“I feel worse,” I said flatly.
He stepped aside without another word, and I walked in.
His place was exactly what I expected—minimalist and efficient, with tech equipment scattered across every available surface. Multiple monitors glowed in the corner of the living room, lines of code scrolling across screens like digital waterfalls. The air smelled faintly of coffee and electronic heat.
Jazz played softly in the background. Something slow and melancholic that matched my mood perfectly. Miles Davis, maybe. Or Coltrane. I couldn’t tell and didn’t care.
Kirill grabbed a bottle of vodka from his freezer—the good stuff, Russian, from home—and poured two glasses without asking. He knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t be here at ten o’clock on a Wednesday night unless something were seriously wrong.
He handed me my glass, and we moved to his den—a small room off the main living area with leather chairs, dark wood paneling, and shelves lined with books I doubted he’d ever read. They were probably just for show, though, knowing Kirill, he’d probably read every single one and could quote them from memory.
I sank into one of the chairs and downed half my glass in one swallow. The vodka burned all the way down, sharp and cleansing, but it did nothing to ease the knot in my chest.
Kirill sat across from me, cradling his own glass, studying my face with those sharp blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing. He didn’t speak. Just waited. Patient. Observant.
That was Kirill. He never pushed. Never prodded. He just sat there and let you come to him when you were ready.
I set my glass down on the side table, leaned forward with my elbows on my knees, and pressed my palms against my eyes.
“I think Cassandra’s still feeding Vance information,” I said, my voice rough and strained.”
Kirill still said nothing. Just took a measured sip of his vodka and waited for me to continue.
“I can’t go straight to Rafael,” I continued, dropping my hands and looking at him. The words tasted like ash in my mouth. “She’s my wife now. I can’t just…I can’t break her trust like that. I can’t throw her to the wolves without knowing for sure.”
“But you think she’s still lying to you,” Kirill said quietly.
It wasn’t a question.
I nodded, my jaw so tight I thought my teeth might crack. “Yeah. I do.”
Kirill leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. “What makes you think she hasn’t stopped? She told you everything about Vance. About what she’d been doing. Why would she risk continuing after that?”
“The ambushes.” I ran a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding through every word. “The last two operations—both compromised. Both hit with precision that screams inside information. And the timing, Kirill. It all lines up with when she had access to those files.”
“Could be someone else,” Kirill offered, though his tone suggested he was playing devil’s advocate more than believing it.
“Maybe. But then there’s the anonymous tip.” I leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Rafael got a call from a burner phone warning him about the warehouse ambush. Minutes before it happened. A woman’s voice. He couldn’t trace it, but it was enough warning that our casualties were minimal instead of catastrophic.”
Kirill’s eyes sharpened. “You think it was her.”
“I know it was her.” My voice cracked, just slightly, and I hated myself for it. Hated the weakness. Hated the certainty. “She’s still giving Vance intel, but she’s trying to minimize the damage. Trying to have it both ways. Trying to protect us whilestill keeping him satisfied enough that he doesn’t... I don’t know. Whatever leverage he has on her.”
Kirill was quiet for a long moment, swirling his vodka in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light. Then he said, “She’s terrified of him.”
My stomach churned. “So you think she’s still trapped.”
“I think she told you what she could without getting herself killed,” Kirill said carefully. “And I think she’s been trying to walk a tightrope ever since—keeping Vance satisfied enough to stay alive while trying to protect the people she actually cares about.”
“By betraying us.” The words came out bitter.
“By surviving,” Kirill corrected. “There’s a difference.”
I wanted to argue. Wanted to say that survival didn’t justify betrayal, that she should have trusted me enough to tell me everything, that we could have protected her.
But could we have?
Vance Donovan was former FBI with connections and resources that ran deep. If he had something on Cassandra—something damaging enough to control her—what could we have done?
