I don't think about him at all.
Except now. Because in the darkness, with nothing else to occupy my mind, the memories come whether I want them or not.
I must drift off at some point, because I wake to the sound of footsteps.
My body goes rigid. Every muscle tenses despite the pain wracking every inch of me. The footsteps are heavy, deliberate, coming closer. They stop outside my door.
This is it, I think. This is when they come to finish what they started. This is when I finally get my wish, and this nightmare ends.
Or, worse. It could be Iosef and his guest, come to ‘enjoy’ me when I’m completely incapable of fighting back. Grigory might be with them, too. He likes me best like this, so beaten that I might as well be a broken doll.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
Light spills into the cell, blinding after so long in the dark. I squeeze my eyes shut, turning my face away. My heart hammers against my cracked ribs. I taste blood and fear, bitter in the back of my throat.
Let it be quick, I pray to a God I'm not sure I believe in anymore.Please, just let it be quick.
"Blyad."
The curse is low and rough, spoken in Russian but with an accent that's been softened by years away from the motherland. I know that voice. I’ve heard it before, in a ballroom, in a penthouse, in a car, but hardly ever to me. I can count the number of times he’s spoken directly to me on one hand.
I force my eyes open, squinting against the light, sure that this is a figment of my imagination. That my mind has finally snapped.
A man fills the doorway. He's tall—over six feet easily—with broad shoulders and a presence that seems to take up more space than his body actually occupies. He's dressed in jeans and a thick sweater, a parka coat over it, even though we’re inside. His face is all hard angles and sharp edges, stubble darkening his jaw. He has short, dark hair. Blue eyes that I remember, that I've tried so hard to forget.
Kazimir Orlov stares down at me, and his expression is frozen on his face—shock, and horror, and something that might be rage.
Then it's gone, locked behind that impenetrable mask he wears so well.
He's here. After all this time, after everything, he's here.
I can’t trust him. The voice whispers in my head, reminding me, and I know it’s right. He abandoned me once before, left me to this fate when he could have stopped it. Why would now be any different? Why would he help me now when he didn't help me then?
Our eyes meet in the dim light. I see the moment he recognizes me.
And I know, with a certainty that cuts deeper than any blade, that nothing good can come from Kazimir Orlov standing in my cell.
Nothing good at all.
2
KAZIMIR
Forty-eight hours earlier, Ilya called me into his office in New York.
"I need you to go to Volgograd," he'd said, not looking up from the documents spread across his desk. "I need you to investigate Iosef Gromov and his associates. They've been useful, but I'm hearing whispers."
I'd waited for the rest of the orders. Ilya didn't waste words.
“I think they’ve been double-dealing. I’m not sure with who, but I want you to find out." His icy eyes had finally lifted to meet mine, his left hand tapping against the desk, the light catching the platinum wedding ring on his left hand. "Be thorough, but also be careful. These men are ambitious, and ambitious men do stupid things. I can’t afford to lose you."
"And if I find proof?" I shifted on my feet.
"Then we'll discuss what comes next." He'd handed me a folder. "They'll be expecting you. I told Iosef I was sending my best man to discuss expanding our partnership. They'll want to impress you."
He wasn't wrong.
A car picks me up at the tarmac, luxurious and equipped with fine vodka and cigars for my trip, the former of which I indulge in. The flight was rough, and the mission is dangerous, and I want a drink.
