She was analyzing films in a classroom while I was already killing people for a living. Too young for this world. Definitely too young for a man like me.
“Do you regret it?”
“No. But sometimes I wonder what else I might have been good at if I’d taken different paths. Do you ever do that? Wonder about the alternate versions of your life?”
All the time. Especially lately. In some of them, I never took Adrian’s contract. In some of them, I met Sasha under different circumstances—circumstances where I could have her.
“Sometimes,” I reply instead. “Usually when I’m making questionable decisions at midnight.”
She laughs, and the sound surprises me. “Is watching Russian cinema with me a questionable decision?”
“The jury’s still out.”
We turn back to the film. Another thirty minutes pass, and Sasha cries twice more during particularly moving scenes. She also provides commentary on the editing choices, the symbolism of certain shots, and the historical context of the setting.
She’s brilliant. Not just smart, but genuinely passionate about understanding how art communicates meaning. The way she talks about visual storytelling is the same way she talked about authentication—looking for the details that reveal truth.
Which makes what Adrian wants me to do even worse.
By the time the credits roll, it’s past two in the morning. Sasha has stopped crying, but her face is still blotchy, and her eyes are red.
“That was beautiful,” I concede, because it was.
She stands and folds her blanket. “It always destroys me. Thank you for watching with me. Most people think old Soviet films are boring.”
“Most people are wrong.”
“Noted.” She heads toward her bedroom, then pauses at the door. “Tony? Whatever that phone call was about earlier—the one that bothered you—I hope you figure it out.”
“Thanks.”
“And if it involves my family, I hope you’ll tell me the truth instead of lying to protect me. I’ve had enough people do that for a lifetime.”
She closes her door before I can reply. Thank God for small miracles.
I sit on the couch for a long time after, staring at the blank television screen and trying to figure out how I’m supposed to betray someone who just asked me to be honest with her.
The answer should be simple. I need the money. I signed the contract. Adrian has leverage.
But nothing about this situation feels simple anymore.
Especially not because I want her safe more than I want myself breathing.
Adrian’s voice is still in my ear. Demanding I record her devastation for his viewing pleasure. My hands curl into fists. I’ve killed men for less. And the longer this goes on, the more I think Adrian needs to die, too.
7
Sasha
Tony insists on coming with me to my apartment, which seems excessive.
“I can pack a bag by myself,” I tell him as we climb into the armored SUV with two of Boris’ men.
“Humor me.” He settles into the seat beside me. His thigh presses against mine in the confined space, and the contact sends a wave of heat up my leg. The man takes up more room than should be legal. “After the car bomb, Dmitri doesn’t want you going anywhere without backup.”
“You’re not backup. You’re a security consultant with questionable credentials.”
“Right now, I’m whatever keeps you breathing long enough to insult me.”
