Page 64 of Beautiful Ruin

She makes a soft noise of protest but stays right where she is.

Good girl, I nearly say.

The place is dimly lit with only one light that burns a weak, yellow glow from what I can only assume is the kitchen area, given the layout of the apartment. The living room is cluttered, a narrow sofa against the farthest wall from the door, a blanket messily bunched up on the cushions. There are half empty mugs and cups sitting on the coffee table, a dark ring around the bottom of a few of them. Newspapers are stacked near the radiator which clicks softly in the quiet.

I move slowly, sweeping the room with the barrel of my gun, senses stretched taut.

Left corner, clear.

Sofa, clear.

Behind the door, clear.

A mirror on the wall shows a warped slice of the hallway behind me. Sofia remains where I told her to, barely visible at the edge of reflection, with one hand pressed against the doorframe and her face drawn tight.

A sound from the kitchen catches my attention—the scrape of a chair leg dragging against worn linoleum. I pivot toward it immediately, keeping my weapon raised as I move down the short hallway. The single light bulb over the kitchen table throws long shadows across the room.

As I round the corner, what I find on the other side of the wall causes me to freeze for half a second as my brain processes the scene all at once.

There is a man in the center of the kitchen, his wrists bound tightly behind the chair he’s sitting on.

His face is red and swollen, one eye nearly shut. Dried blood streaks down his temple on one side, disappearing into graying hair. His shirt is torn at the collar, the fabric stained in several places that tell me the beating was from a moment of passionate rage. Someone took time with him. Not enough to kill, but enough to make him understand how badly he may soon want it.

“What the hell?” I mumble.

The man makes a strained noise when I step into view, muffled by the gag. His eyes are wide and frantic, darting from me to the gun in my hand and back again.

“What is it?” Sofia calls from the doorway.

I lift a hand back toward her without tearing my eyes away from the man, silently telling her to stay back. My finger flexes over the trigger out of habit, taking the man in again.

Time has worn him down, hollowed out his cheeks and threaded gray through dark hair that might once have been the same rich shade visible in old photographs. But the eyes are unmistakable, even swollen and terrified. That same vivid blue as Sofia’s.

Dmitri Orlov.

Footsteps come up from behind me.

Of course…

“Get back,” I snap.

My warning falls on deaf ears. She rounds the corner before I can block her, slipping under the arm I throw out to keep her from stepping into the kitchen.

She gasps when she sees him. “Dad!”

I sigh out loud.

I catch her around the waist before she gets more than two steps past me, hauling her back against my chest with one arm while keeping the gun trained on the rest of the kitchen. She fights me instantly, nails digging into my forearm as her body goes rigid with furious panic.

“Let me go!”

“No,” I growl in her ear.

I turn us just enough to drop her back onto her feet outside the kitchen. Dmitri makes another muffled noise from behind us, thrashing weakly against the restraints, the chair under him scraping against the floor louder than before.

“Stay,” I tell her. “For once in your life, understand that sometimes it’s best if you are left out of things.”

She glares at me with that familiar fire in her eyes, already gathering herself to argue with me. If this were any other situation, I would find it endearingly amusing. This woman would argue with a firing squad about its stance before the bullets started flying if she had the chance to.