Instead, I just stare at the city that used to be home.
The city below is full of memories I can’t reclaim and a future I can’t predict. Tonight, London feels less like a ghost and more like a doorway. To what, I’m not sure yet.
30
Tony
Adrian Belmont looks like a man who’s stopped sleeping.
I spot him the moment I enter the private club in Knightsbridge, seated in a leather wingback chair near the fireplace with a glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched.
He’s lost even more weight since the surveillance photos were taken. His suit hangs looser on his frame, and dark circles carve hollows beneath his eyes. The composed art dealer I first met seven weeks ago has been replaced by someone running on fumes and obsession.
Good.
Unstable enemies make mistakes.
The club itself is exactly the kind of place Adrian would choose. Old money aesthetic, dark wood paneling, and portraits of stern-faced men who probably exploited half the Empire cover the walls. Members speak in haughty voices over expensive drinks, conducting business deals they’d never admit to in public. I’vebeen in a dozen places like this across Europe, and they all smell the same. Leather, cigars, and barely concealed corruption.
I cross the room with my hands visible and my posture relaxed. Boris has a team positioned outside, monitoring every exit and tracking Adrian’s security detail. Two of his men linger near the bar, trying to look casual and failing miserably. A third stands by the service entrance. Amateur hour compared to Kozlov operations, but I’m not here to critique his staffing choices.
Adrian doesn’t stand to greet me as I make my approach. “You’re late, Tony.”
“Traffic.” I take a seat in the chair across from him and signal the waiter for a drink. “London’s gotten worse since I was last here.”
“Cut the small talk.” Adrian leans forward, and I notice his fingers trembling around his glass. “Where is she?”
“Sasha’s meeting with former colleagues from Christie’s. Reconnecting with old friends, catching up on industry gossip. She thinks we’re here for a romantic getaway. A chance to get away from her brothers’ constant surveillance.”
“And she believed that?”
“Why wouldn’t she? I’ve spent weeks building her trust.” The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I deliver it smoothly. “She’s convinced I’m just a journalist who happened to save her life at that gallery. The poor little rich girl, desperate for someone who sees her as more than a Kozlov.”
Adrian’s mouth curves into something that might be a smile on a healthier face. “Tell me more. I want details.”
“About what specifically?”
“Her emotional state. Her relationship with her brothers. Whether the wedge you’ve been driving is working.” He finally takes a sip of his whiskey. “I’m not paying you for vague reassurances, Tony. I want proof that my investment is yielding returns.”
I accept my drink from the waiter and take a moment to organize my thoughts. Every word out of my mouth needs to sound plausible without giving Adrian anything he can use.
“She’s pulling away from Dmitri,” I begin. “Questioning his decisions, pushing back against his overprotective tendencies. Last week, she told me she’s tired of being treated like a child who needs constant supervision.”
“That’s hardly news. Sasha’s always chafed under her brothers’ control.”
“True. But now she has somewhere else to direct that frustration. She talks to me about things she can’t discuss with them. Her fears, her doubts, and her resentment about being dragged back into the family business when she’d built a life here in London.”
Adrian sets down his glass and steeples his fingers. “Does she talk about me?”
The question catches me off guard, though I don’t let it show. “Occasionally. She feels guilty about what happened to you. Wonders if she handled the situation correctly.”
“Guilty.” Adrian repeats the word like he’s tasting it. “She should feel guilty. She destroyed everything I built. My career, my reputation, and my standing in the art world. Twenty years of work, gone because a spoiled Bratva princess decided to play detective. I had to rebuild everything. I’m still rebuilding it.”
I say nothing. Let him talk. The more he reveals, the more ammunition I have.
“Do you know what it’s like to lose everything, Tony?” Adrian continues. “To watch your life’s work crumble because someone you trusted decided you weren’t worth protecting?”
“I have some idea.”
