My breath comes shallow as we enter through the main entrance. The blast of air conditioning raises goosebumps on my arms. The noise hits next—a wall of sound that’s almost physical. There’s conversation and music and footsteps and the electronic chirping of arcade games from somewhere on the second level.
Dimitri’s security team maintains a subtle perimeter around us. Two men in front—Sergei and Viktor, both built like walls disguised in casual clothes. Two behind—Mikhail and Pavel, their eyes constantly scanning. Two on the flanks—Dmitri and Anton, positioned to intercept any threat from the sides.
Close enough to intervene if needed. Far enough not to draw attention.
But I notice them. And if I notice them, won’t whoever sent that text notice them too?
I’m still watching.
The words pulse in my head like a heartbeat. Watching. They’rewatching. Maybe even right now from somewhere in this crowd.
We start walking through the main concourse, heading toward the central atrium. We head towards Victoria’s Secret with its pink lighting and lingerie displays. Past a jewelry store where diamonds glitter under halogen lights. Past a group of teenagers who barely glance our way, too absorbed in their phones.
Dimitri keeps his hand on the small of my back. The touch is warm through my sweater, a constant point of contact that reminds me he’s here, I’m safe, and we’re doing this together.
But I can’t stop cataloging every face we pass. That man in the business suit (is he walking too close)? That woman with the coffee cup—is she actually shopping or just watching us? Those teenagers by the fountain—are they really just kids or something more sinister?
My pulse hammers in my throat. Sweat prickles along my spine despite the air conditioning.
“Breathe,” Dimitri murmurs, too quiet for anyone else to hear. His thumb traces small circles against my back. “You’re doing fine.”
I’m not doing fine. I’m scared shitless. But I force myself to keep walking.
We pass a Starbucks packed with people on laptops. A toy store blasting children’s music. A kiosk selling phone cases where a bored employee scrolls through their phone, not even looking up as we pass.
Nothing unusual. Nothing threatening. Just normal people doing normal things on a normal Tuesday morning.
So why does every instinct I have scream danger?
We reach the central atrium where a massive fountain dominates the space. Water cascades down three tiers, the sound almost drowning out the ambient noise. Children throw pennies and make wishes. A elderly man feeds the coins to his granddaughter, one at a time.
The food court is on the second level, and the smell drifts down—cinnamon from Cinnabon, grease from the Chinese place, coffee and sugar and fried food all mixing into something overwhelming.
My stomach turns. Morning sickness has mostly passed, but right now I feel nauseated, but whether it’s from fear or the smells, I can’t tell.
“You okay?” Dimitri asks, his gray eyes sharp on my face.
I nod, taking a breath. “Yeah. I just?—”
A child screams.
I whip around, heart in my throat, already imagining gunfire or explosions or?—
But it’s just a little girl who dropped her ice cream cone. It splattered pink and white across the marble, and she’s wailing like the world is ending while her mother tries to console her.
I let out a shaky breath. False alarm. Just a kid and spilled ice cream.
But my hands are trembling. Dimitri notices (of course he notices) and catches one of my hands in his, squeezing gently.
“We can leave,” he says quietly as his thumb strokes my knuckles. “Right now. Just say the word.”
Part of me wants to. I want to run back to the car and the estate and the safety of walls and guards and locked doors.
But the larger part knows he’s right. We can’t hide forever.
“No,” I say, surprised by how steady my voice sounds. “I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”
We continue past the fountain, heading toward the west wing. The crowd thins slightly here as there are fewer stores, which means there are more service corridors and restrooms. Sergei and Viktor stay close, their eyes constantly moving.
