Matvey and I, along with two of my bodyguards, make our way up the narrow staircase to the third floor. The hallway smells like old cooking grease and mildew, and the carpet is worn thin in places. I pull out the keys we took from her purse and unlock the door.
The apartment is small. Tiny, really, a studio with a kitchenette in one corner, a bed against the far wall, and a bathroom that'sbarely big enough to turn around in. But what strikes me most is how sparse it is.
There's almost nothing personal here. No pictures on the walls. No knickknacks on the shelves. The furniture looks like it came with the place, cheap and functional. Even the kitchen cabinets are mostly empty, containing only the bare essentials.
"She was ready to run," Matvey observes, his dark eyes scanning the room.
He's right. This isn't the apartment of someone who's settled into a life. This is the apartment of someone who's been living with one foot out the door, ready to disappear at a moment's notice.
I move through the space methodically, searching for anything that might give me a clue about Yegor's whereabouts or the missing icons. The closet contains a few changes of clothes, all practical and nondescript. The bathroom has basic toiletries, nothing fancy. The nightstand holds a single book, some thriller about a woman on the run.
Fitting.
Under the bed, I find a small duffel bag. Inside are cash, a fake passport, and a burner phone. An escape kit. She really was prepared to run at any moment.
The realization makes something twist in my chest. She's been living like this for nine years. Always looking over her shoulder. Always ready to flee. Never allowing herself to put down roots or make connections.
What kind of life is that?
I push the thought away. It doesn't matter. She's Yegor Pushkin's daughter, and that makes her my responsibility now. My leverage.
In the corner of the room, tucked away on a shelf, I find a wooden jewelry box. It's old, ornate, with delicate carvings on the lid. I open it carefully, and inside I find several pieces of jewelry. A necklace with a small pendant. A pair of earrings. A bracelet. Nothing that looks particularly valuable, but they're clearly well-loved. Family heirlooms, maybe.
I close the box and tuck it under my arm. If these pieces mean something to her, they might be useful.
I gather a few more of her personal items. Some clothes, toiletries, and the book from her nightstand. Things that will make her more comfortable in her new accommodations. I tell myself it's practical, that a comfortable prisoner is more likely to cooperate. But the truth is, I feel like shit about the way she's been living and about the fact that I've made her situation even worse.
"Find anything?" Matvey asks.
"Nothing useful." I gesture to the sparse apartment. "She's been living like a ghost."
He grunts in agreement.
We leave the apartment, locking it behind us. My next stop is the library where Mariya works. If she's going to be my guest for a while, I need to make sure her absence doesn't raise any red flags.
The library is quiet when we arrive, just a few patrons browsing the stacks. I spot the red-haired woman from the circulation desk immediately. Her name tag readsDaisy.
I approach with my most charming smile, the one I use when I need to be persuasive. "Excuse me. I'm here for Mariya."
Daisy looks up, her expression friendly. "Oh, she's not here today. Is there something I can help you with?"
"Actually, I'm a friend of the family." The lie comes easily. "I'm afraid there's been a family emergency. Mariya had to fly back to Russia unexpectedly. She asked me to let you know she'll be gone for a while."
Daisy's face falls. "Oh, no. Is everything okay?"
"It will be," I assure her. "But she's not sure when she'll be back. She wanted me to apologize for the short notice."
"Of course. Tell her not to worry about work. We'll manage." Daisy's concern seems genuine. "And tell her I hope everything works out."
"I will. Thank you."
I turn away from the desk, satisfied that the cover story is in place. Matvey's already heading toward the exit, and my bodyguards flank me as we move through the library. The jewelry box is still tucked under my arm, along with a few other items I'd grabbed from her apartment.
We're almost to the door when it swings open. A man steps inside, and I recognize him immediately, or rather, his attitude. He's Bratva, and his presence here isn't a coincidence.
"Melnikov," the man says, his voice carrying a casual tone that doesn't match the tension radiating from him. He's got two men with him, positioned strategically.
I acknowledge him with a nod, keeping my expression neutral. My hand instinctively moves to my side, fingers brushing against the weight of my gun. Matvey shifts beside me, reading the situation the same way I am. My bodyguards tense, ready for whatever comes next.
