My chest tightens, and the walls seem to tilt slightly. Dmitri’s voice again, quieter this time. “You wanted information. I’m getting it.”
“Are you?” Alexei presses. “Because so far, I don’t see results. And if Turner moves against us, we’ll all pay for your hesitation.”
There’s a pause, long enough for my pulse to thud in my ears.
Then Dmitri says something that splinters the last of the illusion. “I’ll handle it. She won’t be a problem.”
The floor seems to drop out from under me.
I take a step back, my heart hammering so hard I can barely breathe. I want to run, to get far away from this house, from him, from all of it.
I turn toward the hallway, but I don't get far. Pain suddenly explodes across the back of my skull. The last thing I hear before everything goes dark is a low voice behind me.
“Should’ve stayed out of it, sweetheart.”
Then the world fades to black.
***
I don't know how long I’m out, but when I open my eyes, a slow, throbbing ache is blooming at the base of my skull, followed by a rush of nausea. The world shifts in and out of focus before settling enough for me to realize I’m sitting upright, my wrists bound behind me and secured to a chair.
My heart skips.
I look around, blinking away the haze in my head. I wonder if it's the ache making things blurry or if the cream-colored walls actually look familiar. My gaze falls on the long oak table and family portraits on the far wall, and that's when my stomach drops.
I'm in my parents’ dining room.
What the devil is going on?
Someone clears their throat, and I look up to see Sergei standing in a corner by the window, leaning casually against the wall. His expression is blank, but the sight of him sends cold terror coursing through my body.
“You’re awake,” he says simply, his tone more observation than concern.
“Why am I here?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
He doesn’t answer right away. “Wasn’t supposed to go like this.”
“Like what?”
Before he can respond, another voice cuts through the room—a voice that makes my chest seize in relief.
“Sergei, you’ve done enough,” my father says, stepping into view.
“Dad?” I gasp, blinking at him in confusion. “What—what’s happening?”
He looks furious—not at me, but at Sergei. “You attacked my daughter?” he spits.
Sergei’s jaw tightens. “You didn’t tell me you had a daughter who's mixed up with the Balshovs.”
The two men stare each other down, and I finally find my breath. “You—you know each other?”
They both go silent.
And then, slowly, the pieces start falling into place. The meeting in the alley. The exchange. The tattoo.
I shake my head, disbelief tightening my throat. “You’ve been working together?”
I turn to face my dad—the man I’ve looked up to my whole life—quietly demanding an explanation.
