Chapter 10
ANDREY
Ican't stop staring at her across the breakfast table.
Mariya sits there, picking at her eggs with a fork, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders.
She's wearing the green sweater I sent up this morning, and the color makes her eyes look even more vibrant.
Every time she moves, I remember how those eyes looked last night when she came apart beneath me.
How her body felt wrapped around mine. How she tasted.
Fuck.
I shift in my chair, trying to focus on the conversation we need to have instead of the memory of her naked and willing in my bed. This is business. She's a means to an end, nothing more. The fact that I can't seem to get her out of my head is irrelevant.
"Tell me about the last time you saw your father," I say, keeping my voice level.
She sets down her fork, meeting my gaze with those green eyes.
"Tell me again."
She sighs, but complies. "He woke me up early.
We had breakfast together, though neither of us ate much.
He told me I had to leave Russia, that it wasn't safe anymore.
He gave me my mother's jewelry box and money for a new life in America.
Then he left for the courthouse, and I never saw him again. "
It's the same story she's told me a dozen times now. Word for word, no variation, no hesitation. Either she's telling the truth, or she's the best liar I've ever encountered.
"And he never contacted you after that? Not once in nine years?"
"Not once."
"No letters? No phone calls? No messages through intermediaries?"
"Nothing." Her jaw tightens. "I've been alone this entire time, waiting for him to tell me it's safe to come home. But he never did."
I lean back in my chair, studying her face for any sign of deception. But all I see is exhaustion and something that looks like genuine pain. Like she's telling the truth about being abandoned by her father.
"What about the heirlooms?" I press. "The icons that disappeared around the same time your father did. You're telling me you know nothing about them?"
"I don't even know what icons you're talking about." Her voice rises slightly, edged with frustration. "My father never mentioned any heirlooms, never told me he'd stolen anything from anyone."
"Then what did he tell you? There must have been something, some clue about where he was going or what he was planning."
"He told me to run." She pushes her plate away, her appetite clearly gone. "He told me to trust no one and to never come back to Russia. That's it. That's all I know."
We go back and forth like this for another twenty minutes. I ask the same questions in different ways, trying to catch her in a lie or trip her up. But her answers never change. She doesn't know where Yegor is. She doesn't know about the icons. She hasn't had contact with him since he'd testified.
By the time I finally give up, my side is throbbing where she stabbed me, and my patience is worn thin.
"Take her back to her room," I tell Matvey.
He nods once and moves to Mariya's side. She stands without protest, but I catch the flash of something in her eyes. Relief? Disappointment? I can't tell.
I watch them leave, my mind already moving to the next step. If she won't tell me what I need to know, maybe her apartment will. When Matvey returns, we drive to her apartment.
Mariya's apartment is in a rundown building on the edge of town, the kind of place where people mind their own business and don't ask questions. Perfect for someone trying to stay invisible.
Matvey and I, along with two of my bodyguards, make our way up the narrow staircase to the third floor. The hallway smells like old cooking grease and mildew, and the carpet is worn thin in places. I pull out the keys we took from her purse and unlock the door.
The apartment is small. Tiny, really, a studio with a kitchenette in one corner, a bed against the far wall, and a bathroom that's barely big enough to turn around in. But what strikes me most is how sparse it is.
There's almost nothing personal here. No pictures on the walls. No knickknacks on the shelves. The furniture looks like it came with the place, cheap and functional. Even the kitchen cabinets are mostly empty, containing only the bare essentials.
"She was ready to run," Matvey observes, his dark eyes scanning the room.
He's right. This isn't the apartment of someone who's settled into a life. This is the apartment of someone who's been living with one foot out the door, ready to disappear at a moment's notice.
I move through the space methodically, searching for anything that might give me a clue about Yegor's whereabouts or the missing icons.
The closet contains a few changes of clothes, all practical and nondescript.
The bathroom has basic toiletries, nothing fancy.
The nightstand holds a single book, some thriller about a woman on the run.
Fitting.
Under the bed, I find a small duffel bag. Inside are cash, a fake passport, and a burner phone. An escape kit. She really was prepared to run at any moment.
The realization makes something twist in my chest. She's been living like this for nine years. Always looking over her shoulder. Always ready to flee. Never allowing herself to put down roots or make connections.
What kind of life is that?
I push the thought away. It doesn't matter. She's Yegor Pushkin's daughter, and that makes her my responsibility now. My leverage.
In the corner of the room, tucked away on a shelf, I find a wooden jewelry box.
It's old, ornate, with delicate carvings on the lid.
I open it carefully, and inside I find several pieces of jewelry.
A necklace with a small pendant. A pair of earrings.
A bracelet. Nothing that looks particularly valuable, but they're clearly well-loved. Family heirlooms, maybe.
I close the box and tuck it under my arm. If these pieces mean something to her, they might be useful.
I gather a few more of her personal items. Some clothes, toiletries, and the book from her nightstand.
Things that will make her more comfortable in her new accommodations.
I tell myself it's practical, that a comfortable prisoner is more likely to cooperate.
But the truth is, I feel like shit about the way she's been living and about the fact that I've made her situation even worse.
"Find anything?" Matvey asks.
"Nothing useful." I gesture to the sparse apartment. "She's been living like a ghost."
He grunts in agreement.
We leave the apartment, locking it behind us. My next stop is the library where Mariya works. If she's going to be my guest for a while, I need to make sure her absence doesn't raise any red flags.
The library is quiet when we arrive, just a few patrons browsing the stacks. I spot the red-haired woman from the circulation desk immediately. Her name tag reads Daisy.
I approach with my most charming smile, the one I use when I need to be persuasive. "Excuse me. I'm here for Mariya."
Daisy looks up, her expression friendly. "Oh, she's not here today. Is there something I can help you with?"
"Actually, I'm a friend of the family." The lie comes easily. "I'm afraid there's been a family emergency. Mariya had to fly back to Russia unexpectedly. She asked me to let you know she'll be gone for a while."
Daisy's face falls. "Oh, no. Is everything okay?"
"It will be," I assure her. "But she's not sure when she'll be back. She wanted me to apologize for the short notice."
"Of course. Tell her not to worry about work. We'll manage." Daisy's concern seems genuine. "And tell her I hope everything works out."
"I will. Thank you."
I turn away from the desk, satisfied that the cover story is in place. Matvey's already heading toward the exit, and my bodyguards flank me as we move through the library. The jewelry box is still tucked under my arm, along with a few other items I'd grabbed from her apartment.
We're almost to the door when it swings open. A man steps inside, and I recognize him immediately, or rather, his attitude. He's Bratva, and his presence here isn't a coincidence.
"Melnikov," the man says, his voice carrying a casual tone that doesn't match the tension radiating from him. He's got two men with him, positioned strategically.
I acknowledge him with a nod, keeping my expression neutral. My hand instinctively moves to my side, fingers brushing against the weight of my gun. Matvey shifts beside me, reading the situation the same way I am. My bodyguards tense, ready for whatever comes next.
The captain takes a few steps closer, his eyes moving between my men and me. He's assessing, calculating odds. He won't find them favorable.
"I heard you've got a girl," he says, his tone dropping lower. "Pretty thing. Russian. I'm wondering if maybe she's someone we're looking for."
The fact that he's asking means they don't know for certain, but they're fishing. I don't answer immediately. Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, let him feel the weight of my stare. This is a game, and I'm deciding whether to play or end it right here in this library.
"What girl are you talking about?" I finally ask, my voice low and dangerous.
The captain smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He takes another step forward, and I feel Matvey's hand move closer to his weapon.
"The one you took from the street," he says. "The one we think might be Yegor's daughter."