He stops mid-word.
The silence is short and hard.
“I don’t care about flies,” I say. I stop painting. “Nikolai, if you really want to be helpful, there’s something you can do. The hostess, the one who kept watching me. Talk to her.”
He doesn’t look surprised. He just nods once. “Already on that. The one you flagged—Elena Morozova—she’s got a pile of debt hanging over her. Bad gambling, bad choices. Owes the wrong kind of people.”
“She’s not clean,” I say simply.
“Maybe. She hasn’t gone home since the flight. We tracked her badge—she went to a hotel instead of her apartment. Switched her phone off an hour later. That’s not normal.”
I pace the edge of the studio, paint still drying on my hands. “She saw something. Or someone scared her into silence.”
“Or she’s looking to sell what she knows,” Nikolai adds. “If anyone’s shopping for inside info, she’d be first in line.”
My jaw tightens. “Find her before anyone else does.”
He meets my eyes. “I’m working it. She’s on our list. If she talks to anyone—Kirov’s crew, cops, journalists, anyone with half a reason to ask about that flight—we’ll know. If she tries to run, we’ll have eyes on her.”
“Good,” I say. I pause, feeling the pressure building under my skin, the familiar hum of too many pieces moving at once. “If she’s smart, she’ll keep quiet. If she’s not?—”
“We’ll handle it,” Nikolai says. His voice is calm. This is his job.
When he leaves, the studio is silent again, but it’s not the kind of quiet that brings peace. It’s the kind that means somethingis about to break. I look back at the painting—Bella’s eyes, her mouth, her unfinished expression—and feel the distance like a bruise.
Four years ago, I thought I had her.
That was the mistake.
After breakfast, that morning, I had stepped out onto the marble floor of the lobby, phone pressed to my ear. My handler’s voice buzzed in my skull, the usual post-mission debrief. Numbers, logistics, cleanup. My mind was half there, half somewhere else—still replaying the way Bella laughed as she chased crumbs from her plate, the way her eyes softened when she caught me watching.
I hung up and went to look for her. She hadn’t been at the buffet when I finished. I figured she’d gone upstairs. I took the elevator up, keyed into the suite, expecting the sound of a shower or the hum of her voice drifting from the bedroom.
Nothing.
The bathroom was spotless. The bed, already made by housekeeping. Her dress from the night before was gone from the chair.
There was no scent of her shampoo, no trace of her perfume, no shoes by the door.
The whole place felt suddenly wrong. Hollow.
I checked the hallway. Empty. The maid with her cart shrugged—she hadn’t seen anyone leave. The front desk offered nothing. I walked the halls, the business lounge, the rooftop terrace.
It was like she’d evaporated into thin air.
At the concierge desk, I gave her name. The kid behind the counter blinked, uncertain, then hesitantly slid over a small envelope with my name on it.
It was her handwriting on the front.
I opened it right there in the marble lobby, heart pounding and cold.
Aleksander—
Thank you for everything.
I had the best two nights of my life.
But don’t look for me.
