"Ms. Markova." The voice is smooth, cultured. Familiar. "This is Maksim Vasiliev. I hope I'm not interrupting."
Every muscle in my body tenses. "Not at all. How can I help you?"
"I was hoping we could continue our conversation from the other day. There are some details about the masquerade incident that still trouble me."
My heart pounds against my ribs. "I told you everything I know."
"I'm sure you did." There's something in his tone that makes my skin heat. "Still, I'd feel more comfortable if we could speak in person. Would you be available this evening?"
I glance at the clock. Konstantin will be here in fifteen minutes.
"I'm afraid I have plans this evening," I say carefully. "Perhaps tomorrow?"
"I really must insist, Ms. Markova." The politeness is gone now, replaced by steel. "There are some very serious allegations being made, and I'd like to clear them up before they become... problematic."
Allegations. About me, or about Konstantin?
"What kind of allegations?" I ask.
"The kind best discussed in person." A pause. "I can send a car in thirty minutes. Or I can come to you. Your choice."
It's not a choice. It's a threat.
I need to stall. Need to give Konstantin time to get here.
"An hour," I say. "Send the car in an hour. I need to finish some work first."
"Very well. One hour." He hangs up.
I immediately text Konstantin: "Maksim just called. Wants to bring me in for achat. Says there are allegations. Coming for me in an hour."
Three dots appear. Then: "Don't go anywhere. I'm five minutes out. We're leaving now."
I start shutting down the monitors, packing everything I can't leave behind. Laptop. External drives. The fake passports I've had ready for years. Cash. A gun I’ve only ever fired on a range.
I'm halfway through packing when I hear the front door cick open.
Konstantin's key. He insisted on having the spare, said he needed to be able to get to me fast if something went wrong.
I exhale in relief and turn toward the door.
Except it's not Konstantin standing in my doorway.
It's Artur Troskoy.
He looks older than a few days ago. Grayer. But his eyes are the same. Cold. Calculating. The eyes of a man who's killed so many people he's lost count.
"Hello, Emilia." He steps inside, and two men follow him. Large men with guns. "Or should I say, hello again?"
My hand inches toward the gun on my desk.
"I wouldn't." One of Troskoy's men raises his weapon, pointing it directly at my chest. At the scar Troskoy put there six years ago.
"You're supposed to be dead," Troskoy says, moving farther into my apartment like he owns it. "I made sure of it. Shot you myself. Watched you bleed."
"Disappointed?" I keep my voice steady, even though my heart's trying to punch through my ribs. “How did you get in here?”
"Intrigued." He plucks a metal tool out of his pocket, waving it from side to side while tutting. His meaning is clear. He picked the lock. "Six years. You've been alive for six years, and I had no idea. That takes skill. Intelligence." His smile is ugly. "Your father would be proud."
