I stand there, staring at the brass, heart thudding like I’ve already been caught. I should turn around. I should go back. I should be better than this.
Then I notice the key.
It’s not even hidden. It’s sitting on top of the doorframe like someone placed it there without thinking, or like someone wanted it within reach.
That makes my stomach twist.
I hesitate. Then I stretch up on my toes, fingers brushing the cool metal, and lift it down.
The key slides into the lock smoothly. The click is quiet but it feels loud in my head, like a gunshot in a museum.
I open the door and step inside.
Papers everywhere, old brass lamps, shelves full of books I can’t read—Russian, French, a few English titles about economics and warfare.
But the real heart of the place is the wall.
A corkboard, massive, covered in photographs, newspaper clippings, flight manifests. Red string stretches from face to face, city to city.
There’s a section labeled “Flight 498.” Passenger list, cabin crew, Kirov’s seat circled, someone called Elena Morozova’s name underlined twice in red.
My eyes drift to another section of the wall.
It’s about Irina.
No photo, just a name written in block letters like a warning.
IRINA.
Under that, a list of associates, lieutenants, fronts, companies. The kind of list you don’t make unless you’re planning for war.
And then I see a cluster of strings that connect Irina to the plane, to Kirov, to something else.
A voice behind me, low and unmistakable. “I told you not to come in here.”
I whirl, pulse pounding, half expecting him to be angry. But Aleksander just stands in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, gaze dark but not cold. He doesn’t look pissed. More resigned, maybe even faintly amused.
“I think I can help,” I blurt, and immediately regret it. My voice sounds small, unconvincing. What do I know about the Bratva, about murder and red strings and the way men like him move through the world? I don’t even know how to keep myself safe, let alone help Aleksander.
He studies me, then his eyes flick over my shoulder to the mess of the board.
“Where were you?” I ask.
He doesn’t call me out on it. He just nods once, the motion slow, deliberate. “I was chasing a lead.”
There’s a pause, and something uncomfortable settles between us. I clear my throat. “There’s something I was meaning to ask.”
He waits.
“Where’s my stuff?” I say, softer than I intended. “I mean, all my things. Clothes, Lily’s bag. We left so fast, I haven’t…” I trail off, embarrassed, glancing down at myself in yesterday’s shirt and the only change of pants I had stuffed in my purse. “I think I’ve started to stink.”
Aleksander’s lips twitch, the faintest ghost of a smile. “I’m sorry. I’ll have someone put it out for you in the guest room.”
He stops just in front of me, so close I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He leans in, dips his head, and sniffs softly at my shoulder and hair, so close I can feel the brush of his breath against my skin.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, his voice dropping, rough and a little primal. “You do smell different.”
I can’t help but laugh—a nervous sound that somehow breaks the tension. “Not my best day.”
