"Mariya." Andrey follows me inside, closing the door behind him. "Talk to me."
"I don't want to talk." I set the shopping bags down by the dresser, my movements mechanical. The bags tip over, spilling designer clothes across the floor. A silk dress in emerald green. Shoes that cost more than I used to make in a week. All of it is meaningless now. "I just want to be alone."
"You shouldn't be alone right now."
"Please." I turn to face him, and I can feel tears burning behind my eyes. My throat is tight, my chest aching with the effort of holding everything in. "Just… give me some space. I need to process this."
He studies my face, then nods. "I'll be in my office if you need me. This isn't your fault, Mariya."
The door closes behind him, and I'm alone.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my body too heavy to support. The tears I've been holding back finally break free, streaming down my face in hot tracks. I cry for Daisy, for the other two people whose names I don't even know. I cry for the life I've lost and the safety I thought I'd built. And I cry for myself, for being so fucking naive as to think I could ever escape my father's legacy.
My body shakes with sobs as I lie curled up on the bed. After what feels like hours but is probably only minutes, I force myself to stand. My legs are shaky, and my face is wet with tears. I need to change out of these clothes, wash my face, and do something normal to ground myself.
I shrug off my jacket, and as I do, something falls from the pocket and lands on the floor with a soft rustle.
A piece of paper.
I stare at it for a moment, confused. I don't remember putting anything in my pocket. The jacket is new, bought today at one of the boutiques Andrey took me to. There shouldn't be anything in the pockets. Slowly, I bend down and pick it up, unfolding it with trembling fingers.
It's a note, handwritten in a script I'd recognize anywhere. The letters are slightly cramped, the ink is black, and the paper is cheap like the kind you'd buy at any corner store.
My breath catches in my throat as I read the words scrawled across the paper. My hands are shaking so badly, I can barely hold it steady. The paper crinkles in my grip, and I have to blink away tears to see the words clearly.
It's a note from my father.
24
ANDREY
Ididn't go to bed last night.
The bottle of vodka sits on my desk, half-empty now, and the ice in my glass has long since melted. I stare at the list of safehouses spread across the mahogany surface, the names and addresses blurring together as exhaustion pulls at the edges of my vision. But I can't sleep. Not when Mariya is upstairs dealing with the aftermath of the bombing. Not when three people are dead because someone wanted to send her a message.
I'd wanted to go to her. Wanted to hold her and tell her everything would be okay. But I could see in her eyes that she needed space, needed time to process what happened. So I gave it to her, even though every instinct I have screams at me to be near her. To protect her. To keep her close where I can see her, touch her, and know she's safe.
The office feels too quiet. Too empty. I keep thinking about the way she looked at me before she went upstairs. Like she was trying to figure out whether I was the enemy or her salvation. Maybe I'm both. Maybe that's the problem.
The office door opens, and Matvey walks in without knocking. He never knocks. He crosses the room in three long strides and drops into the chair across from my desk, his dark eyes immediately going to the scroll.
He shakes his head slowly. "Dangerous."
"I know." I pour myself another drink, the vodka burning as it slides down my throat. The burn is good. It reminds me that I'm still alive and still functioning, even if I feel like hell.
"What the hell was Pushkin doing with this?" Matvey leans forward, his finger tracing one of the addresses. "What was his plan?"
"I don't know." I set down my glass and rub my eyes. They're gritty from lack of sleep, and my head is starting to pound. "But whatever it was, it got people killed. And now someone else wants it badly enough to blow up a fucking library."
Matvey grunts, which could mean anything from agreement to concern. With him, it's hard to tell. He's been my right hand for years, and I trust him more than anyone. If he thinks this is dangerous, then it's even worse.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, both of us studying the list. Some of the safehouses are in major cities. Others are in remote locations, places where you could hide for years without anyone finding you. And a few are right here, scattered throughout this state. The scope of it is staggering. This isn't the work of a man planning to run. This is the work of a man planning for war.
"We need to check them," I finally say. "All of them. See what Pushkin left behind."
"Could be a trap."
"Could be." I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight. "But we won't know until we look."
