The hotel receptionist doesn’t blink when Tony checks us in under fake names.
This whole weekend is theater. Dmitri’s idea—convince Adrian that Tony’s successfully isolated me from my family. Tony told Adrian about the trip three days ago, giving him plenty of time to plant whatever surveillance he wanted. The goal is simple: make Adrian think he’s winning while we feed him exactly what we want him to believe.
Money and discretion go hand in hand in Moscow’s luxury establishments. We’re just another couple seeking privacy, and the staff here are paid extremely well not to remember faces.
Tony carries both bags to the elevator. Neither of us speaks during the ride to the seventh floor. The silence feels heavy, loaded with everything we haven’t said since that note I slipped under his door.
Our room faces the Moscow River. Expensive. Adrian’s surveillance budget at work.
As soon as we’re in the room, Tony sets the bags down and starts his sweep. He checks the bathroom first, running his hands along the mirror frame and under the sink.
I kick off my heels and join him, moving to the windows while he works. “Tell me about your uncle,” I casually prompt as I examine the curtain rods. “Something I don’t know yet.”
Making conversation during a sweep sounds more natural than working in silence on the other end. My brothers taught me that.
Tony emerges from the bathroom and moves to check the baseboards. “Why the sudden interest?”
“Because I want to understand where you learned to be patient.” I run my fingers along the window frame myself, checking for anything unusual. “What made him that way?”
“His wife died when he was thirty-two. Cancer.” Tony kneels to examine under the bed. “They’d been trying to have kids for years, but it never happened. After she died, he threw himself into the restaurant because it was the only thing that made sense anymore.”
“That sounds like he was running from his grief.” I move to the nightstand and open the drawer to check inside.
“It was. At first.” Tony stands and crosses to check the closet. “But then my parents died, and suddenly he had this angry, traumatized eight-year-old who didn’t understand why everyone kept leaving. I broke things. Said awful things. Tested him constantly to see if he’d give up on me too.”
The lamp on the nightstand sits at an odd angle. Someone moved it and didn’t put it back quite right.
I reach to straighten it, and my fingers brush something small and hard attached to the base where it meets the stem.
There.
I don’t pull my hand away. Just let my fingers rest there for a moment, feeling the shape of it. Professional grade. Not some cheap device you order online.
I turn to look at Tony. He’s hanging up a jacket in the closet, but he glances my way.
I let my eyes flick down to the lamp, then back to his face.
He stops what he’s doing and crosses to me, like he’s just continuing the conversation naturally.
“What did he do?” I ask. “When you were testing him?”
“He’d just clean up whatever mess I made and start over. Every single time.” Tony reaches the nightstand and adjusts the lamp himself. “Never got angry. Never threatened to send me away.”
We’re being listened to. Right now. Every word we say is being recorded.
Tony’s eyes meet mine. There’s a question in them—what do we do?
I could play innocent. Pretend we don’t know. That’s what Dmitri would probably want.
But I’m not Dmitri. And I’m tired of letting Adrian think he has power over me.
I make my decision in the space of a heartbeat.
“Did you ever ask him why?” I step closer to Tony.
“Yeah. One day after I’d broken his favorite coffee mug.” His hand is still on the lamp, fingers covering the device. “He said some things are worth the wait. That the best meals take hours to prepare, but rushing them ruins everything. That people are the same way—you can’t force someone to heal or trust or love. You just have to be there when they’re ready.”
I reach up and touch Tony’s face. My brothers would call this reckless. But my brothers also taught me that sometimes the best defense is refusing to be a victim.
