Chapter 43 Lena
LENA
Ifrown, a sense of dread filling my gut.
Pavel is dead. Poor Pavel. Except for his unwanted attentions, which really bothered Aleksandr more than me, he was a nice guy. He always made sure I had supplies, and sometimes we'd sit for hours, just talking, both of us lonely and glad to have someone to talk to.
I stare at Aleksandr across his desk, my brain refusing to process what he just said. The early afternoon light streaming through the office windows feels too bright, too cheerful for this moment.
"What?" My voice comes out strangled.
"Pavel Galkin was found dead in his cabin three days ago." Aleksandr's tone is gentle, but his gold eyes are sharp, watching my reaction. "Local police are calling it a suicide."
"No." I shake my head, standing abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor. "No, that's not possible. Pavel wouldn't kill himself."
"Lena." He stands too, moving around the desk toward me.
"He was paranoid, Aleksandr. Constantly looking over his shoulder, always checking exits." My hands shake, and I clasp them together. "Men like that don't suddenly decide to end it. They're too busy planning their next escape route."
Danil shifts in his chair near the window. "She has a point. Witness Protection survivors don't typically commit suicide. They're wired for survival."
Aleksandr's hand finds my elbow, steadying me. Even through my sweater, his touch burns. "I agree it's suspicious."
"Suspicious?" I pull away, needing space to think. "Someone killed him. Someone found out he was in Witness Protection and eliminated him."
"Possibly." Aleksandr exchanges a look with Danil. "Which is why we're sending men to Montana to investigate properly. The local police won't dig deep enough."
The guilt crashes over me like a wave. "This is my fault."
"No." Aleksandr's voice is sharp, commanding. "He had a lot of enemies, Lena. He was in the program for a reason. He was a snitch and he pissed off a lot of families."
"But I was there. I brought you into his life." My throat tightens. "He warned me about you. About both of you. And now he's dead."
"Lena." Aleksandr cups my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. The intensity there steals my breath. "Pavel's death has nothing to do with your being kind to a lonely neighbor."
"What if it's because he recognized you?" I whisper.
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't deny it. "Maybe. But that's on me, not you."
Danil stands, moving toward the door. "I'll make the calls. Get our best people on it."
When we're alone, Aleksandr's hands slide down to my shoulders. "I need you to look at something."
"What?"
"Security footage. From the hotel where Yuri met with the woman who paid him." He guides me to his desk, pulling up the video on his laptop. "I want to know if anything about her seems familiar."
I sink into his chair, and he leans over me, one hand braced on the desk, the other on the back of the chair. His body heat surrounds me, and I catch the scent of his cologne. My body responds and my pulse quickens.
Focus, Lena.
The video plays, grainy and dark. I watch the auburn-haired woman enter the bar, and something about her movements makes me lean closer.
"She's not seducing him," I say after watching it twice. "Look at her body language. No flirting, no touching beyond what's necessary. This is business."
"I noticed that too." Aleksandr's breath is warm against my ear, and I have to fight the urge to lean back against his chest. "What else?"
"She's confident. Comfortable in expensive places." I pause the video on the clearest shot of her profile. "And she's done this before. See how she doesn't look around when she enters? She knows exactly where the cameras are and how to avoid them."
"Professional."
"Or someone who's been planning this for a long time." I turn my head, and suddenly, his face is inches from mine. Those gold eyes drop to my mouth, and heat pools low in my belly. "Someone patient."
His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on my jaw. "You're good at this."
"At what?"
"Reading people. Seeing what others miss." His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. "It's one of the things I love about you."
The word 'love' hangs between us, unexpected and dangerous. My breath catches, and I see the moment he realizes what he said. His expression shifts, becomes guarded.
"I should let you work," I say, standing quickly. The chair rolls back, putting distance between us.
"Lena."
"I'm fine. Just tired." I move toward the door, needing air, needing space to process Pavel's death and that casual 'love' that probably didn't mean anything. "I'll be in my room if you need me."
I'm almost to the door when his voice stops me. "Dinner. Tonight. With me."
I turn back. "We eat together most nights."
"Not in the small dining room. The formal one." His hands slide into his pockets, and the gesture makes his suit jacket pull tight across his broad shoulders. "Humor me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm asking." His mouth quirks. "You've taken every meal in your room or when you know I'm in meetings." He moves closer, and I resist the urge to back up. "I miss talking to you."
The admission surprises me. "We talk."
"We exchange information. That's not the same thing." He stops a few feet away, giving me space. "Just dinner."
Well, hell. How can I say no to that?
"Fine. But I'm picking the wine."
His smile is genuine, transforming his face from dangerous to devastating. "Deal."
That evening, I stand in front of my closet trying to decide what to wear.
It's just dinner, I keep telling myself.
But after the L-word slipped, I feel… almost giddy.
Oh, he didn't say he loved me, and I don't know how I would feel about that if he had, but he said it was something he loved about me. So that means something, right?
