Chapter Eight - Dimitri
I’ve never had much patience for waiting games. Most people break quickly enough under pressure, and those who don’t, you remove before they turn into a problem.
Annie Vale is different. She’s not reckless enough to push outright, not cautious enough to stay still. She hovers in that narrow space between, always testing, always calculating, like a caged animal checking the bars again and again just in case one has weakened overnight.
I’ve given her time to show her hand, and she hasn’t. So I decide to force one of my own.
The delivery is simple by design. A locked black case, light enough to carry with one hand but sealed tight.
It doesn’t matter what’s inside; what matters is what she thinks it might be.
I hand it to her in the study, the leather handle pressed against her palm like a leash I’m allowing her to hold for a moment.
“Deliver it,” I tell her.
Her fingers tighten. “To where?”
I slide a folded slip of paper across the desk. The address is scrawled in neat block letters, a location in a neighborhood where shadows linger longer than daylight.
“When I get there?”
“You hand it over. That’s all.”
Her eyes narrow, suspicion bright and sharp. “What if someone asks what’s in it?”
“Don’t open it. Don’t ask questions.”
The corner of her mouth twists, a hint of sarcasm slipping through the fear. “That’s reassuring.”
I lean back in my chair, watching her closely. “It isn’t supposed to be.”
She holds my gaze a moment longer than most would dare, then looks down at the case. Her nod is small, clipped. She understands this is a test, even if she doesn’t know what kind.
I assign one man to escort her. Sergei. Green enough to make her think she might get away with something, steady enough to report back every detail she thinks he doesn’t notice. I make no effort to reassure her, no promises of safety. That’s the point.
What she doesn’t know is that I’ve already planned the rest.
Another car will follow at a distance, two of my best men inside, armed and ready.
If she tries to run, if she even steps out of line, they’ll put her down before she gets two blocks.
But I don’t think she will. Not yet. She’s clever enough to know the leash is still around her throat, even if I’ve let her think it’s looser.
The neighborhood she’s going into is a cold one, all narrow streets and old men who watch too closely.
History clings to the bricks there. The people remember debts longer than lifetimes, and they know the kind of car that pulls up with tinted windows and a driver who doesn’t smile. That’s the backdrop I want her to see.
A reminder that my world doesn’t stop at the gates of my estate—it stretches into every corner of this city, every dark street, every door with rusted hinges.
I watch her from the window as she leaves.
Sergei opens the car door for her, and she slips inside, the case clutched against her chest. The rain has eased into a fine drizzle, the kind that soaks you slowly and seeps into your bones.
She glances back once at the estate, her eyes narrowing as if memorizing the path. I file away the look.
The engines rumble to life. The convoy rolls forward, my second car hanging back just enough to keep her from noticing. I know every turn they’ll take, every intersection, every alley where someone might be watching.
If she runs, it will be her last mistake.
As I track the taillights disappearing down the long drive, I know she won’t.
***
Annie
The car slows, tires crunching against uneven pavement. My grip on the case is iron-tight, my palm damp where the handle cuts into it.
Sergei clears his throat from the driver’s seat but doesn’t look at me. He’s been quiet the whole ride—stiff posture, eyes flicking from mirror to mirror, hands white on the wheel. He’s nervous. That doesn’t help my nerves.
We roll into a narrow street that looks like it hasn’t seen sunlight in years. Cracked bricks lean over the sidewalks like crooked teeth.
Men linger in doorways, smoking, eyes following the car with the kind of curiosity that isn’t casual. It prickles under my skin, sharp and electric. I’m painfully aware of the way pedestrians shift out of our path. Not because they fear hitting the car—because they fear what’s inside it.
My throat is dry. I adjust my hold on the case and make myself breathe evenly. Dimitri’s words echo in my head: “Deliver it. Don’t open it. Don’t ask questions.” He offered no reassurance or safety net. Just an order.
The car stops outside a warehouse with peeling paint and windows like blind eyes. A man waits at the entrance, his black coat buttoned to the throat, his face gaunt but sharp. Sergei cuts the engine and gives me the smallest nod. “This is it.”
I want to ask him what happens if I screw up, but the words stick. Instead, I push the door open, step into the drizzle, and feel the cold sink into my skin. The man at the entrance doesn’t smile. His eyes track me the way a predator tracks prey, measuring, dissecting.
I force my legs forward, case heavy in my hand though I know it’s light. The man takes a slow step toward me.
“You have something for me.” His voice is thick with an accent, Russian drawn out like smoke.
I hold the case out, my knuckles pale around the handle. “Here.”
He doesn’t take it. His gaze lingers on me instead, sliding from my face down to my grip on the case, then back again. It’s the kind of stare that makes my stomach knot.
“What’s inside?” he asks.
