Lev was right.
I watch Emily smile at him from another angle on a different morning when they’re parting ways again, the tilt of her head slight as she speaks, like she’s done it a thousand times before. There’s a tenderness in her movements, subtle but present. It’s not a one-time affair. That’s what makes it dangerous.
If Emily Kreslova is the soft place Mikhail retreats to, the one part of his life untouched by the blood and bullets he commands, then she’s more than a weakness. She’s the point where his heart is laid bare.
The contradiction is maddening.
Everything about her saysinnocent.She’s the kind of woman who probably stays after school to help kids with their homework. The one who makes casseroles for local bake sales to raise money for charity and volunteers on the weekends. She doesn’t fit into this world at all, much like Ivy doesn’t. Yet here she is, threaded neatly into his life.
That contrast is what gnaws at me the most. Mikhail wouldn’t parade her through his empire. Wouldn’t tell the men who serve him and risk flaunting her like a trophy to people who could just as quickly seek to use her against him.
He’s hiding her for a reason.
Hours later, Roman and I find myself outside her apartment building tucked into a modest, aging square right outside the city center. The architecture is unremarkable, five stories of peeling paint and sagging gutters. It’s a building you’d walk past a hundred times and never remember it.
Inside isn’t much better.
There are no security cameras in the hallways, just water-stained ceilings and the dull stink of mildew creeping up the stairwell. The single overhead light flickers every few seconds like it’s breathing.
No one passes us on our way to the rental office, but the building is far from silent. We hear the murmur of a television behind one door, a baby crying faintly behind another, the scrape of a chair across a tiled floor further down. Life is still happening all around here, just not the kind that looks up from its routine.
The landlord is a short and wiry man with breath that smells of old onions and tobacco. His eyes don’t quite meet mine when I hold out the envelope of forged papers Matvey created to make us look like we’re inspectors from the city dropping by.
He gives a quick nod after thumbing through the folded papers, then hands over a key ring with a dozen tarnished copies and waves us down the hall with a grunt. We don’t bother to give him a name and he doesn’t bother to ask for one.
Her apartment is easy to find. It’s the only one on the floor with any sign of care.
The door is painted a pale blue. It’s chipped at the corners, but freshly cleaned. A wreath made of dried lavender and twine hangs from a brass hook, a ceramic welcome sign is pinned beneath the peephole, hand-painted with soft pastel flowers. There is even a welcome mat featuring a tiny potted succulent. Under it, a large ‘WELCOME’ is printed.
All of it feels… out of place. Too soft and personal for a rundown building like this. Or the man who frequently visits.
I unlock the door and ease it open.
The scent hits immediately—clean laundry and something warmer underneath. Incense that is faintly floral with a musky base. Sandalwood, maybe. It lingers in the air, surrounding us. We step inside and close the door, the soft click echoing through a space that’s silent and still.
Roman veers off toward the kitchen, his movements fluid and quiet as a shadow. I leave him to it, drawn toward the living room.
It’s small, but not cramped.
The furniture is mismatched, but each piece has clearly been chosen for comfort rather than appearance. Soft throws over the couch, overstuffed pillows in gentle earth tones, a bookshelf that overflows in the corner. Not just with novels but lesson plans, laminated charts, hand-drawn children’s artwork.
One of them saysMs. Kreslova is the best teacher ever!in bright crayon letters.
On the coffee table sits a half-burned candle and a mug of cold tea that’s been long since abandoned. There’s an open notebook beside it, filled with neat, looping cursive. I move closer, scanning the contents.
Vocabulary List: Weather Words. Homework Due Thursday. Call pediatrician—confirm appointment.
Domestic and innocuous. A far cry from the kind of records I’m used to finding when I dig into a man like Mikhail. Noencrypted drives, no ledgers, no cash hidden in offshore accounts.
Just a woman’s life, quiet, simple, and normal.
Roman reappears from the kitchen holding up something in his hand. “Found these. Prenatal vitamins.”
I take them from him and rotate them in my hand a few times. So, the rumors are true. She is pregnant.
I scan the room again, slower this time. Everywhere I look is another confirmation of her world remaining untouched by violence and fear. She has no idea how close she lives to the edge of danger, no idea what Mikhail is truly capable of.
But that also means Mikhail doesn’t want her to know. For whatever reason, he wants this little slice of paradise to remain untouched for the life he’s so desperate to weave himself, and that alone annoys me.
