She stops pacing and faces them fully now. “I believe I can turn them. Both of them. Alexi and Anya. They’re not hardened criminals. They don’t want this life.”
Silence stretches as the agents consider that.
Finally, Glenn stands. “You’ve done good work.”
“So far,” Skylar says.
Crow picks up the recorder. “Keep monitoring. Don’t spook them.”
“I won’t,” Skylar says confidently. “They trust me.”
That almost makes me laugh.
Glenn pauses at the door. “You’re doing your country a service, Agent Skylar.”
She nods, chin high. “I know.”
They leave together, footsteps fading down the hall, then the stairs. Skylar gathers her things, checks her phone once more, and exits the apartment alone.
The building falls silent again.
For a long moment, Dominic and I don’t move.
“CIA,” Dominic finally mutters.
“They are,” I say. “They called her Agent. She might be something else. FBI, maybe.”
He exhales slowly. “She gave them everything.”
“Not everything,” I say. “She still thinks she’s in control.”
I straighten, stepping back from the vent. My mind is already racing, threads pulling tight, rearranging the board.
“Alexi’s no longer safe at the hotel. We need to move him,” Dominic says.
“Immediately,” I reply.
I pull out my phone, already typing as I speak. “Contact Alexi. Now. He needs to leave the hotel—no arguments. Find somewhere safe. Off-grid. Then he can contact us.”
Dominic nods, already dialing. “And Anya?”
My chest tightens again.
“We protect her,” I say. “From the Bratva. From the Feds. From people she thinks she can trust.”
I glance once more at the empty room through the vent, at the space where Skylar stood selling out everyone she claimed to care about.
“She just chose her side,” I add quietly. “And she chose wrong.”
CHAPTER THIRTY: ANYA
I grab my bag from the chair at my desk, the familiar weight of it settling against my shoulder. Shoes, makeup, a spare leotard—everything I’ll need for the theater later. The routine steadies me. It always has. I take one last look around my room, then head downstairs. The quiet of the house presses in around me.
At the front door, I set my bag neatly against the wall, out of the way but easy to grab when it’s time to leave. My gaze drifts toward the kitchen. Nadia should be there. She’s always there at this hour, humming softly or clattering pans like she’s waging war against silence.
“Nadia?” I call out as I walk in.
Nothing.
