Chapter 6 #2
“Well, lucky you,” she says. I can hear her dropping onto her couch with a groan. “You’re talking to a digital-age bitch now. Let’s go full creep mode.”
Together, we spend the next three hours digging through every corner of the internet we can find. She Facetimes me once she gets her laptop up and running, still in her bar outfit with smudged eyeliner under her eyes and her hair falling in messy curls around her face.
I try combinations. Sergei Sorokin + Russia + technology, Sorokin tech company Moscow, Sorokin CEO, Russian entrepreneur Sergei Sorokin.
But there’s literally nothing.
There are plenty of Sorokins in Russia. Politicians, artists, professors, a few businessmen. But none that match his face. No corporate bio. No LinkedIn. Not even a stray PR fluff piece from ten years ago on some obscure blog.
“He might as well be a ghost,” I eventually say, leaning back and rubbing at my burning eyes. “There’s not a single photo of him on the internet. And no company that seems to have him as a registered executive. I can’t even figure out what industry he’s in.”
“You said tech, right?” Alia asks, sounding increasingly annoyed. “What kind of tech? AI? Cybersecurity? Biotech? What’s the company called?”
I stare at the empty Google search bar. The little blinking cursor taunts me.
“I don’t know,” I admit, voice hollow.
Alia leans closer to the screen. “Wait, wasn’t it in that packet they gave you before you left? Didn’t it say the name of his company or, like, what sector he worked in?”
I shake my head. “The packet was more about the job. There was a line about Sergei’s “involvement in tech-related ventures”, but that was it.”
She whistles low. “That’s shady as hell, Ivy.”
“No kidding.”
The silence that follows on the other end of the phone is heavy. By the time we hang up, my head is pounding hard, throbbing even when applying pressure to the sides of my skull.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
Later that day, after Yulia’s lessons are finished and she’s wandered off to read in the enclosed patio, I spot one of the maids near the side hallway that leads toward the kitchens.
She’s younger than most of the others, close to my age if I had to guess. Early twenties, maybe a little older. I’ve seen her around several times over the last two weeks, usually carrying laundry or silently clearing dishes with quick precision.
She’s one of the few staff members I know speaks some English, even if she avoids using it unless absolutely necessary.
I approach slowly, offering a smile that I hope reads as friendly instead of strained. “Hi, sorry. Would you be able to reach Mr. Sorokin for me?”
She pauses, straightening with a stack of folded towels in her arms. Her eyes go wide for a second before she gives a short nod.
“I was… thinking about taking Yulia into the city,” I say, trying to sound casual. “It might help her English if she practiced in public. Maybe at a café or bookstore. Something fun and low-key.”
She says nothing, just turns and disappears down the hallway.
I blink after her.
Well, that was a bust…
To my surprise, she returns to me within a few minutes, finding me in the sitting room with Yulia.
This time, her hands are empty except for the slim, sleek shape of a matte black credit card.
She carries it with both palms as though it’s made of glass.
When she gets closer, I notice her hands are shaking.
It’s just barely, but enough to make the card tremble between her fingers as she extends it toward me.
“Mr. Sorokin approved. You may use this.”
I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and take it from her.
Before I can thank her, she adds, “He told me to tell you to please remain alert.”
Her tone doesn’t carry the usual Russian bluntness I’ve grown accustomed to. It’s too soft. Almost… apologetic in a way.
“Thank you,” I say, offering a small, tight smile. She gives a swift bow of her head and disappears again quickly like they all do.
I head upstairs with Yulia to change, moving on autopilot.
My heart is thudding harder than I want to admit. Not out of fear, exactly, but anticipation. Something caught between nerves and hope, like I’m about to do something I’ve been forbidden to even think about.
Getting out of the house. Off the grounds of this estate. Out from under Sergei’s watchful eye and the carefully crafted world he’s created.
When I come back down to the main floor in jeans, a sweater, and my thick coat, Yulia is already there waiting in the foyer, her cheeks pink with excitement, holding a tiny satchel shaped like a cat. Her grin widens when she sees me.
“You said city?” she chirps.
“I did.”
“Can we go to bookstore?”
“The bookstore,” I correct. “And of course. We can go wherever you’d like.”
She beams like I just told her we’re going to Disneyland.
