Chapter 4
ANDREY
I'm about to be pissed.
I stand near the reference section of the library, pretending to browse a book on Russian history while my eyes scan the building for the hundredth time. The informant swore she worked here. Swore he'd seen her just last week. But I've been here for twenty minutes, and there's no sign of her.
If that bastard lied to me, if he wasted my time with false information just to save his own skin, I'll make sure he regrets it. Slowly.
Matvey is positioned outside the back entrance, watching for any sign of her. We've covered both exits. If she's here, she can't escape. But the longer I wait, the more I wonder if this is just another dead end in a search that's lasted nearly a decade.
I'm considering leaving when the front door opens and a woman walks in. My heart slams against my ribs.
It's her.
I'd know her anywhere, even though it's been years since I last saw her at some Bratva gathering in Moscow. She'd been eighteen then, quiet and unremarkable, always hovering near her father's side. Just another daughter of a Bratva member, nothing special.
But now? Now she's twenty-seven, and the transformation is stunning.
Her blonde hair is longer than I remember, falling in soft waves past her shoulders.
She's wearing jeans and a simple sweater, nothing fancy, but the way she moves catches my attention.
There's a grace to her stride, a confidence that wasn't there before.
She's taller than I expected, maybe five-six, with a lean, athletic build that suggests she takes care of herself.
And when she turns slightly, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, I catch a glimpse of her profile. High cheekbones, a delicate nose, and full lips. She's beautiful in a way that takes me completely by surprise.
I watch as she walks to the circulation desk and exchanges a few words with a young woman with red hair. Mariya smiles, but it's a careful smile, one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She sets her purse inside a desk drawer, then grabs a cart loaded with books and heads toward the stacks.
I give her a few seconds' head start, then follow.
The library is quiet this afternoon, just a handful of patrons scattered throughout the building. Perfect. The fewer witnesses, the better. I move through the aisles with practiced silence, keeping my distance but never losing sight of her.
She stops in the literature section, pulling books from her cart and sliding them onto the shelves with efficient movements. She's completely focused on her task, unaware that she's being watched.
I circle around to the opposite side of the aisle, positioning myself directly across from where she's working. The shelves are tall, packed with books, but there are gaps, spaces where I can see through to the other side.
I wait until she reaches for another book, and then I move a few volumes aside, creating a clear line of sight.
She's right there, less than three feet away, separated only by the width of the shelf. I can see her face clearly now, those green eyes I remember from years ago. She's concentrating on the spine of a book, checking the call number against the shelf.
I stare at her, willing her to look up. To see me.
And then she does.
Her eyes lift, scanning the shelf, and suddenly, we're looking directly at each other through that narrow gap between the books. For a moment, time seems to stop. Her eyes widen, her lips part in a silent gasp, and I see the exact instant recognition hits her.
She knows who I am. Or at least, she knows what I am.
I smile. Not a friendly smile, but one that lets her know exactly what this moment means.
I've found you.
The color drains from her face.
"Come with me," I say quietly, my voice barely above a whisper. "Don't make a scene."
For a second, she just stares at me, frozen in place like a deer caught in headlights. Then she nods, a tiny movement of her head that I almost miss.
Good. She's smart enough to know she can't fight this. Smart enough to understand that causing a scene in a public library will only make things worse for her.
I step back, moving toward the end of the aisle, expecting her to meet me there. I'll take her out the front door, nice and easy, and we'll have a conversation in the privacy of my car. No drama, no violence. Just a simple discussion about her father and the heirlooms he stole.
But when I reach the end of the aisle and turn the corner, she's not there.
I frown, looking back the way I came. The aisle is empty. Where the hell did she go?
I move quickly but calmly toward the front of the library, scanning the space. The red-haired woman is still at the circulation desk, helping a patron check out books. A few people browse the shelves. But there's no sign of Mariya.
I pull out my phone, checking for a text from Matvey. Nothing. If she'd tried to leave through the back door, he would have grabbed her by now. So where is she?
I walk toward the front entrance, my mind racing through possibilities. The library isn't that big. There are only so many places she could hide. Maybe she ducked into the bathroom, hoping I'd give up and leave. Or maybe she's crouched behind one of the shelves, waiting for an opportunity to run.
I'm almost to the door when I glance out the window and see her.
She's sprinting across the street, her blonde hair streaming behind her, heading toward the row of shops on the opposite side.
How the hell did she get out without being spotted?
I don't waste time trying to figure it out. I send a quick text to Matvey, letting him know she's made a run for it, then I push through the door and take off after her.
She's fast, I'll give her that. She moves with the speed and agility of someone who's been running her whole life. But I'm faster. My legs are longer, my stride more powerful, and I close the distance between us quickly.
She cuts down an alley between two buildings, probably hoping to lose me in the maze of back streets. But she's made a mistake. The alley is narrow, enclosed, with nowhere to go but straight ahead. And I'm right behind her.
I catch up to her halfway down the alley, grabbing her arm and spinning her around to face me. She immediately starts fighting, her fists flying at my chest, my face, anywhere she can reach.
I can't help but be amused. She's what, five-six? Maybe a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet? And she thinks she can fight me off? I'm six-three, two hundred and twenty pounds of muscle, and I've been in more fights than I can count.
"Stop," I say, catching her wrists and pinning them against the brick wall behind her. "You're only going to hurt yourself."
"Let me go!" She struggles against my grip, her eyes wild with fear and fury. "I don't know what you want, but I haven't done anything wrong!"
"Haven't done anything wrong?" I lean in closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something floral and clean. "Your father is a traitor. He stole from my family. And you're going to tell me where he is and where he's hidden what he took."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" She tries to knee me, but I shift my weight, blocking the attack. "I don't know where my father is. I haven't seen him in years!"
"Liar." I tighten my grip on her wrists, not enough to hurt but enough to make my point. "You expect me to believe you've had no contact with him? That he just sent you to America and forgot about you?"
"Believe whatever you want." Her voice is shaking now, but there's defiance in her eyes. "It doesn't change the truth. I don't know where he is."
I study her face, looking for signs of deception. But all I see are fear and anger and something else. Desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of running, of looking over your shoulder, and of never feeling safe.
Maybe she is telling the truth. Maybe Pushkin really did abandon her, leaving her to fend for herself while he disappeared into whatever hole he's been hiding in.
Or maybe she's just a very good liar.
"We're going to have a long conversation," I tell her. "You're going to tell me everything you know about your father, the heirlooms he stole, and where he might be hiding. And if you cooperate, if you give me what I need, maybe I'll let you walk away from this."
"And if I don't or can't cooperate?" She lifts her chin, meeting my gaze with a courage I didn't expect.
"Then things get unpleasant."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her mind working, calculating her options. Then, without warning, she goes limp in my arms, her full weight dropping suddenly.
It's a smart move, one I wasn't expecting. My grip loosens instinctively, and she takes advantage of it, twisting free and stumbling backward.
But she doesn't run. Instead, her hand darts to her pocket, and when it comes back out, there's something small and silver clutched in her fingers.
A knife.
I barely have time to register what I'm seeing before she lunges forward, the blade flashing in the dim light of the alley.
I feel a sharp sting in my side.
When I look down, I'm astonished to see a small knife sticking out of my side.