Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Ella
Four days after the surveillance eased up, Sergei finally let me leave the apartment.
Not total freedom. Porter shadowed me, keeping two steps back, eyes constantly scanning like a human radar. But compared to staring out those floor-to-ceiling windows all day, this was the closest thing to "normal life" I'd experienced in weeks.
"You can go where you want," Sergei told me before leaving for work, then added, "Within reason."
"How much is reasonable?"
"Walking distance."
"Everything in New York is walking distance," I said, "if you walk long enough."
Sergei sighed and kissed my cheek. "Ella, don't be difficult. You know what I mean."
I did.
I had Porter take me to the fabric shop near the apartment. I needed more yarn—Misha's new vest was almost done, burgundy and cream, but I was running out of the cream.
The shop sat on a corner of an old street, window displays draped with fabric samples in every color, sunlight streaming through the glass and bathing them in warm light.
I browsed for maybe twenty minutes. Porter stayed by the door, refusing to come in—probably thought standing around yarn balls would damage his professional image.
When I came out, the paper bag held three skeins: two cream, one charcoal gray. The gray was an impulse buy—seemed right for a contrasting collar on Sergei's sweater.
We started back.
Rounding the corner, I heard it. Low, choked with tears, words in Russian I couldn't understand. But the tone made every hair on my body stand up—that sound people make when they're terrified, hoarse and trembling, every syllable begging.
My steps slowed.
"Miss Collins," Porter caught on, moving to my side, voice barely audible. "Turn back. Now."
But I'd already seen it.
A narrow alley between two buildings, years of moisture staining the brick dark. A black car blocked most of the entrance, but from this angle, this distance, I could still see—
Sergei stood there.
I knew that silhouette. The coat. The silver hair. Those shoulders.
His hand gripped someone's collar, pinning them against the brick wall, toes barely touching ground. The man's face had gone gray, mouth still making sounds, weaker and weaker, like a dying machine's final moments.
Sergei held something in his other hand. I couldn't make it out clearly—just caught the glint of cold metal in the dim light.
He didn't hesitate.
A dull crack. The man crumpled, twitched twice, then his head lolled to one side. Still.
Something spread slowly across the ground. Too dark to see the color in that alley, but I knew what it was.
Sergei looked down at him like he was staring at an old coat thrown in the gutter. His gaze slid over that empty face without pause, without emotion, so calm it made my spine ice over.
He bent down, took something from the body, straightened, pulled out his phone, and spoke a few words in Russian.
The car's taillights cast a faint red glow on his face. Through it all, his expression never changed.
Like he hadn't just snuffed out a life.
My paper bag hit the ground.
I don't know when I dropped it. Just suddenly realized my hands were empty. Three skeins rolled by my feet—cream, charcoal gray—spinning across the sidewalk.
I shuddered.
Porter's hand clamped on my arm.
"We're leaving," he said in a tone I'd never heard from him. "Now. Don't stop. Stay with me."
I let him pull me along. My ears rang.
Sergei was mafia.
Bogdan's appearance. The way those three masked men got "handled" Christmas Eve. That night Sergei came home with blood on his shirt—every puzzle piece had been sitting in front of me. I just never put them together.
Because once I did, I'd have to face it.
And I didn't want to. I let myself stay in that merciful fog, told myself maybe it wasn't that bad, maybe just business competition.
But now reality wouldn't let me lie to myself anymore.
Porter brought me back to the apartment, sat me on the couch, and asked if I wanted water.
I shook my head.
Misha bolted from the bedroom and pressed her head into my lap.
I looked down at her. Didn't move.
"I'll make some arrangements," Porter said, something careful in his voice I couldn't identify. "You rest."
I heard him walk away, heard him make a call in Russian. Couldn't understand it.
But I didn't want to think anymore. I sat there, hand on Misha's head. My hand was shaking.
The apartment's heat was cranked up, but the trembling came from my bones, like my body understood what I'd seen before my brain could.
Misha's head stayed pressed in my lap, letting out soft whimpers.
She felt it.
Dogs always do.
My fingers worked through the thick fur at her neck, petting mechanically.
It didn't help.
The image was still there.
Sergei's back.
That man's face.
The gun.
The blood.
And those gray eyes, so completely, utterly cold.
Like killing a man meant no more than crushing an ant.
My stomach suddenly clenched.
Nausea surged from my gut, rushing up my throat.
No.
No, no, no—
I jumped up. Misha startled back.
I covered my mouth, bolted toward the hall.
Bathroom.
I needed the bathroom.
My vision blurred. The hallway tilted.
I ran toward the end of the hall, saw a door half-open, didn't think, just shoved through.
Then I froze.
This wasn't the bathroom.
This was—
My breath caught.
The room was small. Lights flickered on automatically, cold white washing over the walls.
