"Answer me!" I shout.
He straightens, holding the box in one hand, and walks past me to the desk. He sets everything down carefully, then turns and heads into the bathroom without a word. I hear the sound of running water, and a moment later, he emerges with a wad of tissue pressed to his nose.
"Yes," he says finally, his voice slightly nasal from the tissue. "I went to your apartment. I needed to see if there was anything there that could tell me where your father is or what happened to my family's heirlooms."
"You had no right!" The words explode out of me. "That's my home. My private space. You can't just break in and take whatever you want!"
"I can do whatever I want." His voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "You seem to keep forgetting your position here, Mariya. You're not a guest. You're collateral. And until your father returns what he stole from my family, everything you own belongs to me."
The casual way he says it, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, makes me want to hit him again. But I force myself to stay where I am, my nails digging into my palms.
"I brought you your things because I thought it would make you more comfortable," he continues, pulling the tissue away to check whether the bleeding has stopped. It hasn't. He presses it back to his nose. "I thought you'd appreciate having your own clothes, your own belongings. Clearly, I was wrong."
"You violated my privacy," I say, my voice shaking. "You went through my things without permission. You took something that doesn't belong to you."
"Everything in that apartment belongs to me now." He tosses the bloody tissue in the trash and grabs a fresh one. "Including that jewelry box."
"No." The word comes out as a growl. "That box is mine. It was my mother's. It's all I have left of her."
Something flickers across his face. Sympathy? Understanding? But it's gone before I can identify it, replaced by that cold, calculating expression I'm starting to hate.
"Then you should have kept it somewhere safer," he says.
We stare at each other across the room, the tension so thick I can barely breathe. I want to scream at him, to throw something, to make him understand how much he's taken from me. But I know it won't do any good. Men like Andrey Melnikov don't care about feelings or personal boundaries. They only care about power and control.
"I hate you," I whisper.
"I know." He checks his nose again. The bleeding has finally slowed to a trickle. "But that doesn't change anything. You're staying here until I get what I need."
"I've told you everything I know. I don't have any information about your precious heirlooms or where my father is. What more do you want from me?"
"The truth." He walks toward me, and I force myself not to back away, not to show fear. "I think you know more than you'retelling me. I think your father told you something, gave you something that you're keeping hidden."
"You're wrong."
"Am I?" He stops directly in front of me, so close, I can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. So close, I can smell his cologne mixed with the metallic scent of blood.
He turns away, walking back to the desk where he left the box. His fingers trace the carved lid, and my stomach clenches. "But that's not the only reason I came here tonight."
"Oh?" I cross my arms over my chest, trying to look defiant instead of terrified. "What other delightful news do you have for me?"
He turns back to face me, and the expression on his face makes me pause. It's not anger or frustration. It's something worse. Something that looks almost like regret.
"Your cover is blown," he says quietly. "I'm not the only one who knows about you now."
The words hit me like a physical blow. I actually stumble back a step, my hand reaching out to steady myself against the wall.
"What?" The word comes out as barely a whisper.
"There was someone at the library today. Bratva. He was asking questions about you, about whether I'd taken Yegor Pushkin's daughter." Andrey's jaw tightens. "I didn't confirm anything, but he knows. Which means others will know soon, too."
No. No, no, no. This can't be happening. I've been so careful. So cautious. I've followed every rule my father gave me, never letmy guard down, never made connections that could be traced back to who I really am.
And now it's all for nothing.
"Who?" I manage to ask. "Who was it?"
"Does it matter?" Andrey's voice is gentler now, almost sympathetic. "The point is, even if I let you go right now, you wouldn't be safe. They'd find you within days. Maybe hours."
