He’s handsome, but not in a classical way. More like dangerous and compelling, and it makes my body respond in ways my mind knows are foolish. I notice the thickness of his neck, the breadth of his shoulders beneath his dark shirt, and the way his forearms flex as he turns the camera over in his scarred hands. Burn scarring covers his right shoulder where the collar of his shirt gaps open, and tattoos snake up both arms, dark ink against skin that’s seen too much violence.
I wonder how far those tattoos extend across his body. I wonder what stories they tell about the things he’s done and the people he’s hurt.
I close my eyes and shake my head. I shouldn’t be wondering anything about this man. He’s here to find evidence that will get me killed.
“The camera is transmitting to an active server,” he explains “Someone has been watching your daughter sleep. This isn’t equipment left behind by a careless tenant.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“You could tell me the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth.” I hope he doesn’t see the way my right eye twitches the way it always does when I lie. It’s my only tell. “I don’t know who put a camera in my daughter’s room. I don’t know why anyone would want to watch us.”
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but I’ve had years of practice swallowing bitter things.
Bogdan taught me well.
He taught me how to smile through pain, hide bruises beneath long sleeves, and pretend everything was fine when my world was falling apart. Those skills are serving me now, even if they make me hate myself.
Pyotr squints at me, and I see him taking note of every micro-expression and sign of deception I’m struggling to hide.
Men like him are trained to read people, find weaknesses and exploit them, and break down resistance until nothing remains but the truth.
I can’t let him break me. Too much depends on my silence.
“I’ll need to sweep the rest of the apartment,” he finally declares. “Make sure there aren’t other devices.”
I wave him off. “Do what you need to do.”
“I’ll also need access to your financial records. Bank statements, tax returns, anything connected to the flagged accounts.”
“I already gave all that to Tony and Sasha when they were here. And then again to Dmitri when he brought me to Moscow.”
“Then you won’t mind providing it a third time.”
I want to scream at him. I want to shove him out the door, lock it behind him, and pretend none of this is happening.
But Dmitri has made it clear that refusing to cooperate would only confirm my guilt.
“The filing cabinet in the corner over there.” I jerk my head toward the cabinet. “Second drawer. Everything is organized by year.”
He pockets the camera. “Good. I’ll finish the sweep tomorrow. You should get some rest.”
“Rest.” I almost laugh at the absurdity. “With a stranger prowling through my home while my daughter sleeps?”
“I’m not here to hurt you or your daughter.”
“No, you’re here to decide if we deserve to be hurt.”
Something passes in those gray eyes. Guilt, maybe, though that seems foolish to think about. For a moment, he looks almost human beneath all the detached professionalism.
“Show me to my room,” he requests. “Then go to bed. We can talk more in the morning.”
I lead him down the hallway, hyperaware of his presence behind me. He moves quietly for such a large man; his footsteps are barely audible on the worn carpet. The hallway has never felt so long, and I’m acutely conscious of how close he is and how easily he could reach out and grab me if he wanted to.
But he doesn’t. He just follows, patient and silent, like a predator who knows his prey has nowhere to run.
I stop at the second door on the left and push it open. “The spare room. It’s small, but the bed is clean. The bathroom is across the hall, and towels are in the cabinet under the sink.”