The question is a trap. I hear it in the deliberate softness of his tone. He knows I don’t have the answer, but he wants to see what I’ll do.
I meet his eyes, even though every instinct screams not to. “That’s not my business.”
He chuckles, low and humorless. “Not your business,” he repeats, like he’s rolling the words around, testing them.
He steps closer, too close, until I can smell smoke and cologne on his coat.
His hand brushes the case, but instead of taking it, he lets his fingers linger against mine. My skin crawls.
“You’re new,” he says. “Pretty little thing like you, carrying something this important. Strange choice.”
My jaw locks. I keep my grip steady, though my heart’s slamming against my ribs. “Do you want it or not?”
His smile is thin. “You have nerve. I like that.”
Finally, he takes the case, fingers sliding it free from my hand with deliberate slowness. I ball my fists to stop them from shaking. He turns it once, weighing it, then tucks it under his arm.
“Tell him I said thank you,” he says. His eyes glint, cold and sharp. “Tell him I like his new courier.”
I don’t answer. I step back, spine rigid, and force my feet to carry me to the car. Sergei already has the engine running. I climb in, slam the door harder than necessary, and keep my eyes fixed straight ahead as we pull away.
The case is gone, but my hands still feel the ghost of its weight.
For several blocks, silence fills the car. My chest tightens with every shadow we pass, every set of eyes that seems to linger too long. Then Sergei mutters, “Car behind us.”
I snap my head up. The rearview mirror shows headlights a little too steady, a little too close. My stomach twists.
“What do we do?” My voice comes out sharper than intended.
“Nothing,” Sergei says. His knuckles whiten further on the wheel. “Stay quiet.”
So I do. My eyes dart between the mirrors, counting seconds between turns, watching the same headlights follow. My pulse races, but I force my body still. I can’t let panic show. If this is another test, I won’t fail it by falling apart.
Block after block, the car trails us. My palms are slick, my breath shallow, but I sit rigid, alert. Every streetlight we pass, every corner we take, I note the rhythm. I imagine escape routes, alleys, doors I could disappear through if it came to that.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the car turns down another street and vanishes into the city.
Sergei exhales, long and shaky. “It’s gone.”
I don’t relax. My body stays wound tight, nerves thrumming like live wires. “You’re sure?”
“Yeah.” He glances at me briefly. “You did good. Didn’t freak out.”
The words land strange. Praise? From Sergei? I nod once, then stare back out the window, hiding the tremor in my hands by clenching them tight in my lap.
By the time we return to the estate, exhaustion weighs heavy on me, but adrenaline still buzzes under my skin. The car rolls to a stop in the courtyard, rain slick on the stone. I push the door open and step out, the damp air biting cold.
He’s waiting.
Dimitri stands near the entrance, coat draped over his shoulders, posture relaxed but eyes sharp. His gaze flicks to me the second I step out, assessing, calculating. I hold myself tall, even though my legs want to fold.
I expect him to say something, to test me again with words. Instead, he simply smirks—barely more than a curve of his mouth—and brushes past me on his way inside.
It should feel dismissive. Maybe it is, but there’s weight in it too. Like he knows exactly what I’ve just been through, and exactly how close I came to shattering.
I stand there for a long moment, the drizzle soaking into my hair, before finally following him in.
Still, as I climb the stairs back to my room, one thought refuses to let me go.
I didn’t flinch, but the way his eyes lingered—the way that smirk cut through me—I know he saw more than I wanted him to.
Worse? A part of me wanted him to.
I close my door behind me and press my back to it, letting the silence of the room swallow me whole. My hands are still trembling, a fine shake I can’t get rid of, no matter how tight I clench them into fists.
The encounter replays in my head on a vicious loop—the contact’s cold eyes, his fingers brushing mine, the way he looked at me like I was prey. Then the tail on the ride home, those headlights glued to us, and the awful certainty that we weren’t going to make it back.
I did. I didn’t panic. I didn’t run. I kept my mouth shut and delivered what Dimitri asked me to.
The case is gone, but it feels like it’s still in my hands, pressing into my skin, branding me with something I can’t shake. I pace the length of the room, fighting the urge to scream, to cry, to let out everything I swallowed in front of Sergei, in front of Dimitri.
I stop at the balcony doors, staring at my own reflection in the glass. My face is pale, my eyes too wide. I whisper it aloud, needing to hear it: “I didn’t break.”
The words echo, fragile but real.
Yet, beneath the relief, another thought coils tighter: he knows. Dimitri saw me tonight, saw the way I held that case, the way I didn’t fold under pressure. He didn’t praise me, but the smirk was enough. He noticed.
I press my forehead to the cold glass, closing my eyes. I should feel proud, but instead I feel exposed, like I’ve given him something he can use against me. And deep down, where I don’t want to admit it, a dangerous truth whispers back.
I wanted him to notice.