But those things live only in memory now. Or fantasy.
I need you to know that I have done something unforgivable. Something so monstrous that it will follow me to my grave. And if the man I wronged survives—he will never forgive me. Nor should he.
I did it for Grandma.
You know how much we loved her. You know how long she has been on life support, how every breath she took was borrowed time. We went to Greece for what was supposed to be a quiet capture—Al-Chapo. A name we believed we could handle.
We were wrong.
He captured us instead.
Al-Chapo showed me the live feed, Elena. Grandma’s hospital room. The machines. Her heartbeat. He told me that if I didn’t do exactly what he ordered, he would pull the plug himself. I saw it in his eyes—I knew he wasn’t bluffing. I had no choice. None.
So I obeyed.
I killed Amy.
She was my colleague. My friend.
She was Ruslan Baranov’s sister.
I was told to punch her until she was dead. I thought I could stop. I thought I could control myself. But something inside me broke—something dark and animal. I went feral. I lost all sense of time, of sound, of reason.
One hundred and fifteen punches, Elena.
One hundred and fifteen times my fist came down on her face before they dragged me off her body.
She didn’t scream by the end.
She was already gone.
I don’t know what happened to me in that moment. Maybe terror. Maybe something broken deep inside my mind. But excuses don’t matter. Amy is dead. And I am the one who killed her.
I am so sorry.
I am planning to run. To disappear. To hide wherever I can. But if Ruslan Baranov ever gets free, he will hunt me. And if he cannot find me... he will come for you.
That is what terrifies me the most.
He will punish you for my sins. Not because you deserve it—but because you are mine.
Forgive me, little sister. I have destroyed your life without ever meaning to. If I could trade my life to erase what I’ve done, I would do it without hesitation.
Please stay safe. Trust no one. And if you ever hear his name... run.
I love you more than anything in this world. That will never change—even after this.
—Elena Snr
I had vomited after reading it.
Not just from the horror of what she’d done—but from the certainty threaded through her words. The knowledge that whatever line she’d crossed, there was no coming back. Not from Ruslan Baranov. Not from the world she’d stepped into.
The same grandmother she’d tried to save—our Gran, who raised us after our parents and little brother died in that plane crash—had passed away three days after the letter arrived. Respiratory failure. Peaceful, the doctors said. I’d stared at the hospital wall while they spoke, wondering if my sister had murdered someone for nothing.
I never found out.
I spent years trying to reach her after that. Every back channel I could afford. Every favor I could beg. Sleepless nights trawling encrypted forums, dark web dead drops, old intelligence contacts who owed her something once. Nothing. She vanished into Greece’s underworld like smoke—no body, no confirmation, no closure.
