“It’s my real name. Anthony Volkov. Tony for short.”
“Here’s my problem,” Dmitri repeats. “You’ve admitted to being a professional liar. You’ve admitted to taking a contract to destroy my family. You’ve admitted to using my sister to accomplish that goal. And now, you’re asking me to believe you’ve had a change of heart?” He sets down the pliers and picks up a hammer instead. “I don’t believe in redemption stories. I believe in consequences.”
“I’m not asking you to believe me. I’m asking you to verify what I’m saying. Text Adrian. Pretend to be me. Read my messages about the intelligence I’ve provided. Check the information I gave him against your operations. You’ll see it doesn’t match.”
“Or you’re playing an even deeper game. Feeding him false information to make yourself look trustworthy while gathering real intelligence through other means.”
“Then how do I prove it? Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”
Dmitri sets down the hammer and crosses his arms. “You can’t prove it; that’s the point. You’ve destroyed any credibility youmight have had. Even if everything you’re saying is true, I have no reason to trust a single word out of your mouth.”
I know he’s right, but I have to try anyway.
“Sasha’s favorite memory from London is the first time she authenticated a genuine Rembrandt,” I blurt out. “She spent three days examining it and nearly convinced herself it was a forgery because she couldn’t believe something that beautiful could be real. When she finally confirmed it was authentic, she cried in the museum bathroom.”
Dmitri doesn’t respond.
“She feels guilty about leaving you and Alexei to handle the family business while she built a life in London. She thinks you see her as fragile instead of capable. She has nightmares about your parents, even though she was too young to remember the details surrounding their deaths. She plays with her necklace when she’s nervous. She bites her lip when she’s concentrating. She becomes radiant when she talks about art.”
“None of that proves?—”
“I started calling her Solnyshko. Little sun. Because that’s what she is. She makes everything around her warmer and brighter without even trying. What I feel for her, Dmitri… it’s not part of any mission. That’s not something I can fake. That’s real.”
The confession settles over the warehouse like fog.
Dmitri doesn’t speak. He just stands there, studying me while I sit restrained in this chair, bleeding from a split lip and probably looking desperate.
Iamdesperate.
I’m desperate for Sasha to hear this and believe me. Desperate for one person in this world to understand that I didn’t mean for any of this to happen and to protect her from Adrian, even if it costs me everything.
“You have feelings for her,” Dmitri finally says. The words aren’t a question; he’s testing how they sound. “And yet, you took a contract to destroy her.”
“I took the contract before I met her. Before I understood what kind of person she is. Before I…” I stop myself. “There’s no excuse. You’re right. I’m a professional liar who used your sister to get close to your family. The only difference between what I was supposed to do and what I did is that I couldn’t finish it. I couldn’t betray her. Couldn’t hand Adrian the weapons he wanted to hurt her with.”
“Noble of you,” Dmitri snickers.
“I’m not noble; I’m selfish,” I counter. “I want her alive and safe because I can’t imagine my life without her. That’s not nobility, that’s self-preservation.”
Dmitri turns back to the table. For a terrible moment, I think he’s reaching for one of the torture instruments. But instead, he pulls out a phone.
Whatever comes next, I’ve earned it.
17
Sasha
I watch Tony’s face through the two-way mirror, and I know he’s telling the truth.
Not because of what he says. Words are cheap, especially from an admitted professional liar. But the anguish on his face is harder to fake.
I see the muscle working in his jaw, and the way he won’t look away from Dmitri, even though every instinct in his body has got to be telling him to hide. There’s devastation in his eyes when he talks about me.
I’ve spent years authenticating forgeries. I know how to spot a fake.
This isn’t one.
“Adrian Belmont,” Dmitri repeats, and I watch my brother’s knuckles go white around the edge of the phone in his hand.
