I sink onto the edge of the bed, elbows braced on my knees. The bathroom door is closed tight, but I can picture her on the other side—hands gripping the counter, chest rising and falling, trying to calm herself down. She’s always like that when she’s angry. She doesn’t scream; she quiets. Withdraws until I can feel the distance in my bones.
The water keeps running. A steady hiss that sounds too much like static in my head.
I lean back, staring up at the ceiling. My throat feels tight. “Better you hate me,” I whisper, “than love me and get hurt.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket just as the hiss of water from the bathroom stops. I reach for it before it can ring again. Roman’s name glows across the screen.
“Tell me you have something,” I mutter, my voice low.
There’s a pause on the other end. Then Roman exhales. “I’ve spoken to my contacts in Europe. The whispers are consistent, Lev. The Greeks want the Marino girl alive.”
The words land like a punch to my ribs.
Alive. Not dead. Alive.
My knuckles whiten around the phone.
Roman continues, his voice clipped and cold. “They’ve built enough infrastructure in the States to operate directly from there. This isn’t just another debt-collection stunt. They’re organized. Prepared.”
I stare at the dark window across from me. My own reflection looks back, all hard angles and shadowed eyes. I already know what he’s about to say, but I let him finish.
“It looks like Viktor Markovic will be heading the operation,” Roman says finally. “He’s not hiding it either. If he was at your reception, it wasn’t to drink your champagne. He wanted to look her in the eye.”
My stomach twists. I picture Viktor’s gaze flicking to Sasha across the room tonight—sharp, assessing, like a predator measuring distance to prey. My fingers flex on the phone until my palm aches.
“I spoke to him,” I say. My voice sounds foreign in my own ears—calm, but sharp around the edges. “We had a whole conversation about how things are down in Greece. Business, trade routes, ports—he played the part perfectly.”
Roman grunts, but doesn’t interrupt.
“Not once did Sasha’s name come up,” I continue. “Not once. He looked me in the eye, toasted with me, smiled like a fucking diplomat. Even said he’d like to meet privately sometime to discuss ‘collaborative opportunities.’”
There’s a pause on the line, just Roman’s steady breathing. Then: “You think he’s bluffing?”
I stare at the faint outline of Sasha’s shadow under the bathroom door. “No,” I murmur. “I think he’s planning something bigger. This isn’t ransom, Roman. They’re not after money.”
Roman exhales sharply. “I know.”
The silence stretches between us.
Finally, Roman says, “I’ll keep digging. If Viktor’s making moves, there’ll be signs.”
He hangs up.
The bathroom door clicks open, and Sasha steps out, steam curling around her like a ghost. Her robe clings to damp skin, the sash barely knotted. She lingers in the doorway, looking at me.
“Were you talking about Viktor Markovic?” she asks quietly.
Her words hit me like a blade sliding between my ribs. My pulse spikes. Before I can think, I’m on my feet, the bed heaving from how hard I spring up.
“How do you know him?” My voice is sharper than I intend, but the thought of Viktor’s name in her mouth sets every nerve on fire. “Did he talk to you?”
No. That’s impossible. I watched him the entire night. I made sure he didn’t even breathe the same air she did without me watching. He wouldn’t dare.
Sasha shakes her head, a single lock of wet hair sticking to her cheek. “I saw him looking at me weirdly. Elara told me who he was.”
The room tilts, red creeping at the edge of my vision. “He did what?” I thunder, the sound exploding out of me before I can cage it.
Sasha flinches back, jerking as if I’d struck her. Her eyes widen, wet and wounded. She folds her arms across her chest like a shield.
