The space is small and filled with a child’s treasures. Drawings cover the walls in bright, chaotic colors. A poster of dinosaurs hangs above the bed. Stuffed animals crowd the pillows where she’s sleeping, curled beneath a worn blanket.
I look. I don’t rummage—under the bed, along the baseboards, behind the dresser.
Nothing.
Then, I notice the radiator.
Something is wedged behind it, barely visible in the gap between metal and wall. I crouch and angle my flashlight.
A small black device. A high-end wireless camera. The red indicator blinks steadily, which means it’s active and recording.
Someone has been watching this apartment. Watching this child sleep.
I tighten my grip around it until the casing creaks.
I straighten and look around the room with fresh eyes. Whoever planted this camera knows the family’s routine by now. They know when Kira goes to bed and when Daria is alone and unprotected.
The evidence in Dmitri’s file suddenly looks very different. It’s no longer the profile of a traitor; it’s the profile of a target.
I need to find out who’s watching, and why.
2
Daria
The man Dmitri sent to watch me is more terrifying than I imagined.
I knew he was coming. Dmitri told me when he hauled me to Moscow and accused me of plotting against the family.
Pyotr Fedorov would be moving into my apartment until this was over.
I sat in Dmitri’s study, trying not to shake while my daughter played with her cousin in another room, blissfully unaware while my life hung in the balance.
I told myself I could handle it. I’ve survived worse. Three weeks of surveillance is nothing next to the years I survived married to Bogdan.
But looking at this massive Bratva enforcer, I’m wondering if I was wrong.
Pyotr is standing in my living room, examining a small black device he pulled from behind Kira’s radiator, and I can barely breathe.
My daughter is asleep down the hall, unaware that a man who could snap our necks without breaking a sweat has been prowling through our apartment.
“This is high-end equipment,” he explains without looking at me. “It’s not available for civilian use. Whoever planted this has resources.”
I’m not surprised. I’m also not about to tell him that I know who planted it.
My ex-husband, Bodgan. The man I fled three years ago with a toddler on my hip and bruises hidden beneath my sleeves. That bastard has spent every day since then reminding me that I’ll never escape him, no matter how far I run or how well I hide.
We met when I was twenty-three and stupid enough to believe that a charming smile meant a kind heart.
The abuse started small and grew until I couldn’t recognize myself in the mirror. By the time I found the courage to run, he’d already isolated me from everyone I loved and set up accounts in my name that I knew nothing about. Accounts he’s been using ever since to move money for people who want to see my family destroyed.
Bogdan warned me this would happen. He told me that if I didn’t cooperate with his demands, Dmitri would start asking questions, and everything Bogdan built using my name and accounts would come crashing down on my head while he walked away clean.
And now, Pyotr Fedorov is here, as Dmitri promised. Standing in my living room like a weapon waiting to be aimed.
“I don’t know how it got there.” I keep my voice steady through sheer will. “Maybe the previous tenant left it.”
Pyotr finally looks up, and his eyes pin me in place. He’s enormous, making my small apartment feel like a closet. His dark hair is cropped close to his skull, and a scar cuts across his left forearm where his sleeves are pushed up. His eyes are the color of winter ice, pale and unnerving against his tanned skin. From the looks of it, his nose has been broken at least twice, and his jaw is covered in dark stubble that does nothing to soften the brutal angles of his face.