Why am I even stressing over this? It's just dinner, for God's sake!
I settle on dark jeans and a soft cashmere sweater in deep green. Nothing fancy, but nicer than my usual loungewear. I leave my hair down, apply minimal makeup, and tell myself this isn't a date.
It's definitely not a date.
The formal dining room is intimidating. Crystal chandeliers, a table that seats twenty, and enough silverware to confuse an etiquette expert. But Aleksandr has set only two places at one end, close enough for conversation without shouting across the expanse.
He stands when I enter, and my mouth goes dry. He's changed into dark slacks and a white shirt, no tie, the top two buttons undone to reveal the strong column of his throat. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered recently, and those gold eyes track over me, leaving tiny shivers in their path.
"You look beautiful," he says, pulling out my chair.
"I'm just wearing jeans," I say a bit nervously. I sit, hyperaware of his hands on the back of my chair, his body close enough that I can feel his heat.
The staff serves the first course, some kind of soup that smells amazing. We eat in silence for a moment, and the tension is thick enough to cut.
"So," I finally say. "Books. What do you read?"
He looks surprised by the question. "History, mostly. Military strategy. Some philosophy."
"That's very serious."
"I'm a very serious person." But there's humor in his eyes. "What about you?"
"Mysteries. Thrillers. Anything that lets me solve puzzles." I take a sip of water. "I used to read romance novels, but they seemed too unrealistic after everything…"
"After running for your life from a Mob boss?"
"After learning that happy endings are fiction." The words come out more bitter than I intend.
His expression softens. "Not all of them."
"Name one real-life happy ending."
He frowns in thought. "This old couple I see at the park when I drive to my downtown office. They are always walking and holding hands, smiling and laughing."
I bark out a laugh. "They could just be senile and think they're on their first date."
"Fair point." He's quiet for a moment. "What kind of music do you like?"
The subject change is obvious but welcome. "Everything. Rock, pop, classical. I used to go to concerts before I had to disappear."
"What was the last concert you saw?"
I think back, and the memory makes me smile. "Some indie band at a tiny venue in the city. The lead singer forgot the lyrics halfway through the second song and just started making them up. The crowd loved it."
"Sounds chaotic."
"It was perfect." I take another bite of soup. "What about you? Do Mob bosses go to concerts?"
"This Mob boss does." His mouth quirks. "I saw the symphony last year. Tchaikovsky. The 1812 Overture with real cannons."
"Showoff."
"It was impressive." He refills my wine glass. "I'll take you sometime. If you want."
The offer hangs between us, implying a future I'm not sure we have. "Maybe."
The main course arrives, perfectly cooked steak with roasted vegetables.
We eat and talk about nothing important.
Favorite foods, worst cooking disasters, childhood pets.
The conversation flows easier than it has in days, and I find myself laughing at his story about trying to make borscht and somehow setting off the fire alarm.
"You're telling me the great Aleksandr Romanov can't cook?" I grin at him over my wine.
"I can order takeout like a champion." He cuts into his steak. "And I make excellent coffee."
"That's not cooking."
"It requires heat and timing. That's cooking." He points his fork at me. "Don't judge me."
"I'm absolutely judging you." But I'm smiling, really smiling. "A grown man who can't make soup."
"I have people for that."
"Of course you do."
The laughter that follows is genuine, warm, and for a moment I forget where we are. Forget the circumstances that brought us here. This feels like the cabin, like those easy mornings over coffee when he was just Sasha and I was just Maya.
"I miss this," I say quietly.
His eyes meet mine. "Me too."
"It was simpler there." I don't have to explain that I mean my cabin.
"It was a lie there." But there's no accusation in his voice. "We were both pretending to be people we weren't."
"Were we?" I set down my fork. "You weren't pretending. You lost your memories. That's different. Maybe we were just being the people we wanted to be?
He's quiet for a long moment, his gold eyes searching my face. "Maybe."
Dessert arrives, some elaborate chocolate creation that probably has a French name I can't pronounce. We share it, and I catch him watching me lick chocolate from my spoon. The heat in his gaze makes my core clench.
"You're staring," I say.
"You're worth staring at." His voice drops lower, rougher. "Especially when you do that thing with your tongue."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm eating dessert."
"I know. It's distracting." He leans back in his chair, and I notice the way his pants pull tight across his thighs. "In the best possible way."
I'm about to respond, probably something flirty and dangerous, when the dining room door opens. Danil enters, his expression grim.
"Sorry to interrupt." He doesn't look sorry. "But we have a development."
Aleksandr's entire demeanor shifts, the easy warmth replaced by cold focus. "What is it?"
"That former FBI agent, John Davis, called our Montana contact. He's asking questions about Pavel's death." Danil pulls out his phone, reading from notes. "And he mentioned he has information about 'a woman with an expensive car' who was seen in the area multiple times over the past six months."