8. Danika
DANIKA
"Excuse me, ma'am, can you take a picture of us?" a man asks, pointing to his wife.
"Sure."
I take his phone. The screen is warm from his hand. He jogs back to the woman, who's quickly fixing her hair.
He slips an arm around her waist and pulls her close, and she laughs, tilting her head against his shoulder. They look at me, smiling brightly beneath the Astronomical Clock.
"Ready?"
I snap three photos in quick succession. Through the screen, I watch them frozen in happiness, a couple who probably spent months planning this trip, who argued over restaurant reservations, who'll post their favorite one on their socials, and maybe even frame one of these to put on their mantel.
As I look at them, I realize there's a part of me that wants this.
Not the touristy bullshit or the staged smiles, but the simplicity.
The normalcy of being someone who takes vacations instead of contracts.
Someone whose biggest concern is whether the hotel has good Wi-Fi and a continental breakfast.
But that life seems so far out of reach, it might as well exist on another planet.
"Thank you so much," the man says, and I smile and hand him back the phone. The woman waves goodbye, and off they go, disappearing into the crowds clogging Old Town Square.
I know people say Prague is a tourist trap. While beautiful, it's overpriced and overrated. Packed wall-to-wall with Instagramming twenty-somethings and middle-aged couples checking boxes on bucket lists. All of it is true, of course, but that's exactly why I like it.
Here, I'm invisible. Just another blonde woman in jeans and a T-shirt, wandering cobblestone streets with a coffee in hand.
I can pretend I'm normal. That I'm anyone other than a trained killer who works for the Bratva.
Here, I can be that version of me who didn't grow up learning how to shoot a gun before she learned to drive.
That I was never saved by Ivan, but maybe went to school, studied international relations, and travel for work and pleasure.
Not that anyone here cares who I am, however.
Except for the drunk men downing absinthe for the first time, stumbling out of bars at two in the afternoon, slurring pickup lines in broken English, trying to fuck, but I can handle those idiots. A cold stare usually does it. If not, my knee works just as well.
I cross the square, weaving between tour groups following raised umbrellas and numbered signs. The smell of food from the stalls wafts in my direction, and my stomach aches, but I ignore it. I ate this morning, I think.
Prague is supposed to be my mindless place. The city where I don't think about work. Where I don't replay missions in my head or obsess over tactical mistakes.
But it's not working this time.
Because for some stupid, infuriating reason, Victor Ionescu has decided to take up permanent residence in my brain rent free as they say.
He pops up at the most annoying times, too. Like when I was sitting on a bench this morning, watching the swans glide across the water of the Vltava River. Or last night, in the shower, when my hand slipped between my thighs and I was just about to make myself come.
His face flickers behind my eyelids. That smug, arrogant smile. The weight of his body pinning me to the floor in Bogdan's office. His breath against my lips.
It's not that I desire him sexually.
At least, I don't think I do. Okay, well maybe I do. Maybe it would be nice to find out how someone like him is in bed. But it's more.
It's just, there's something about him I can't figure out. Beyond the good looks and dark eyes, there's a presence to him that I've never felt before.
And I hate that I can't place him.
The simple explanation is that women like intriguing men. That's all this is. He's a puzzle I haven't solved yet, and my brain won't let it go until I do.
I shake my head, exhaling hard through my nose.
But why do I even need to figure him out anyway?
Maybe I need more than just separating myself from him and Romania. Maybe I need more than Prague. Like another job. Something to give me focus, clear my head.
Another hour passes as I wander aimlessly through the narrow streets. Tourists crowd around the entrance to Charles Bridge, taking selfies with the castle in the background. I circle around them, heading back toward my hotel.
By the time I push through the lobby doors, my feet ache and my mood has soured a bit from the sun.
I take the stairs to the third floor, unlock my room, and kick off my shoes. The room is small but clean, with white walls, hardwood floors, and a large bed with crisp white sheets.