One entire wall was covered in guns.
Handguns lined up neat—Glocks, Berettas, models I couldn't name.
Rifles in the middle, black barrels gleaming with cold metal light.
Shotguns below, long-barreled.
Every single one spotless.
Every single one ready to take a life.
Just like this afternoon—
Just like in that alley.
My stomach clenched again, but the shock crushed the nausea.
The opposite wall held other things.
Knives. Daggers. Metal instruments I couldn't name that looked like torture devices—barbed handcuffs, chains, and things I'd only seen in medieval movies.
I stepped back.
Then again.
My back hit something hard.
A clatter.
I turned.
A desk.
My elbow had knocked the mouse.
The computer screen lit up.
Not one screen.
Four.
Four monitors side by side, all blazing to life, harsh blue light stark in the dim room.
Security feeds.
Every corner of the apartment.
The living room—Porter standing there, talking into his phone.
The kitchen—empty, kettle still on the stove.
The study—tidy desk, closed door.
And—
My bedroom.
Crystal clear.
Shot from some ceiling angle, showing the whole bed, rumpled sheets, my phone tossed on the nightstand.
My fingers touched the screen. Cold glass. Cold.
I looked right.
Another screen.
The bathroom.
Angle from above the mirror, showing the sink, the glass shower door, and—
The toilet.
Where I'd used the bathroom last night.
Where I'd washed my face this morning.
Every moment I thought was private, vulnerable, mine alone.
All on these screens.
All recorded.
All seen by him.
My hands started shaking violently.
"No—"
The word barely escaped my throat.
I stepped back again. My shin hit something.
I looked down.
A metal case, lid half-open.
Inside—
Handcuffs.
Syringes.
Rolls of tape.
Tools I didn't want to know the purpose of.
This wasn't a study.
This wasn't storage.
This was—
An interrogation room.
An armory.
A surveillance center.
This was Sergei Volkov's real world.
Bloody.
Violent.
Where lives were numbers and surveillance was normal.
The nausea broke through.
I covered my mouth, ran from the room, and stumbled into the real bathroom across the hall.
Fell to my knees before the toilet and emptied what little was left in my stomach.
Bile.
Acid.
Burning my throat raw.
Tears mixed with cold sweat, dripping onto the toilet seat.
I slumped there, completely drained.
Rapid footsteps outside.
"Miss Collins!" Porter's voice. "Are you all right?"
I tried to answer, but my throat wouldn't work.
Just dry-heaved again.
"I'm coming in—"
"Don't!" I finally found my voice, ragged and broken. "Don't come in, I-I'm fine."
"You need a doctor."
"No," I said. "Porter, please. Just let me be alone."
Silence outside for a few seconds.
"All right," he said. "I'll be out here."
His footsteps retreated.
I pulled myself up by the sink and turned on the faucet.
Cold water splashed my face but couldn't stop the thing about to explode in my chest.
I looked up at the mirror.
Pale face.
Swollen eyes.
And on my neck—
Those subtle changes I hadn't noticed these past two weeks.
My skin seemed more sensitive.
My breasts seemed—
I looked down, hand on my chest.
A little swollen, maybe.
And they'd been sore for days.
I thought my period was coming.
But—
My hand moved slowly down, resting on my stomach.
Wait.
My period.
When was my last one?
My fingers stopped on the sweater. I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to remember.
December...
When in December?
I shoved out of the bathroom, ran to the bedroom, and grabbed my phone.
Opened the calendar.
My fingers shook so badly I could barely swipe right.
Scrolled back.
December.
Found the date marked with a red dot.
December seventh.
I stared at it.
Then counted forward.
Eighth.
Ninth.
Tenth.
All the way to today.
January fifteenth.
Thirty-nine days.
Nearly six weeks.
I'd never been this late.
The phone slipped from my hand and landed on the bed.
I sat down—collapsed, really, because my legs gave out.
Six weeks.
The constant nausea.
Coffee making me sick.
Sore breasts.
Yesterday, I'd only taken one bite of Sergei's fish before putting it down—the smell turned my stomach.
And the day before, I'd cried for an hour over a puppy video.
All the signs were there.
I just never connected them.
My hand rested on my stomach.
Flat.
Nothing to feel.
But if...
If those symptoms meant...
"No," I whispered. "No, no, no—"
Misha jumped on the bed, laid her head on my leg, eyes full of worry.
I looked at her.
"Misha," my voice shook. "I might... I might be..."
I couldn't say it.
The word stuck in my throat, choking me.
Pregnant.
I might be pregnant.
And the father—
The father was a mafia boss.
A man who'd killed someone hours ago.
A man who kept me here, monitored my every move, kept me like a caged bird.
Tears poured down my face.
What was I going to do?