Tony took Adrian’s money. He agreed to make me fall for him so Adrian could break me.
But he also sabotaged his mission, fed Adrian false information, and protected me instead of betraying me.
Which version of him is real? The operative who takes contracts to destroy people, or the man who couldn’t go through with it?
I don’t know. And that’s what terrifies me most. I still want to believe him even after everything he’s confessed.
He looked at the mirror like he could see me standing behind it as he confessed everything, knowing it would probably result in his death.
Either he’s the best liar I’ve ever met, or he cares about me enough to sacrifice everything.
I need to figure out which one is true before I decide what happens next.
18
Tony
The cell is eight feet by ten feet, with a cot bolted to the wall and a bucket in the corner.
I’ve been here for three days. Maybe four.
It’s hard to tell when there’s no window, and the single bulb overhead never turns off.
Boris brings food twice a day—bread, water, and sometimes, soup that’s gone cold. He doesn’t speak; he just slides the tray through the slot at the bottom of the door and walks away.
I don’t blame him.
The concrete floor is freezing. I gave up trying to sleep on the cot after the first night, when my ribs protested every position. Now, I sit with my back against the wall and run through every moment with Sasha, trying to find a point in our time together when I could have been honest.
My uncle used to say that regret was just hindsight with teeth. I didn’t understand what he meant until now.
Every memory bites.
The first time I saw her at Alexei’s wedding, standing on the balcony alone. She was watching the celebration like an outsider, even though it was her family.
I approached with my cover story, and she saw through half of it before I finished my second sentence. I should have walked away then and told Adrian I couldn’t do it.
But I didn’t.
I stayed. I talked to her about art authentication and business practices, and all the things Adrian told me would make her trust me.
And it worked.
She opened up, telling me about London and Christie’s and building something separate from her family name.
I filed it away like a professional.
The morning after St. Petersburg, when she asked about my past relationships over breakfast. I deflected with the story about Rachel throwing a satellite phone at my head, made her laugh, and steered the conversation away from anything real about my life.
The afternoon in her apartment when gunfire shattered the windows, and I covered her body with mine. She looked up at me with trust, and I used that trust to get closer instead of warning her away.
The safehouse couch, where we had sex, and Adrian called right afterward. I saw the hurt on her face when I pulled away toanswer. I should have thrown the phone across the room and chosen her right then.
But I didn’t. I kept taking Adrian’s money, feeding him lies to buy myself more time with her, and pretending I could have both.
She knows everything now, and I’ve destroyed whatever we might have had.
I wonder if she’s left Moscow. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I’d run from me, too.
