“I thought of something last night. When Bogdan’s about to make a major move, he gets generous. Sends gifts, makes promises, acts like the charming man I thought I married. It’s how he lulls people into complacency before he strikes.”
“Has he done that recently?” Pyotr asks.
“No. He’s been all threats and pressure, which means either he’s too desperate to play the long game, or…” I trail off as the realization hits me.
“Or what?”
“Or he’s already made his move, and we just haven’t seen it.”
The call continues for another hour. Tony walks us through the financial web Bogdan has constructed, and I fill in gaps where I can. I provide names of associates I remember from dinner parties and businesses Bogdan mentioned in passing. The way he categorized people as either useful or disposable, with no middle ground.
By the time we disconnect, my head is pounding, and my eyes ache from staring at the screen. But underneath the exhaustion, something else comes to life.
For years, my knowledge of Bogdan was just another way he controlled me. I knew his moods, triggers, and cruelties, because survival demanded it. That knowledge felt like chains, binding me to a man I hated.
Now, it’s becoming my weapon.
I helped build something today. Not much, maybe, but more than I’ve contributed to anything useful in years. And for the first time since I married Bogdan Lebedev, I feel like I’m fighting back instead of just running.
***
Kira goes to bed at eight, worn out from a day of dinosaur battles and the chicken soup I made for dinner. She insisted Pyotr read her bedtime story—something about a rabbit who outsmarts a fox—and I listened from the hallway as his deep voice softened into something so gentle.
Now the apartment is quiet, and the balcony doors are cracked open to let in the cool night air. I’m curled up on one of the plastic chairs with a blanket around my shoulders, watching the lights of St. Petersburg glitter in the distance.
Pyotr joins me with two cups of tea. He hands me one and settles into the chair beside mine.
“She made me promise to do the voices again tomorrow.” He chuckles. “Apparently, the fox needs to sound meaner.”
“You’re spoiling her.”
“She’s easy to spoil.” He sips his tea and stares out at the city. “When I was her age, I would have killed for someone to read to me like that.”
The admission gets my attention. It’s the most personal thing he’s offered without me having to pry.
“No one read to you?”
“My mother did, before she got sick. After that…” He shrugs. “My father wasn’t the type.”
I wrap my hands around the warm cup. The burn gives me something to focus on besides the fear that’s been gnawing at me all day.
“My uncle filled that gap,” he continues. “He lived in a village about two hours outside Moscow, in the middle of nowhere. After my mother died, my father sent me to stay with him every summer because he didn’t know what else to do with me.”
“How old were you?”
“Eight, the first time. My father was military, so he was always deployed somewhere. He loved me in his way, but he had no idea how to raise a kid on his own.” Pyotr takes another sip of his tea. “Uncle Vasily was different. He taught me to track deer, to clean a rifle, to sit still in the forest for hours without making a sound. He said the woods would teach me everything I needed to know about life if I just learned to listen.”
“Do you still see him?”
“He died when I was seventeen. Heart attack. One day he was there, and the next… he wasn’t. I enlisted the year after. Didn’t know what else to do with myself.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.” He glances at me. “What about you? Your parents?”
The question doesn’t surprise me. We’ve been circling each other for days, trading small pieces of ourselves. It was only a matter of time before we got to the bigger ones.
“They died when I was twelve,” I tell him. “Car accident. Black ice on the highway outside Moscow.”
