His eyes shot to mine. There was a split second of something—panic, or the shadow of it—before it vanished behind a shrug.
“I don’t know,” he said.“She hasn’t bothered to contact any of us.”
Convincing enough. The shrug landed at the right moment. The eye contact held just long enough.
Iskra had trained him well.
“There has been a sighting of her,” I said, lifting my glass.
His Adam’s apple bobbed.
“Where is she?” he asked, and then caught himself and licked his lip—the tell arriving a second too late to be casual.
I waved my hand.
“It’s not a verified sighting. I’m flying some men out in the next few days,” I lied smoothly.
“Perhaps I can join them?” The hope in his voice was poorly concealed.
“No. It’s all in hand.”
“My mother would want to know she’s safe.” He leaned forward slightly.“Where was she seen?”
The little shit knew exactly where she was.
I let the silence sit for a moment—long enough to watch him decide whether to fill it.
He didn’t. Good instincts. She had taught him that too.
“Tell your mother not to worry,” I said, setting my glass down.“She will be home soon.”
There it was.
Fear. Undisguised and immediate, the kind that arrives before the mind can arrange the face.
He nodded.
Leonid had proved to be useless, but Ruslan here might be the key.
It shouldn't bother me where she was or who she was fucking.
But it did.
Chapter 55
Iskra
My back stiffened at the sound of voices. I cradled Runa’s head instinctively and was about to turn away from the bakery until I listened properly. A Russian couple, arguing about their sightseeing itinerary with the intensity of two people who had been travelling together for too long.
I turned anyway, scanning the street—weighing up how busy the bakery was, how quickly I could get back to the apartment, whether the argument was what it appeared to be.
It was. I stayed.
Runa gurgled and reached for my pendant, entirely unbothered, happily strapped to my chest with the contentment of someone whose entire world was warm and moving.
There were a lot of Russian tourists in Istanbul. There were tourists from everywhere, but my people seemed to dominate—thirty-eight percent of all tourism in Turkey, according to the figure I had looked up and hadn’t been able to unknow since. Some mornings it felt like I had escaped one Russian city for another. I reminded myself of the Bosphorus and the minarets and Mehmet’s pistachio desserts and felt better about it.
Runa needed the fresh air and I needed the exercise. There was no imminent danger.
