But I can't give them what they want. I genuinely don't know where my father is. I don't know anything about stolen heirlooms or hidden fortunes. And even if I did, would I tell them? Would I betray my father to save myself?
"Let me make something very clear," Andrey says, his voice dropping to something cold and dangerous. "Your father stole from my family. Those heirlooms belong to me, and I will get them back. One way or another."
"I can't help you," I whisper.
"Then you'll be the price." He stands, towering over me. "Until Yegor Pushkin returns what he stole, you belong to me. You're collateral, Mariya. And I always collect what I'm owed."
10
ANDREY
Ican't stop staring at her across the breakfast table.
Mariya sits there, picking at her eggs with a fork, her blonde hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. She's wearing the green sweater I sent up this morning, and the color makes her eyes look even more vibrant. Every time she moves, I remember how those eyes looked last night when she came apart beneath me. How her body felt wrapped around mine. How she tasted.
Fuck.
I shift in my chair, trying to focus on the conversation we need to have instead of the memory of her naked and willing in my bed. This is business. She's a means to an end, nothing more. The fact that I can't seem to get her out of my head is irrelevant.
"Tell me about the last time you saw your father," I say, keeping my voice level.
She sets down her fork, meeting my gaze with those green eyes.
"Tell me again."
She sighs, but complies. "He woke me up early. We had breakfast together, though neither of us ate much. He told me I had to leave Russia, that it wasn't safe anymore. He gave me my mother's jewelry box and money for a new life in America. Then he left for the courthouse, and I never saw him again."
It's the same story she's told me a dozen times now. Word for word, no variation, no hesitation. Either she's telling the truth, or she's the best liar I've ever encountered.
"And he never contacted you after that? Not once in nine years?"
"Not once."
"No letters? No phone calls? No messages through intermediaries?"
"Nothing." Her jaw tightens. "I've been alone this entire time, waiting for him to tell me it's safe to come home. But he never did."
I lean back in my chair, studying her face for any sign of deception. But all I see is exhaustion and something that looks like genuine pain. Like she's telling the truth about being abandoned by her father.
"What about the heirlooms?" I press. "The icons that disappeared around the same time your father did. You're telling me you know nothing about them?"
"I don't even know what icons you're talking about." Her voice rises slightly, edged with frustration. "My father never mentioned any heirlooms, never told me he'd stolen anything from anyone."
"Then what did he tell you? There must have been something, some clue about where he was going or what he was planning."
"He told me to run." She pushes her plate away, her appetite clearly gone. "He told me to trust no one and to never come back to Russia. That's it. That's all I know."
We go back and forth like this for another twenty minutes. I ask the same questions in different ways, trying to catch her in a lie or trip her up. But her answers never change. She doesn't know where Yegor is. She doesn't know about the icons. She hasn't had contact with him since he'd testified.
By the time I finally give up, my side is throbbing where she stabbed me, and my patience is worn thin.
"Take her back to her room," I tell Matvey.
He nods once and moves to Mariya's side. She stands without protest, but I catch the flash of something in her eyes. Relief? Disappointment? I can't tell.
I watch them leave, my mind already moving to the next step. If she won't tell me what I need to know, maybe her apartment will. When Matvey returns, we drive to her apartment.
Mariya's apartment is in a rundown building on the edge of town, the kind of place where people mind their own business and don't ask questions. Perfect for someone trying to stay invisible.
