"Understood."
The warehouse interior reeks of rust and desperation. My guard positions himself at my elbow as we move through the shadows, and I hear voices echoing from somewhere deeper in the building. Nikolai's voice, cold and lethal. Another voice, higher-pitched and panicked.
We round a corner, and I see him.
The fugitive is younger than I expected, maybe thirty, with sandy brown hair and the kind of face that would be forgettable in a crowd. He's handcuffed to a metal chair in the center of the empty space, and when his eyes land on me, genuine terror flashes across his features.
Nikolai stands in front of him, his body coiled with tension, and the moment he senses my presence, his head snaps toward me. Fury blazes in those ice-blue eyes, hot enough to burn.
"I told you to stay in the car." Each word comes out clipped, dangerous.
"I needed to see him." I force my voice to remain steady despite my hammering heart. "The man who turned our private moments into a commodity."
Something shifts in Nikolai's expression, and he gestures for me to approach. I move closer, my guard shadowing my steps until I'm standing beside Nikolai.
"Tell her," Nikolai says to the fugitive, his voice dropping to something that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "Tell her what you told me."
The man's words tumble out in a panicked rush, tripping over each other in his desperation to cooperate. "I was hiding on the island. From Interpol. International warrants for fraud and extortion. I'd been living in a cave on the far side for three months, trying to figure out my next move."
"And then we arrived," I say quietly.
"Yes." He won't meet my eyes, his gaze fixed on the concrete floor. "I recognized him from news coverage. Nikolai Alekseev. I knew who he was, what he was worth. And when I saw you two together, I saw an opportunity."
The casual way he says it, like our vulnerability was just a business opportunity, makes nausea rise in my throat. "So you photographed us."
"I had a telephoto lens. Salvaged it from my boat wreckage. I watched you, documenting everything." His voice cracks. "I thought it would be my ticket out. Two million dollars for a new identity in South America. A chance to disappear."
"How many photos?" Nikolai's question comes out soft, almost gentle, which somehow makes it more terrifying.
"Maybe fifty. Different angles, different moments." The fugitive's hands shake in the handcuffs. "I kept the best ones for leverage."
"And the copies?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. "You sold copies to someone."
His face goes even paler, if that's possible. "A Russian man. He found me two days ago, said he'd heard I had something valuable. Paid cash, twenty thousand dollars, for duplicates of everything."
"Describe him." Nikolai's hand finds my waist, pulling me closer in a gesture that's both possessive and protective.
"Older, maybe fifty. Gray hair, expensive suit. Heavy accent, thicker than yours." The words come faster now, desperation bleeding through. "He asked specific questions about your routines, your security, your relationship with her. He knew things about your organization. About your enemies."
"Matvey," I whisper and feel Nikolai's body go rigid beside me.
"He didn't give a name," the fugitive continues. "But the way he talked about you, the questions he asked, it was obvious he wasn't a friend."
Nikolai's silence stretches too long, and I glance up to find his expression carved from ice. The Pakhan in full force, calculating and cold. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of a death sentence.
"You've given my enemy ammunition." His hand tightens on my waist. "Do you understand what you've done?"
"I'm sorry." Tears stream down the fugitive's face. "I just needed the money. I didn't think about the consequences."
"No," Nikolai says quietly. "You didn't think at all."
He turns to Cyril, who's been standing in the shadows, and speaks in rapid Russian. I catch enough words to understand he's issuing orders, making arrangements, ensuring this man disappears in a way that sends a message to anyone else who might consider similar betrayal.
"Let's go," Nikolai says to me, his hand at the small of my back guiding me toward the exit.
I glance back once at the fugitive, at the man whose greed turned our most private moments into weapons, and feel nothing. No sympathy. No regret. Just cold satisfaction that he'll pay for what he's done.
The drive home passes in tense silence. Nikolai's hand grips mine too tightly, his knuckles white against my smaller fingers, and I can practically hear his mind working through strategies and countermeasures. How to neutralize Matvey's advantage. How to control the narrative. How to protect what's his.
