7. Aria
ARIA
I see him again three days later.
I’m in the library, which has become my refuge. It’s the one place in this house where I can pretend to have some semblance of control. The door opens and I look up expecting Maksim or one of the staff.
It’s Alexander Morozov.
My entire body goes cold. The book in my hands might as well weigh a thousand pounds. I can’t move or do anything except stare at the man I saw standing over a dead body eight years ago.
The man I heard plotting to kill Nikolai Sokolov.
“Apologies,” he says pleasantly. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here. Maksim mentioned a first edition Tolstoy he thought I might enjoy.”
He’s lying. I can see it in the way his cold blue eyes assess me and in the slight curve of his lips that isn’t quite a smile.
“I was just leaving.” I stand too quickly, and the book tumbles from my lap to the floor.
We both reach for it at the same time.
His hand closes over mine on the spine, and I freeze. His skin is cool, the burn scar on his hand rough against my knuckles. He’s way too close and I can smell his cologne, which is too strong.
He’s so close I can see the way his silver-threaded hair is combed back from his face.
“Allow me.” He picks up the book and reads the spine. “Art authentication techniques.” His eyes cut to mine and I feel locked in place. “Still interested in the field?”
My mouth is dry. “Just…passing time,” I say, hoping I sound believable.
“Mmm.” He hands me the book, and I snatch it from him, clutching it to my chest like a shield. “It must be difficult, being away from your work. Did you keep up with authentication in Philadelphia?”
The question feels loaded, like he’s testing me to see what I’ll reveal.
“A little.” I edge toward the door. “Excuse me, I need to—”
“It’s interesting.” He moves slightly, not blocking my path, but making me acutely aware of his presence. “I could swear we’ve met before. Perhaps at a gallery opening? I attended quite a few in Brighton Beach years ago.”
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “I don’t think so.” I need to get out of here.
“No?” His head tilts slightly, like he’s studying a puzzle. “Strange. You seem so familiar. The art world is small, after all.” He snaps his fingers as if he’s gotten it. “You worked at the Levitsky Gallery, correct?”
He knows. Oh god, he knows exactly who I am and where I worked and he’s playing with me like a cat with a mouse.
“You must have me confused with someone else. I really need to go.” I move past him, and his hand barely brushes my arm. It makes my skin crawl.
“Of course. Perhaps we’ll have a chance to talk more another time.” His voice follows me as I hurry toward the door. “About art and…old times.”
I don’t respond. I walk out of the library with measured steps when everything in me is screaming to run. I make it to the nearest bathroom and make sure I lock the door behind me before I sink to the floor.
My hands are shaking. Actually no, my whole body is shaking.
Somehow, he recognized me and now he’s testing to see what I know, whether I’m a threat.
The panic attack hits like a freight train. I can’t get air into my lungs. My vision tunnels and black spots dance at the edges. I press my forehead to my knees and try to count—one, two, three, four—but the numbers dissolve into static.
He’s here. He has access to this house and to my son. He’s a traitor who murdered someone in cold blood and plotted to kill Nikolai Sokolov.
What is he doing here? Why is he still close to the family after all these years?
Unless…unless he succeeded. Unless Nikolai is already dead and Alexander has taken over and no one knows.
No. That doesn’t make sense either. Maksim talks about his brother in present tense. Nikolai is alive. That means the plot failed or hasn’t happened yet. Or Maksim was involved and the plan changed and I don’t know anything for certain except that Alexander is here and I’m trapped.
I don’t know who to trust. I can’t trust anyone, not even the father of my child, because what if he was part of it? What if he’s still part of whatever Alexander is planning?
I don’t know long I sit there on the cold tile floor, trying to remember how to breathe.
Eventually, the panic subsides enough that I can stand on trembling legs.
I splash cold water on my face and stare at myself in the mirror.
I wince. I look like hell. I’m pale and hollow-eyed, with dark circles that makeup can’t quite hide.
I look like someone who’s been running for eight years and finally got caught.
Because that’s exactly what I am.
Alexander starts visiting more frequently after that, at least two times a week. “Business meetings,” Maksim says when I ask why Alexander is here so often. “There are territorial issues that need attention. Alexander is helping coordinate the response.”
I want to scream that Alexander is the territorial issue. He’s the danger and the viper in Maksim’s house and no one sees it but me.
But I can’t. I have no proof or evidence. Just eight-year-old memories of things I overheard while hiding in a warehouse. And because I don’t know if Maksim was involved too. Would warning him sign my own death warrant?
