I tighten my grip and drag her out of the storage room. She freezes the moment she spots the men waiting in the corridor.
“They’re mine,” I say gruffly against her ear, my breath brushing her skin.
She stiffens but doesn’t resist this time. My men stand alert along the dim hallway, their gazes flicking to her and then back to me. I don’t slow down. I just keep pulling her forward, her steps tripping to match mine.
Dragging her into the shadows of the museum, I shove open the service exit and pull her through. Luka slips in right behind us, letting the heavy steel door close with a dull thud that swallows the outside noise. The tunnel stretches ahead, long and dimly lit, lined with concrete walls and flickering fluorescent bulbs. It smells of dust, metal, and old rain.
Her breath comes in sharp bursts beside me, echoing faintly off the walls. She’s trembling again—but not the kind of trembling I recognize from fear. It’s anger. Pure, molten defiance. I can feel it burning through her skin as my hand clamps around her arm.
Luka’s boots scrape softly behind us. “Boss,” he mutters, scanning the length of the corridor. “Cameras come back on in ten.”
“Good,” I reply without looking back. “We’ll be out of here by then.”
I push her forward, forcing her to walk. She stumbles once but doesn’t fall, doesn’t plead. Just keeps moving with her jaw clenched, shoulders rigid with pride she can’t afford right now.
We walk for several seconds, the hum of the overhead lights buzzing like flies. My mind runs through possibilities—Chang’s connections, the altered manifests, this girl who clearly doesn’t belong here yet acts like she owns the damn place.
When we reach the midway point of the tunnel, I nod at Luka. “Tie her hands.”
Luka steps forward, looping the zip tie around her wrists. The plastic bites, and she winces but refuses to make a sound. I almost admire it. Almost.
“Everyone retreat. We’ll find our way out,” I tell Luka. “Perimeter sweep, then meet me back at the safe house.”
He nods and falls back as we keep moving toward the faint sliver of moonlight spilling through the other end of the tunnel.
It’s a long walk, the kind that stretches your thoughts. I can hear the quiet rhythm of her breathing beside mine, uneven and furious. When I glance down, her eyes catch mine—black, sharp, alive.
“You’ll regret this,” she snaps at me.
I don’t answer. I only tighten my hold on her arm; the leather of my glove bites into her skin, and she winces, jaw clenching like she’s swallowing a scream. Good. Stubborn. Fire in the wrong place. I let that thought sit a moment, savoring the shape of it—annoyance, distraction, the tiny, dangerous thrill that comes when something refuses to break.
Finally, we reach the end of the tunnel, and I dig through my pocket for the key. The lock turns with a metallic whisper. I push the door open, and we burst into the cold night air.
It’s brighter out here. The sodium lamps throw hard light across wet pavement, and when I look at her, the recognition lands clean and sharp.
Elara Chang.
The name slides into my mind with a click: number one New York museum art restorer, Chang’s daughter and only child. The press images I’d flipped through last week rearrange themselves into a live person in front of me.
I’ve seen her a few times before, always in passing. The last time I saw her was at Lev and Sasha’s wedding. Never have I been this close to her.
Snowflakes cling to her lashes. Her hair glows black against the streetlight. The set of her mouth is granite. She doesn’t look like someone who’s about to collapse; she looks like someone who’s already planned how to come back from one.
“You’re in deep shit,” I say, swallowing the name. Silence thickens for a beat as it settles between us. Her eyes flick—anger, calculation—then she squares her shoulders as if the name should hurt her, but doesn’t.
“And who are you?” she asks.
Of course she doesn’t know me. My superpower has always been invisibility.
Despite being a Rusnak, I’ve never wanted the limelight—or the kind of power that comes with the family name. I preferthe shadows. The field. The work. That’s where the truth lives. Half the time, I don’t even use the name Rusnak unless I need it to open doors or make people flinch.
So no, it’s no surprise she doesn’t recognize me, even though she moves in the same circles.
“Who are you?” she asks again, harsher this time, voice slicing through the cold.
“No one you should worry your head about,” I respond.
In the darkness beyond, Luka and the others pile into the jeep and speed off into the night. We’ve already subdued the museum security with tranquilizers, nothing permanent. So I’m not worried about pursuit. Still, Luka warned that the cameras would come back online in a few minutes. We’re out of time.