Our driver is already parked outside in the circular drive, standing beside the car with a quiet, impassive expression. He nods once as he opens the door for us, and Yulia climbs in without hesitation. I slide in after her, the door closing and sealing us inside the warm interior.
It isn’t until the wheels start moving and we pull away from the mansion that I realize I’m breathing a little easier. The farther we get from the estate, the more my shoulders loosen and the tension in my jaw dissolves.
Yulia leans against me in the back seat, her small hand reaching for mine without looking, like it’s instinct. I squeeze it gently and smile when she starts pointing out signs and shop names, practicing her English.
“Bank,” she says proudly, tapping the window.
“Yes, perfect.” I grin. “What about that one?”
She squints. “Pharmacy?”
“Nice. And that one?”
“Grocery store. Can we get snacks?”
I laugh. “That’s up to your appetite, Miss.”
The rhythm of the conversation feels light, easy. Like something out of a normal day and we’re just two people exploring a city. Not two captives sneaking moments of freedom beneath the watchful eye of an invisible gatekeeper.
Eventually, the driver pulls onto a quieter street with less traffic and smaller storefronts. Several shops are tucked together like mismatched teeth, their bright windows colorful and inviting.
“This is perfect,” I murmur to the driver.
We climb out of the car and are immediately hit with the crisp, city-cold air and the scent of something faintly sweet from a nearby cafe.
Yulia bounces on her toes. “Books first!”
I nod and follow her into the bookstore, a cozy little place with warm lighting and tall shelves that wrap around the entire shop.
She speaks quickly to the cashier in Russian when we make our purchases, gesturing to me.
I don’t understand everything, but I catch the phrase, moya uchitelnitsa, which I know from her telling me means “my teacher”.
The cashier smiles kindly and slips a free bookmark into the bag before sliding it across the counter toward Yulia.
Next is the toy shop.
She drags me to a wall of plush bears and insists we buy at least one of everything. I laugh and manage to talk her down to two, a small white bear wearing a knit hat and a bigger brown dog with button eyes and a pink tongue sticking out of its mouth.
“You sure these are the lucky ones?” I tease.
She hugs them both to her chest. “They chose me. Very lucky.”
Fair enough.
By the time we stumble into a cozy cafe tucked between a flower shop and an antiques store, I almost feel normal again.
Inside, it’s warm and bright, the scents of cinnamon and espresso wrapping around us. Fake vines crawl along the window frames and are tacked at the top and little marble-topped tables are scattered around with folded menus already placed in front of each seat.
I half expect to hear French jazz playing when we grab a table facing the sidewalk.
I order us tea and a few pastries. It feels strange to be using someone else’s money to fund our outing today, but then again, Miss Dori did tell me the family would be providing for whatever expenses I end up needing.
Not to mention, I haven’t seen Sergei spending any real time with his daughter since I’ve been here. Maybe he’s just relieved I’m occupying her with something to do outside the house for once, and that’s why he gave me his black card with unlimited funds to use.
Yulia leans forward on her elbows, eyes shining, cheeks still slightly pink from the cold air outside. Her eyes glow with the kind of pure joy only children seem capable of, and it warms my chest seeing it. “Today is my favorite.”
I smile, wrapping both hands around my warm mug.
“Mine too,” I say, and I mean it.
For the first time since arriving in Russia, I feel like I’ve surfaced. Like I’ve come up for air after holding my breath for far too long. The weight of the mansion, the eyes I feel watching me, the unspoken rules—I’ve left them behind for just a little while.
The world feels almost normal again.
Until the first gunshot.
At first, I think it’s a car backfiring outside because why else would I think differently when we’re inside a cute little cafe? Things like that don’t happen in real life like they do in the movies.
But then it happens again. Closer. And this time, unmistakably not a car.
A second later, the front windows explode. Glass flies inward like a rain of daggers. People scream, chairs scrape violently across the floor as half the patrons duck, and the other half scatter toward the back of the cafe in a frenzy.
A bullet whizzes past and nicks the front counter just inches from where someone was ordering a latte a minute ago and shatters the pastry display in a blast of crumbs and cake pops. The sound is shrill and absolutely terrifying.
A woman shrieks in Russian, grabbing her little boy by the collar, and dives to the floor, dragging him under a table before the bullets find them.
I don’t think. I move.