My yells and incessant thumping are rewarded twenty minutes later when my door swings open and two men force themselves into my cell. I get a decent punch on one before I’m thrust up against a wall and my hands are cuffed behind my back. From there, they drag me down a long, brightly lit hallway and deposit me in an interrogation room where they secure one of my wrists with cuffs to a hoop in the middle of the table. Rolling my eyes, I glimpse a badge hanging from the hip of a third person walking past the room as my two escorts leave.
It looked like a police badge. And this room resembles every poorly-lit interrogation room from any cop show in the nineties, complete with the broken blinds hanging crookedly across the singular window behind me. In front of me is a mirror, likely two-way, and a metal chair similar to the one I’m sitting in is on the other side of the table.
If we’re in a police station, then there’s a chance Cian is alright. Maybe he’s even in a room like this. What little he’s told me of his trauma can only make me guess how he’s handling this. The sooner I find him, the better. Drumming my fingers on the table, I glance around the room, but nothing stands out.
Is it worth yelling some more for answers? They must have moved me to keep me quiet which means we’re not somewhere secluded. That slightly lowers the risk of their killing me, but it doesn’t erase it. Just as I grow bored enough to fill my lungs with a yell, the door swings open.
A man with slick-backed black hair, a pale blue-striped shirt, black suspenders, and a crooked green tie strides into the roomwith a folder in one hand and an unlit cigarette hanging from between thin lips set in a rough-shaven face.
Not at all what I was expecting.
“Miss Trutneva?”
“Wow. No one’s called me that in a long fucking time.”
His pale blue eyes dart to me as he sits and drops the folder onto the table. The chair creaks loudly despite his slim frame and he sighs deeply. “Do you prefer Faina?”
“Sure, considering it’s my name. Also…” I point briefly at his unlit cigarette. “If you’re planning on lighting that and hoping the smell will drive me crazy with need, I don’t smoke. Honestly, you should have come in here with a bag of golden bears.”
He opens the folder and pauses. “Golden bears?”
“Yeah, you know, little gummy teddy bears? Golden in color? Tastes sweet and fruity but you can’t exactly tellwhatfruit. It’s generic but they taste good.”
He continues to stare at me, then he removes the cigarette and sets it down. “They found a lighter on you.”
“So you assumed smoker?” I scoff. “Damn. Not very creative.”
“My name is Richard Whittle. Do you know who I am?”
He’s making it too easy and I bite back the sarcasm that rises. “No clue.”
“I’m a civil servant. I work with Interpol, and you threw yourself onto our radar when you searched for this.” Richard picks up a photograph and slides it toward me. It shows Hawk with hishead to the side as he signs something placed in front of him and that weird, recognizable tattoo on his neck.
My heart starts to pound but it’s not because of Hawk. Slowly, I lift my gaze to Richard, trying to work out what he knows. “And?”
“And imagine my surprise when we ran you through the system and I got this.” Richard pats the thick file. “I thought it was just one cyber criminal stalking another but I was wrong, wasn’t I? Who knew it was one of our own that was chasing this bastard across Europe?”
His words make my blood run cold and a steel lock forms around my jaw as I force my words out. “I’m not one ofyours.”
“Really?” Richard casually turns the page on the folder. “Your father was one of ours. One of our top agents, in fact. He wasn’t a civil servant like me. He was an actual Interpol agent. Do you understand what that means?”
I glare at him in silence.
“I’m just a civil servant, Faina. My power comes from the idea of Interpol, but they basically pluck me out of my tiny office and tell me that someone they want has entered my country, which is why I’m here instead of catching up on the baseball. But your father was hired and employed by Interpol when he was planted within the Russian Mafia, wasn’t he?”
More silence as my heart pounds like a drum.
“Did you know your father worked for us? Did you know hebetrayedus?” He wrinkles his nose. “I have documentation here assuring us that he was sending you down the same path, Faina. You were supposed to be one of us, and right before you signedon the dotted line, the Russians fell quiet. The next thing we know, your father is dead, the Pakhan is dead, and you’re the Underboss to Anatasia Remizova. Care to explain what the fuck went wrong?”
I should have known. Traveling around Europe was bound to unlock this can of worms, but it was all so long ago and my father always spoke of Interpol as a part of his distant history. I knew he was a spy. I knew he was planted within the Russian Mafia to report back on their illegal dealings, and I knew he grew tired of it. I thought he’d left it all behind years ago but clearly, I was wrong.
He was an active agent right up until the day he died. Fucking traitor.
Richard is right. He planned the same future for me but he painted it as a way to save myself from the life of crime he was pushing me into in the same breath. I had been tempted, there was no doubt about it, but then Anastasia saw me. She befriended me. And protecting her, even when I was just working in the clubs, was enough to secure my loyalty, so I ignored all of it.
“No answer?” Richard starts spreading out email correspondence and financial statements. “Your father’s payments were being cashed even after he died, which means you were taking our money.”
“I didn’t know where those checks came from,” I snap. “It was just money.”
