“Sounds like a good brother.”
“The best. Even when he’s overbearing and controlling and treats me like I’m still seven years old.” She pulls her coat tighter around herself. “I know why he does it. He lost our parents. He’s terrified of losing me, too. But sometimes, I wish he could see me as capable instead of fragile.”
“He knows you’re capable. That’s why he sent you to London in the first place.”
“Maybe. Or maybe he just wanted me far away from anything that could hurt me.”
“Both things can be true.”
We round a corner, and the Winter Palace comes into view. Lit up against the night sky, it looks like something from a fairy tale. Beautiful and cold and completely untouchable.
“Have you ever been inside?” Sasha nods toward the Hermitage.
“Once. Years ago. I spent four hours looking at paintings and still only saw a fraction of the collection.”
“I could spend a week in there and not get bored. Art is the one thing that makes sense to me. Everything else in life is messy and unpredictable, but a painting is just what it is. The brushstrokes tell you everything if you know how to read them.”
“Is that why you became an authenticator? Because art makes sense?”
“Partly. Also, because I’m good at it. And because it was all mine.” She looks at me and asks, “Have you ever had something that was just yours? That nobody else could touch or take away?”
I think about the question longer than I probably should.
“My integrity,” I decide. “At least, that’s what I used to think before I started taking jobs that compromised it. The lines get blurry when you work in the shadows long enough. Things you swore you’d never do start feeling necessary. Justifiable. And before you know it, you don’t recognize yourself.”
“Do you recognize yourself now?”
“I’m starting to. Being around you makes me want to be better than I’ve been.” The admission comes out before I even realize what I’m saying. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not.”
Sasha stops walking. I turn to face her, and the look in her eyes makes something behind my sternum pull tight.
“It’s a good thing,” she assures me.
Then she reaches out and takes my hand.
The gesture is achingly simple, but God damn, does it set my body on fire. Her fingers lace through mine like they belong there. Her palm is cold from the night air, but the contact sends warmth spreading up my arm and into my chest.
I’ve held her before. Touched her. Almost made love to her in her apartment before bullets interrupted us. But this feels different. More intimate. Like she’s choosing me, not just wanting me.
I know I don’t deserve it. I’m lying to her about Adrian, about the contract, about everything that matters. If she knew the truth, she’d never look at me again.
But standing here on this cold St. Petersburg night with her hand in mine, I let myself pretend—just for a moment—that I’m the man she thinks I am. That this could work. That I haven’t already destroyed any chance of a future with her.
13
Sasha
I’ve been asking Tony about his journalism career for twenty minutes, and he’s running out of lies.
We’re back at the Moscow safehouse after the train ride from St. Petersburg, and I’m curled up on one end of the couch while he sits on the other.
The threatening note is locked in Dmitri’s safe. The gallery evidence has been sent to my brother’s analysts.
Everything should feel like it’s getting resolved, but nothing does.
“So which editor assigned you to cover Alexei’s wedding?” I keep my voice casual. “You said it was the local paper, right?”
“Roman Dashkov. He handles their international coverage.”
