When we reach the foyer, Sergei finally stops, turning to face me with that same tight expression he wore when I first showed up on this doorstep hours ago. “The Petrovs. It concerns me how easily they were wiped out.”
Sergei had been the first one I’d informed after hearing the news of the Petrovs. Out of everyone in my circle, he is my second closest contact. Loyal enough that I trust him, ambitious enough that I keep him close. If tragedy could strike so swiftly at one ally, I wasn’t about to leave space for another to fall before I had the chance to unravel what the hell happened with the first.
“I have my data thief looking into it. He’s the best at digging into matters like this. I’ll have answers to you as soon as I hear from him.”
That doesn’t seem to ease him, I can see it in the way his mouth thins. “Do you believe it was an internal matter? Someone who knew them?”
“Perhaps. It’s too early to assume. For now, you need to lie low. Do not draw attention to yourself. Let me deal with this.”
He bristles at the command, but only slightly. Sergei is not a man who likes being told what to do, but he knows better than to bite the hand that steadies his house when the ground shakes.
Finally, with a stiff nod, he relents. “Let me know once you find something.”
“I always do.”
We stand there for a heartbeat longer, measuring one another. Then I incline my head once, and Sergei returns the gesture.
The heavy front doors creak open as Lev and Andrey move ahead of me, stepping out into the afternoon sun. The waiting black car gleams in the driveway where Lev parked it when we arrived.
He tosses me the keys without a word. I catch them midair and round the driver’s side, slipping in behind the wheel. Lev takes the passenger seat beside me while Andrey folds his large frame into the backseat.
Through the rearview mirror, I catch Sergei still standing at the threshold of his estate, a worried frown etched into his usually impassive face.
The low purr of the engine fills the silence as I shift into gear. The tires crunch softly against gravel as I pull us away from the estate, leaving Sergei behind in the carved grandeur of his world.
But as the house recedes in the rearview mirror, my thoughts don’t stay with Sergei. They drift back to the wide-eyed American who had glanced over her shoulder with that sharp, unintentional curiosity.
Ivy Bennett. A strange little addition to this world of ours.
What game had fate decided to play, bringing someone like her into this era of uncertainty?
6
IVY
It’s been hard to sleep since coming to Russia.
Though that’s the understatement of the century.
Most nights, I drift in and out, hovering somewhere in that strange purgatory between waking and dreaming. It’s the kind of rest that doesn’t feel like actual rest at all, like my body remembers how to lie still, but my brain refuses to shut off.
I toss. I turn. I count the minutes ticking by on the antique clock mounted across from the bed, each one a reminder of how few I’ve actually managed to get.
By the time dawn begins to smear the sky with that pale gray light, my limbs feel like they’ve been packed with sand—heavy and slow, aching with the kind of fatigue that makes my entire body feel wrong.
I’ve been cycling through every sleep remedy I know.
Warm chamomile tea before bed? Tried it.
Light yoga and stretching to relax? Didn’t work.
A long soak in the clawfoot tub with lavender oil and a book I’ve read a dozen times because it’s one of my comfort reads? Nothing.
No matter how carefully I follow the ritual—check off every soothing step like an obedient little soldier—my mind simply won’t cooperate.
Because no matter what I do, it always finds its way back to him.
Maksim.
