I’ve never shared this story with anyone, and it will be painful to recount but weirdly, I want him to know. Maybe because he’s already been through his own version of hell with his mother dying and his sister’s cancer treatment, so he’ll understand.
“My mother disappeared when I was six,” I say, meeting his eyes briefly. “She tucked me in that night, kissed my forehead, told me she loved me. When I woke up the next morning, shewas gone. At first my father said she had to go back to her family. That something important had happened. But when I was older, he told me my mother had left a Dear John letter saying she couldn’t stand living paycheck to paycheck, scraping by.” Pain flashes through me, raw and unfiltered. “My mother came from a wealthy St. Petersburg family who disowned her when she refused the future they wanted and moved to Moscow to do what she loved. To sing.”
I force myself to keep going even though the words hurt. “She met my dad at some underground jazz club she was performing in, and apparently it was love at first sight, at least according to him. They got married quickly, had me shortly after. She always seemed happy. My memories are of a smiling, loving woman who danced around the kitchen and sang me to sleep. But I guess looks can be deceiving.”
Kirill reaches across the counter and takes my hand, his palm warm against mine.
“When she left it destroyed my father. He never recovered, never dated anyone else, just raised me alone while carrying that grief every single day.” What I don’t say is it defined me in ways I didn’t fully understand until I was older. Like if your own mother rejects you, if the one person who’s supposed to love you unconditionally chooses to leave, what does that say about you? That you’re not enough. Not worth staying for.
He turns my hand over in his, palm up, and traces the lines there absently.
“A few months ago, I started having these vivid dreams about the night she left. At first I thought they were nightmares, but they kept coming back with the exact same details, the same scenes playing over and over.” I take a shaky breath. “So I saw a therapist. Something I never thought I’d do. After weeks of working with her, she helped me realize they weren’t dreams. They were repressed memories finally surfacing.”
“It was always the same. I wake up to raised voices, angry ones. Men’s voices that didn’t belong in our apartment. I climb out of bed, scared and confused, and peek through my bedroom door.” The memory makes my hands tremble around the mug. “I see my mother with two men I’ve never seen before. Big guys, menacing. And I’m standing in that doorway too terrified to move. Too terrified to breathe.”
“My mother is crying, begging them. I can’t make out most of the words, but I hear the name they call her clearly. Marina Voronina. Not the name I knew her by.” I wait for the name to register but his expression doesn’t change. “The last thing I remember clearly is one of them grabbing her arm, and all I could focus on was the tattoo there. Three cathedral domes.”
Kirill’s expression shifts, something dark flickering in his eyes.
“I spent the rest of the night hiding under my bed, clutching my stuffed sheep, sobbing. I was convinced those men were going to kill my mother before coming back for me. My father found me there the next morning. I’d wet myself. I was practically catatonic.” A tear escapes, trailing down my cheek, and I swipe at it angrily. “My therapist explained I dissociated that night. My brain completely blocked out the memories because they were too traumatic for a child to process. It’s a survival mechanism.”
Kirill stands and rounds the counter, pulling me up and into his arms. I go willingly, collapsing against his chest as the sobs I’ve been holding back finally break free. He holds me while I fall apart.
“That’s why you freaked out when you saw Abram’s forearm at the poker game.”
I nod against his chest. “At first, the tattoo was all I had to go on. I researched its meaning and discovered it’s the mark of the Kupola Network.”
“Christ, Dinara. I’m sorry that’s how you found out. It’s deeply fucked-up.”
“It is,” I agree. “But everything about this is fucked up. I did a deep dive on the dark web. What I found suggested these women were brought to Velour and auctioned off.” I wipe my eyes. “That’s all I had to go on. Online information was scarce. It’s why I moved to New York and got a job at the club. And… it’s why I…” I bite my lip to stop myself from saying too much, but he knows what I mean.
“It’s why you got close to me,” he says matter-of-factly, but I sense the sting underneath his words as he takes a step back from me.
“At first, yes. Before things… changed.” My feelings became real somewhere along the way, and I think he knows it too.
“I would have done the same in your position. Except for the stripping part.”
A laugh bubbles out of me despite everything. “I’ll have you know I’m an excellent hacker, but I wasn’t trained as a spy. I did spend months taking pole dancing lessons though. I was so disappointed when you wouldn’t let me dance.”
Every trace of humor vanishes from his face. “Like I’d ever let you dance for another man. You were mine from the moment we met.”
I roll my eyes as a warmth pools low in my belly. I felt it too. That electric pull between us hasn’t let up.
“Well, you didn’t give me much choice in the matter.” I hold up my hand bearing his mother’s ring. I can’t deny how beautiful it is, and how perfect it looks on my finger. “Now that we’re in a sharing mood, maybe you can tell me what this marriage is actually about?”
“I need your help to catch this… Ghost.”
“The Ghost, right. You thought I was working for them.”
“It was a theory when I found you standing over Spider with his throat slit open. But … I don’t know who or what we’re dealing with. They’ve hit every major crime family in the city. No one’s been spared. Hijacked shipments, blown warehouses, sabotaged operations. They’re costing us millions every week and we can’t find a single trace of them.”
I shake my head. “Your tech guys can’t track them?”
“My tech guys are good, but not as good as you.”
“And how do you know that?”
“My men hacked into your MTI files when you first started working for me. Let’s just say you should be teaching those classes, not attending them. And now that I know you’re a hacker for the Syndicate, I know you must be one of the best.” His thumb rubs circles over the ring on my finger. “Here’s the thing. I made a deal with my father to catch the Ghost in 20 days. If I fail, my father arranges marriages for my sister and me to strengthen bonds with allies who can help us take it down. Katya will be married off to Elio Valenti. And me… to whoever serves his business interests the best.” Something hard enters his expression. “Ruslan recently introduced me to the Morozov family, maybe you’ve heard of them—oligarchs with shipping routes and political connections my father wants access to. Their daughter Varvara was there. Seated right next to me.”
