All four of us freeze.
I rise and open the door to find a man in plain clothes with two uniformed officers behind him.
“Vladimir Zoloth?” the man asks.
I nod. “May I help you?”
“Good morning,” he says, holding up his identification. “Senior Investigator Ivanov. Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation. I have some questions for you regarding an altercation last evening between you and three of our citizens. Oleg Petrov, Pavel Nazarov, and Artem Sorokin. May I come in?”
I glance behind me to find Alexi has left the room, taking his plate and coffee cup with him. Stepping back, I gesture for them to enter. After I make the introductions, Anya tosses her napkin onto the table and stands.
“If you’ve come to harass Mr. Zoloth, you should know that those three attempted to rape me last night. Mr. Zoloth and Mr. Stoya stopped them.”
Investigator Ivanov's only reaction is a long blink. “I’m not here to arrest Mr. Zoloth for protecting you; however, I do need to ask him and you some questions about last night. You see, we found the bodies of those three men inside Mr. Nazarov’s nightclub this morning. They were murdered. I need to know where you were from midnight to six this morning.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: ANYA
The knock lands like a gunshot.
Three sharp raps slice through the living area, and every muscle in my body locks. The silence that follows is worse—heavy, expectant, suffocating. My heart slams against my ribs as I look instinctively at Alexi.
He doesn’t hesitate.
The moment our eyes meet, he’s already moving. He pushes back from the table, chair legs barely whispering against the floor, and slips into the bedroom. The door closes softly behind him, but the sound echoes in my head like a warning bell. My brother is hiding again. From ghosts. From consequences. From the life he never wanted.
Vladimir is already standing.
He gives me a brief look—steady, reassuring, commanding me without words to stay where I am—before crossing the room and opening the door.
Three men stand in the hallway.
Two are uniformed police officers, rigid and impersonal, their presence instantly recognizable. The third stands slightly forward. Plain clothes. Dark coat. Cold eyes that miss nothing. Authority clings to him more tightly than any uniform ever could.
He flashes a badge. “Senior Investigator Ivanov. Investigative Committee of the Russian Federation.”
My stomach drops.
“We’re investigating a homicide,” Ivanov continues, his tone calm, almost conversational. “The bodies of Oleg Petrov, Pavel Nazarov, and Artem Sorokin were discovered early this morning inside Pavel Nazarov’s nightclub.”
The names hit me one by one, each heavier than the last.
Dead.
All three of them.
Shock freezes me in place, but beneath it—terrifying and undeniable—relief blooms. My chest tightens, breath catching as images flash through my mind: Alexi beaten and broken, Oleg and Pavlov’s faces as they taunt me in the dressing room, a dark future where I’m trapped for life with one of them. The men who have turned my stomach into knots are gone.
Murdered.
“How were they murdered?” Vladimir asks.
“Someone shot all three of the men at close range in the VIP section of the club. According to the night manager, the three were still inside the club when he shut down. We think whoever shot them was hiding because we haven’t found signs of a break-in.”
I don’t realize I’ve stepped forward until I hear my own voice. “Vladimir and Dominic were here all night,” I say. “They never left the hotel.”
Ivanov’s gaze slides to me, sharp and assessing. I force myself to stand tall, to meet it without flinching. I’m not lying. I won’t be intimidated into silence anymore.
Vladimir confirms it smoothly, offering nothing extra, his voice controlled and confident. Ivanov listens, nods once, then slips his notebook back into his coat.
