She looks down at her hands. "That Dimitri is a monster. That he kills people without mercy. That he probably..." She swallows hard. "That he probably forced himself on you."
The words hang in the air between us. I think about Dimitri's kiss, the heat of his body against mine, the way my own body responded despite everything. There was no force involved. If anything, I'd been the one pulling him closer.
"He didn't," I say firmly. "Dimitri saved my life, Katya. He pulled me out of that burning church when I was frozen in shock. If he hadn't, I'd be dead."
"But Papa said?—"
"Papa says a lot of things." I return to my packing, my movements sharper now. "Not all of them are true."
Katya is quiet for a moment, then asks in a small voice, "Are you coming back? To stay?"
I want to tell her yes, want to promise that I'll be here to protect her, to keep her safe from whatever darkness is brewing. But I think about the pendant around my neck, the panic button Dimitri gave me. I think about his warning that my father is not the man I think he is.
"I don't think so," I admit. "It's complicated."
We work in silence for a while, filling a suitcase with clothes and personal items. Photos from my childhood, jewelry my grandmother left me, books I've loved. As I pack, I find myself looking around the room with new eyes, searching for something I can't quite name.
Evidence. Proof. Anything that might confirm or deny what Dimitri suggested about my father.
"Katya," I say carefully, "where's Mama?"
"Downstairs, I think. She was going to make tea." Katya tilts her head. "Why?"
"I need to get something from Papa's study. Can you keep watch? Let me know if anyone's coming?"
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by fear. "Alina, if Papa catches you in his study?—"
"He won't. Please, Katyusha. I need to know the truth."
She hesitates, then nods. "Five minutes. That's all I can give you."
I kiss her forehead and slip out of my bedroom, moving quietly down the hallway. My father's study is at the end of the corridor,a room I've been forbidden to enter since I was a child. The door is closed but not locked. I glance back at Katya, who's positioned herself at the top of the stairs, then slip inside.
The study is exactly as I remember it. Dark wood paneling, leather furniture, shelves lined with books my father has never read. His massive desk dominates the space, its surface clear except for a laptop and a crystal tumbler with amber liquid inside. Vodka, probably. It's barely noon.
I move quickly to the desk, trying drawers. Most are unlocked, filled with mundane items like pens, notepads, business cards. But the bottom right drawer is locked. I pull harder, but it doesn't budge.
My heart is pounding now. I glance at the door, listening for footsteps, then search the desk for a key. Nothing. I'm about to give up when I remember something from childhood. My father used to hide spare keys in a small box on his bookshelf, disguised as a leather-bound book.
I find it on the third shelf, pull it down, and sure enough, there are several small keys inside. The second one I try fits the locked drawer.
Inside is a folder, thick with documents. I pull it out with shaking hands and flip it open. Financial records. Bank statements showing large transfers of money. And communications, printed emails between my father and someone named Kozlov.
My blood runs cold. The Kozlov family. One of the Morozovs’ biggest rivals. Dimitri mentioned them, said they might be involved in the church attack.
I scan the documents quickly, my Russian good enough to understand the implications. Payments. Agreements. Plans for "restructuring territory" after "the wedding". My father's signature at the bottom of several pages.
He knew. He knew about the attack. Maybe even helped plan it.
The betrayal hits me like a physical blow. I grip the edge of the desk, trying to breathe, trying to process what I'm seeing. My father sold me to Sergei Morozov, knowing that Sergei would die at the wedding. Knowing that I might die too.
I hear footsteps in the hallway and quickly shove the folder back in the drawer, locking it. But I'm not fast enough. The study door opens, and my father walks in.
Viktor Popov stands in the doorway, his expensive suit perfectly tailored, his silver hair immaculately styled. For a moment, his face shows the concerned father he's been playing for the cameras. Then his eyes drop to the desk, to the small box of keys still sitting on the surface, and his expression transforms.
The mask drops completely. What's left is something cold and dangerous, something that makes my skin crawl.
He steps inside and quietly closes the door behind him, the soft click of the latch sounding like a gunshot in the silence.
