There’s a pause on the line. Half a second too long.
“Yours,” he says. “I’ve just gotten confirmation that the driver is dead.”
For a moment, the world narrows to a single, brutal point of clarity. These men are getting desperate. With Alina gone, they moved to a backup plan. They’re reckless and destructive. That’s how badly they want me dead.
I close my eyes briefly, forcing my breathing to slow. I’m starting to think the Borokov meeting wasn’t planned here by accident.
“Lock down the perimeter,” I say. “I want eyes on every exit, every stairwell, every service corridor. No one moves without clearance.”
“Already in progress,” he replies.
“Get me two identical vehicles,” I continue. “Same make, same plates if possible. One runs hot as a decoy. The other stays dark.”
“Yes, sir.”
I disconnect and look down at Alina.
Her eyes are wide, unfocused, her face drained of color. She looks small in a way she didn’t before, the defiance stripped away by the reality of what just happened.
“Did someone just try to kill you?” she whispers.
“Yes,” I say plainly.
Her lips part, but no sound comes out. She stares at me like the world has shifted too far off its axis to recover. I crouch in front of her, gripping her shoulders firmly.
“Listen to me,” I say. “This is not the time to panic. You stay close to me, and you do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?”
She nods, tears spilling silently down her cheeks. Good. Fear will make her compliant. Compliance will keep her alive.
Within minutes, my men flood the floor. The suite transforms from a temporary refuge into a command hub. Phones ring. Voices overlap. Information flows in short, clipped bursts.
The decoy vehicle is already being staged. I watch the live feed on my phone as it pulls away from the curb, a visible target against the dark street.
Let them think they missed the first time. Let them take the bait. The real car waits beneath the hotel, tucked into the service ramp, with the engine off. They wouldn’t be able to find it unless they knew exactly where to look.
“Sir,” one of my men says quietly. “We’re ready.”
I nod once.
I help Alina to her feet. She wobbles, still shaken, and I steady her without comment. Her fingers curl into my sleeve again, tight and instinctive.
“If you hadn’t?—”
“If I hadn’t delayed,” I finish. “I’d be dead.”
The words land heavily between us. We both need a moment to process what this means.
I don’t have the luxury of time, though. These men, whoever they are, clearly have a goal to take me out tonight. They pivoted way too quickly when their first attempt didn’t work out. We have to get out of this building as quickly as possible and get to a safe location. Otherwise, we’re both dead.
7
ALINA
The sweatsuit Andrei’s men brought me is too big. It hangs off my shoulders and I have to tie the string tightly so the pants will stay on. The sleeves cover my hands unless I push them back and I have to roll up the pant cuffs three times. At least the hotel slippers fit.
Andrei tells me that I have to wear this to be inconspicuous, but it feels like I’m wearing a tent. It feels way more conspicuous to me than the dress, but what do I know? I’m just a girl who came to celebrate her upcoming wedding, and now I’m a fugitive hiding from her potentially murderous ex-fiancé.
My head spins again, but I force myself to stay upright. I just want this endless night to finally be over. Andrei says once we get to the safehouse, I can finally go to sleep. If wearing a man’s sweatsuit is going to bring me that goal quicker, so be it.
