"Welcome to the team," he said. The slight smile on his face was genuine. Warm. "Your first assignment starts tomorrow."
I picked up my wine glass. My hands were still shaking slightly but I managed not to spill. "What kind of assignment?"
"Intelligence analysis." He cut another piece of chicken. Calm. Casual. Like we'd just signed a normal employment contractinstead of an agreement that bound me to him for four years. "I have several boxes of intercepted Belyaev communications. I need you to review them and identify patterns."
My photographic memory. He wanted to use my photographic memory.
"When tomorrow?" I asked.
"Nine AM. I'll show you to the library tomorrow morning, after breakfast." He gestured at my plate. "You should eat first. The chicken's good."
It was good. I'd had a few bites before launching into my legal arguments. The herbs were perfect, the meat tender and juicy.
I ate. Because I was hungry. Because refusing to eat felt like a useless form of defiance. Because some practical part of my brain understood that I needed fuel to survive whatever came next.
Nikolai ate too. Comfortable silence settling between us. Like this was normal. Like I worked for him instead of being owned by him.
Four years. I'd signed away four years of my life.
But I'd survived worse. Survived Sergei's death. Survived my father's death. Survived six months of drowning in debt that wasn't mine.
I could survive this.
I had to.
Thelibrarywasthekind of room that made you want to stay. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes in Russian and English, spines worn from actual reading rather than decorative display. A massive oak desk positioned near three tall windows that let in morning light. Comfortable leather chairs. A sectional sofa that looked like itcost more than a car but was clearly used—worn spots on the cushions, a blanket draped over one arm.
Books were organized by language and subject. Russian literature on the left, English on the right. History and philosophy in the center. I'd noticed while Nikolai was explaining my assignment. Noticed and cataloged because information was still armor, even here.
Breakfast had been blini again. With honey this time. I'd eaten in my room, alone, grateful for the solitude after last night's dinner. A young woman had brought the tray—one of the household staff, early twenties, who'd smiled and told me her name was Irina before leaving quickly.
At nine AM exactly, Nikolai had knocked on my door. Led me downstairs to the library. Explained the assignment in that calm, precise way he had. Three bankers boxes full of intercepted Belyaev communications. Emails, text messages, phone call transcripts, surveillance reports. Six months of intelligence gathering.
"I need you to catalog them," he'd said. "Identify patterns. Flag anything unusual. Your photographic memory makes you perfect for this."
Then he'd left me alone. Trusted me with sensitive intelligence on my first day. Either stupidity or a calculated test of my loyalty.
I suspected the latter.
The boxes sat on the floor beside the desk. Heavy cardboard, the kind office supply stores sold, labeled in Maks's neat handwriting. BELYAEV COMMS: JAN-MAR. BELYAEV COMMS: APR-JUN. BELYAEV COMMS: JUL-AUG.
I started with January.
The work was tedious but satisfying in a way I hadn't expected. My brain liked this—the sorting, the analyzing, the slow accumulation of information into coherent patterns. Iread fast, my photographic memory capturing every word automatically. Emails about shipments and territories. Text messages coordinating meetings. Surveillance reports tracking movements of various family members.
Most of it was routine criminal enterprise management. Boring, even. The Belyaevs ran their operation like a particularly violent corporation.
But by the time I finished the first box—around 10:30 AM according to the antique clock on the mantle—I'd started noticing inconsistencies. References that didn't quite fit. Questions that seemed oddly specific.
I opened the second box. April through June.
The pattern became clearer.
An email from Anton Belyaev to someone named Spetsa Prekov: "Confirm the daughter's location. We need the asset before the debt collectors close in."
A text message thread between Belyaev soldiers: "Found the storage unit. She's there twice a week, always alone. Easy grab if we wanted."
A surveillance report dated May 15th: "Subject visited storage unit 1400-1700 hours. Photographing items inside. Photographic memory confirmed per intelligence from West Coast contacts."
