“Ponyal,” I say. Understood. My voice sounds dead even to me.
“Molodets.” Good boy. He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame. “She arrives in thirty minutes. Chapel at ten. I expect you to be convincing.” He glances back, eyes cold. “If she gives us trouble, I’ll put her in a lab and let men with guns stand over her until she cooperates. The brother will have an accident. And you will watch. Then I’ll hand your chair to Yuri anyway.”
The door closes behind them.
I’m alone with the contract.
Thirty minutes until I meet the woman I’m supposed to seduce.
The woman whose mother I helped kill seven years ago.
My throat tightens and I force air through it. Sentiment is a luxury I can’t afford. Guilt is just another weakness I learned to bury at twelve in that church crypt.
The windows look out over territory that’s only mine as long as I keep playing Vadim’s game and stay more useful to him alive than dead.
I plant my palms on the desk and feel the solid weight of it under my hands. If I don’t, I’m going to put my fist through the glass and bleed over this neat contract everyone keeps pretending is a solution instead of another fucking problem.
Anya Nikolayevna Morozova.
I say her name under my breath, testing how it feels in my mouth. Formal. Respectful.
The contract feels light when I pick it up. There should be a weight to turning a woman into a weapon and aiming her at a target she doesn’t know exists. To making myself into the exact kind of monster I swore at twelve I’d never become.
I cut that thought off before it finishes.
She’s walking into my life, and I’m going to make it look safe until it’s too late for her to run.
The edge of the contract bites into my palm. A thin line of blood appears, dark against the cream paper. One drop slides toward her empty signature line and soak in.
Maybe if I bleed first, it’ll feel less like murder.
It doesn’t.
Time to meetmy wife.
ANYA — Volkovskaya Mansion, 20:47
The gates slam shut behind the car with a heavy, final sound that lands in my chest like a weight.
The iron wolves on either side are huge, mid-snarl, all teeth and rage. I watch them in the side mirror until they disappear into the dark.
The peppermint tablet on my tongue has almost dissolved, but I keep rolling the last sharp grain around my mouth like it’s the only thing I can still control. Everything else—my future, my body, Mishka’s life—is in someone else’s hands now.
The driver doesn’t look at me once. I should be grateful. I don’t think I could handle anyone’s eyes on me right now, anykind of attention. His hands are tight on the wheel, knuckles pale. He looks like he’s having a bomb in the backseat.
My own hands won’t stop shaking, no matter how hard I clamp them together in my lap. I press my fingers so tight my nails dig crescents into my skin. It doesn’t help. Great.Really helpful, nervous system. Tremble harder.The last thing I want is to walk into Roman Volkov’s house looking like someone who knows she doesn’t get to leave.
I try to keep my thoughts on my brother—Mishka leaving school, Mishka at the bus stop, Mishka completely unaware that one man’s debt and another man’s power turned him into leverage.
The car climbs higher. Moscow spreads beneath us—streets glowing, domes and towers catching the last of the light. Somewhere down there is the illusion that if I crossed enough borders and changed languages enough times, my past would stop knowing where to find me. Last week I was with Zhenya at Propaganda, drinking until collapse and laughing our souls out. Then armed men arrived at my door and I only remember the wordsBratva, debt, marriage.
Idiot, Mama says in the back of my head.You can’t outrun blood.
The mansion appears through the trees—huge, perfectly lit. Money built it. Power decided who feels small inside it.
The driver stops. A guard opens my door. Cold air hits my face and claws through my coat, but the shock helps. It keeps me from vomiting.
My boots crunch on the gravel. The guard gestures toward the front steps, expression blank. I follow because there is no alternative.
