Thirty seconds and the lock clicks open.
Inside, everything is exactly as I remember, and I head for the filing cabinets. Locked, but easier than the door. Files organized by date, type, some system that makes sense to Father's ordered mind.
I photograph pages with my phone. Banking records , names of contacts, and shipping manifests for legitimate businesses that front illegal operations. Every click of my camera feels like a small victory.
A floorboard creaks in the hallway. I freeze. Ear pressed to the door. Listening.
Footsteps coming closer. The gait of someone who knows these halls, who belongs here in ways I no longer do. I slip behind the door, making myself small, invisible the way prey does when predators hunt. The footsteps pass. Fade. Silence returns.
I wait two full minutes, then continue photographing. I’m almost done. Just a few more pages and I can?—
"Miss?"
The voice behind me nearly stops my heart. Turning, a maid stands in the doorway. She’s an older woman with a face lined with years of seeing things she shouldn't and forgetting them to survive. Not Irina. Thank God, not Irina. But her eyes are sharp, taking in my position behind the desk, and the phone in my hand.
"I got lost," I say, smooth and easy, like this is embarrassing instead of incriminating. "I was looking for the bathroom."
"Bathrooms are down the hall. Not in the Pakhan's private office."
"I know. I just..." I let my voice trail off, aiming for confused, apologetic. "I saw the door open and I thought?—"
"The door was locked."
Fuck.
"Was it?" I move toward her, slow, non-threatening, just a confused girl who made a mistake. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize. I'll go back and wait like I was told."
She steps aside, letting me pass, but her eyes follow me. She knows something is wrong. She might not know what or even care, but she knows.
I walk back to the sitting room and wait for Thor to return. Every nerve ending screams that I need to run, to leave, to get out before?—
"Sofiya?" A different voice. Male. Familiar in ways that make my skin crawl.
Anatoly stands in the doorway. He's older than I remember. Grayer. Harder. But unmistakably him. The man who carved into my back with enthusiasm. Who laughed the loudest while he robbed me of my innocence. Who told me I was pretty when I screamed.
His eyes travel over me. Assessing. Searching. "You look familiar…Aleksandr's courier," he says slowly.
"I have one of those faces." My voice and hands are steady. Ten years of preparation keeps me controlled when every instinct screams at me to reach for my knife and gut him like I did Igor.
"No." He steps closer. "It's something else. Something about your eyes."
This is it. The moment he recognizes me. The moment everything falls apart.
"Eyes like that..." He tilts his head, smirking as he studies me. "There was a girl, long time ago, she had eyes like yours. Beautiful. Even when she was crying."
My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
Voice distant like he's pulling memory from deep in the earth he continues, "We left her in the?—"
The explosion hits.
Real this time. An actual explosion.
The pool house erupts in a concussive blast that rattles windows, shakes foundations, and sends Anatoly stumbling backward. Fire alarms scream and chaos erupts in the hallways—shouting, running, the controlled panic of men trained to handle emergencies but not expecting them here.
Not in Father's fortress.
Anatoly's head snaps toward the sound. His hand goes to his gun , training overriding recognition. "Stay here," he orders,already moving toward the door. Toward whatever catastrophe just bought me precious seconds.
