I try to remember the last time I let anyone this close.
The answer doesn’t come easily, because I’ve spent three years avoiding this feeling. Attachment leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to people dying.
But sitting here with Sasha’s weight against my shoulder, listening to her breathe, I realize I’m already past the point of professional detachment.
I’m where Adrian wants meto be, emotionally invested and compromised.
The difference is that I won’t let that investment destroy her.
Even if keeping her safe means destroying everything else.
9
Sasha
The moment the door clicks shut behind us, I know I’m in trouble.
We arrived in London three hours ago, checked into a boutique hotel near Mayfair, and discovered that “couple’s suite” means one very large bed and nowhere to hide from the attraction that’s been building since my apartment.
“I can sleep on the couch,” Tony offers, dropping his bag by the door. He’s already scanned the room twice—windows, exits, sight lines. I watched him do it without even thinking.
“Don’t be ridiculous. The couch is two feet long.” I walk to the window and look out at the London streets I used to know so well. “We’re both adults. We can share a bed without it being weird.”
“Right. Not weird at all.”
Except it is weird.
We spent last night with his arm around me on the safehouse couch, pretending we were just reviewing security footage instead of finding excuses to be close. Now, we’re in London, posing as a couple, about to meet with my former colleague who might have information about whoever’s investigating my family.
And all I can think about is what almost happened before the shooting started.
“The meeting’s not until tomorrow morning,” Tony reminds me, checking his phone. “We have the rest of the day.”
“I should probably prepare. Review what I’m going to ask her.”
“Or you could take a break.” He pockets his phone and looks at me. His eyes travel down my body before snapping back to my face, like he caught himself doing something he shouldn’t. “When’s the last time you just enjoyed being in London? No work or threats, just the city.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Then we’re fixing that.”
Thirty minutes later, we’re walking through a small gallery in Shoreditch that’s showing contemporary Russian artists. The space is intimate, maybe twenty pieces total, and nearly empty on a Wednesday afternoon.
Tony positions himself on the street side as we walk, his shoulder brushing mine every few steps. Dmitri does the same thing. It’s instinct for men who expect danger from every direction.
“How did you know about this?” I ask as we step inside.
“I didn’t. I searched for Russian art exhibitions near our hotel, and this came up.” Tony studies a large abstract painting. Even here, surrounded by art, he’s watching the other visitors. The woman in the corner. The man by the exit. He keeps his body angled toward the door. “You mentioned at the wedding that you never get to just look at art anymore. That everything is authentication and analysis. I thought maybe you’d want an hour when nothing’s at stake.”
“You remembered that?”
“I remember most things you tell me.”
We make our way through the gallery, taking everything in. The work is modern and bold, nothing like the Imperial pieces I usually authenticate. A series of photographs documents Moscow’s changing architecture. Sculptures made from reclaimed Soviet-era materials. Paintings that blend traditional iconography with contemporary themes.
A man enters the gallery behind us. Mid-forties, expensive coat, his hands in his pockets. I clock him, noting the bulge near his left hip that could be a weapon or a wallet. Tony notices, too. I see his weight settle differently, ready to move. The man walks past us toward the photographs without a second glance, and we both relax fractionally. This is what our lives are. Never fully at ease, even surrounded by beauty.
“This one’s interesting,” Tony comments in front of a triptych showing three generations of Russian women. “What do you see?”
