We eat in silence after that. Or, rather, he eats in a weirdly methodical way. I, on the other hand, push the fruit around my plate and shred my croissant into a pile of crumbs that probably says more about my mental state than I’d like.
It’s ironic, really, that he barely cares.
Hilarious, if I weren’t seconds from dry heaving into my lap.
He’s not even considering sending someone with me despite my almost dying a few days ago. No guard, no security detail. Not even a hovering member of his eerily silent staff to trail behind me with arms full of shopping bags and a dead-eyed stare. Just a casual wave of his hand and a driver to drop me off to whatever destination I want to go.
Then again, whywouldhe care? It’s not like I’m one of them, a member of his family.
I’m just some American tutor. I’m completely expendable.Replaceable. The type of person who dies in a city like Moscow and ends up as a cautionary tale on some Reddit forum for young travelers years later.
And if Ididdie? If some stray bullet found its way into my skull or a body bag zipped over my face because I got caught up in another turf war?
Sergei would make one call and then his Mob, or whatever connections he had, would stage something so elaborate to cover the whole thing up that no one would be the wiser. A car crash, a mugging gone wrong, some tragic, accidental overdose in a nightclub.
I’d be scrubbed clean off their ledgers without leaving a trace.
“Unfortunate, but unavoidable,”they’d say.“Nothing could have been done. Our condolences.”
I wouldn’t even have family back home to mourn me or ask questions outside of my friends. And what power would they have against a Mafia group who clearly had their hands entangled in some serious shit?
God, that thought pisses me off more than it should.
I don’t bring much when I finally get up from the table and head up to my room to grab my things. Just a small wad of cash inside one of the pockets of a small crossbody bag I throw over my shoulder and my phone, tucked into the front pouch and already set to record with an app on the off-chance I stumble across anything that could help me convince Miss Dori I’m not losing my fucking mind.
The driver Sergei assigned to bring me into the city hums along to the radio as I climb into the back of the sedan. He doesn’t ask where we’re going, just starts driving and turns the station up. I watch the city blur past the window, every building suddenly feeling more menacing than the first day I arrived.
It’s funny how less than three weeks ago, I’d felt like my future had been so promising.
Now look at me. Heading back to a fucking crime scene like some amateur detective trying to plead my case because I’m desperate to get the hell out of here.
When we get close to the area I remember, I lean forward and point toward a corner near a small intersection, keeping my voice light and innocent so it doesn’t become obvious what I’m doing. “Could you drop me here? I can text you when I’m ready to go.”
He glances at me in the mirror but doesn’t say anything, just nods once and slows the car down until it stops before unlocking the doors to let me out.
Blowing out a breath, I step out onto the curb and wait just long enough for the car to disappear down the block before slippingbetween two narrow buildings and cutting down a back alley that’ll lead me closer to the cafe.
I spent the last few days combing through Google satellite images, trying to find the best route back to the cafe without anyone catching on to what I was doing. So far, I’d come up with a solid path that not only keeps me off the main road, but it puts me right back in that alleyway where Maksim’s people shoved Yulia and me into the back of that car.
By the time I get within a block of the cafe, my heart is already racing, knowing what I’m doing is probably stupid.
Beyond stupid, actually.
This is the kind of decision girls in horror movies make before they get their throats slit and are left to bleed out as the killer runs off to torture their next victim. Decisions like this would never grant me the position as the Final Girl, that’s for damn sure.
Hell, I’d be lucky to make it past the intro credits. Still, what else am I supposed to do at this point?
I round the corner and spot exactly what I’m looking for. The cafe.
Or what’s left of it, anyway.
The front is still sectioned off with haphazardly strewn police tape, the yellow plastic fluttering weakly in the breeze like a cautionary suggestion, though from here, it looks pretty half-assed. A few of the windows have been boarded up with splintered plywood, and someone’s spray-painted a strange symbol across the wood.
I don’t recognize it, but it looks vaguely threatening, or maybe everything looks threatening when you’ve been traumatized.
What’s missing is any sign of police presence. No officers keeping the place secure, no crime scene units taking samples and logging the data. No vans, no bags of evidence being hauled out for testing.
Sure, it’s been a few days since the incident, but there’s no way the scene has been wrapped up this quickly. If this had happened in the States, there would’ve been reporters standing out front, maybe even a memorial of some kind with flowers and candles left at the door to pay tribute to the fallen victims.