And who would believe me?
I try to avoid Alexander, but the estate isn’t that large. We cross paths in hallways, in the dining room, and on the grounds. Every time, he’s unfailingly polite and asks how I’m settling in or comments on the weather. The small talk feels like a knife against my throat.
The second direct encounter happens in the garden.
I’m with Daniel, watching him dribble a soccer ball. He’s laughing as he chases after the ball, dirt flying as he runs as fast as he can. He looks so happy. So healthy. So safe.
Then Alexander rounds the corner of the hedge maze, and my blood turns to ice.
“Beautiful afternoon,” he says pleasantly as he neatly stops the ball. “And who is this young man?”
Daniel freezes, his chest rising and falling rapidly from his running and looks at me for guidance. I want to grab him and run, but I force myself to stay calm.
“This is Daniel,” I manage. “Daniel, this is Mr. Morozov. He works with…” I can’t bring myself to say with your father. “With Maksim.”
“Hello, sir.” Daniel’s manners are perfect. Maksim has been teaching him how to greet adults properly. He offers his small hand.
Alexander shakes it, and I watch his eyes take in every detail of my son. The gray Sokolov eyes. The dark hair cut like Maksim’s. The aristocratic bone structure that marks him as unmistakably Nikolai’s nephew.
“A pleasure to meet you, Daniel.” Alexander smiles, but it looks forced. “You look very much like your uncle. Has Maksim told you about Nikolai?”
“A little.” Daniel is cautious, the way he is with most strangers. “He says Uncle Nikolai is very smart and very busy.”
“Indeed he is.” Alexander’s gaze flicks to me. “Your mother must be proud. Such a fine boy, and a Sokolov through and through.”
The way he says it makes my skin crawl, like he’s cataloging Daniel’s value and assessing him as an asset or a liability.
“We should go in,” I say abruptly. “It’s getting a bit too warm.”
“Aww Mom, do we have to?” Daniel whines, looking put out.
“Your mother is right, Daniel, and you should always listen to her.” Alexander lightly kicks the ball back to my son. “Perhaps we’ll see each other at dinner. I believe Maksim invited me to stay this evening.”
I grit my teeth. Of course he did.
I take Daniel’s hand and walk back toward the house, feeling Alexander’s eyes on my back the entire way.
That night at dinner, I can barely eat. Alexander sits across from me, making conversation with Maksim about business I don’t understand. But every so often, his gaze slides to me as if he’s trying to figure out what I know.
I try to warn Maksim. I don’t tell him everything, but I try.
“I don’t like Alexander around Daniel,” I blurt out one evening after our son has gone to bed. We’re in Maksim’s room as we’ve been sleeping here most nights now.
He’s sitting in bed in black sleep pants and nothing else. I hate that even though I’m scared shitless, I can’t help but admire how handsome he is. The lamplight catches on the planes of his muscular chest, highlighting the definition of his abs, and the power in his shoulders and arms.
He looks up from the reports he’s reading, those gray eyes sharp and assessing. “What?”
“Alexander. I don’t want him around Daniel.”
His eyes narrow. “Why not?”
“I just don’t.” I’m pacing, unable to sit still. “There’s something about him that makes me uncomfortable.”
“Something about him makes you uncomfortable?” He sets the papers aside, and I watch the muscles in his arms flex with the movement. His eyebrows raise in disbelief. “You’re going to need to be more specific than that.”
I cross my arms over my chest tightly as I continue to wear a hole in the carpet. “I don’t trust him.”
“You don’t trust anyone,” he says flatly. “That’s not a reason.”
“It’s reason enough for me.” I stop pacing and face him. “I’m Daniel’s mother. If I don’t want someone around my son—”
“Our son.” He stands, and the movement is fluid and powerful.
He’s wearing only those damned low-slung sleep pants, and I can see the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband.
“Start remembering he’s not just yours. And Alexander is family.
He’s Nikolai’s most trusted lieutenant and saved his life. ”
Or he’s a traitor who’s been playing a long game. But I can’t say that. Not when I don’t know if Maksim was involved too.
“I don’t care—”
“Well, I do.” His voice rises. “You can’t just demand that one of my brother’s closest advisors stay away from our son without giving me a real reason.”
“My instinct is a real reason,” I shoot back.
“Your instinct?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Your instinct told you to run and keep my son in poverty for eight years. Your instinct told you to lie to me about his existence.” He gives me a mocking smile. “Forgive me if I don’t put a lot of stock in your instincts, Aria.”