing else to do, and because, if I’m honest, the curiosity is already eating me alive, and I’d rather be in the car finding out than standing in the hallway not knowing.
A black Range Rover is idling in the driveway.
Kosta is behind the wheel, and Dima climbs into the passenger seat.
Arkady gets in the back, and I slide in beside him.
The door closes, and we pull out of the driveway before I’ve even got my seatbelt on.
I click it into place and glance sideways at Arkady, who is looking out the window with the particular quality of stillness that means he’s already somewhere else in his head.
His jaw is set. Not tense, exactly. Just decided.
I look out my window and watch Mayfair slide past in the grey morning drizzle.
We head south.
I track the route without making it obvious I’m tracking it.
Kosta drives with the unhurried confidence of someone who knows exactly where he’s going and has no intention of being late.
We cross the river at Vauxhall Bridge, the Thames the colour of pewter beneath the low cloud, and continue south.
After a while, it looks like we’re headed into Crawley.
Kosta turns off the main road and into an estate of low warehouses behind a trading estate.
The kind of place that sells bathroom tiles on one side and stores things that aren’t bathroom tiles on the other.
He parks between two trucks that give the Range Rover complete cover from the road, and the engine dies.
Nobody moves immediately.
“Stay close,” Arkady says, and gets out.
That’s it? That’s the briefing.
I unclip my seatbelt and follow him out into the drizzle, pulling the hood of my jacket up. Dima falls in behind me, which I’ve learned means I’m being quietly sandwiched for my own protection without anyone making a fuss about it. The question is why? What are we doing here?