I make my way over to the mini-fridge and pour myself a glass of chilled white wine, the condensation wet against my palm as I take a sip.
It's clean and refreshing, and it's the same white I always have here in Prague, so it relaxes me.
Just as I'm about to plop down in a cushy chair, I hear two buzzes vibrate from the table.
I glance over and see my encrypted phone screen glowing.
I walk over, pick it up, and unlock it.
Three missed calls. All from Ivan, and a text. I tap it open and read it.
Позвони мне сейчас.
Call me now. My jaw tightens. Why the urgency?
Ivan doesn't panic. He doesn't urgently summon me in the middle of the day unless something is very, very wrong.
I take a sip of wine to settle my nerves, but it does nothing to remove the uneasy feeling in my stomach.
Then I hit the call button.
On the second ring, he picks up.
"Danika?"
"Yes, sir."
"Blyat, where the hell have you been? I've been calling all morning."
His voice is tight. Strained. In the background, I hear some shuffling.
"I'm in Prague. Everything okay?"
There's a long pause. Then Ivan barks something in Russian that I can't quite make out, and I hear men's voices fading. Then a door slams shut, and the line goes quiet.
"I have something very serious for you," he says to me finally.
I set the wine glass down on the table, my pulse picking up.
"What is it?"
He sighs and mumbles under his breath. I'm not one hundred percent positive, but I'm pretty sure he says something like, "How did it come to this?"
"I need you to go to Sanremo, Italy. There's a casino there. They're hosting an event, and I want you to attend."
"Okay," I say, already mentally cataloging what I'll need. "To clean or watch?"
There's a silence on the other end. Long enough that I check the screen to see if the call dropped.
"Watch."
My brow furrows.
"Who?"
Another pause. This one stretches so long, I almost ask again.
Then, quietly, "My brother, Dimitri."
The room tilts, and I almost fall over. That can't be right. That, that can't be possible.
"Your brother?" I ask. The word comes out strangled in disbelief.
I've never tracked family. Never. That crosses a line so deep, it's written in blood.
You don't spy on the don's inner circle.
You don't question loyalty within the Bratva.
And you sure as hell don't put eyes on the don's own brother unless you want to end up in pieces at the bottom of the Volga River.
"This is a very delicate situation, Danika, and I trust only you for this. I know you will keep this just between us."
"Of course." I stay still in shock.
"There's a tablet he carries with him. Do you know it?"
I think for a moment, sifting through memories, and then it clicks.
He's never without it. A black tablet, always in his hand or tucked under his arm. He once said it controls everything for him, the entire Volkov empire at his fingertips.
"Yes."
"I need you to access it and download its contents."
I blink.
"I don't understand, sir," I say, because this mission sounds insane. Like a joke. Like he's testing me to see if I'll question him.
"I've heard some things. And maybe, shit, there's something going on. Our enemies may not be..."
He trails off.
Silence fills the line again.
"He won't suspect anything from you. Treat it like a normal job. Don't get caught, and bring me the contents, and I'll handle it. I don't want to assume anything."
"Okay, sir," I say, nodding.
"You'll get everything you need soon, but leave now. I want you checked into the hotel tonight," he says, and then the line goes dead.
I check, and this time, he's hung up.
I stand there, my phone still in my hand, staring at the wall in front of me.
Ivan never sounds this conflicted. Jobs to retrieve something, sure, it's mostly those or killing someone, sometimes both, but not on assignments where he doesn't seem sure of things.
Which means whatever he suspects about Dimitri is bad.
Really bad.
But the stakes are the same, maybe even worse for me.
If Dimitri catches me spying on him, if he even suspects I'm there on Ivan's orders, no amount of loyalty will save me. He'll torture me for intel, then kill me slowly, and Ivan won't be able to stop it.
A deep, almost suffocating sense of dread settles in my chest.
I set the phone down and drain the rest of my wine in one long swallow.
Then I start packing.