Papa
I read the words three times, four times, until they're burned into my memory. He's alive. After nine years of silence, of wondering if he was dead in a ditch somewhere, he's alive. And he's been watching me.
The thought should comfort me. Instead, it makes my skin crawl. If he's been watching, why didn't he reach out sooner? Why let me think I was alone all these years? Why wait until now, when everything has gone to hell?
I flip the note over, and that's when I see it. A drawing on the back, done in the same black ink. A bird, large and detailed, with spread wings and a sharp beak. A crow or a raven, I can't tell which. The detail is impressive, every feather carefully rendered, but I don't understand what it means.
Is it a symbol? A code? A location?
I stare at the drawing until my eyes start to water, willing it to make sense. But nothing comes. Just a bird, beautifully drawn but meaningless to me.
Maybe Andrey will know what it means. His years in the Bratva would give him insight I don't have. But now I'm glad I kept my mouth shut. Something about the way my father wrote "trust no one completely, not even the man you've married," makes me cautious.
What does he know about Andrey that I don't?
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into my bra, the paper cool against my skin. It's not the best hiding place, but it's better than leaving it lying around where someone might find it.
My body feels restless, coiled tight with anxiety and unanswered questions. I need to move, need to do something physical to burn off this nervous energy. I haven't been for a jog in days, not since before Andrey found me at the library. Before my entire life imploded.
I change quickly, pulling on a pair of black jogging pants and a fitted athletic shirt. The clothes are new, bought during yesterday's shopping trip, and they fit perfectly. I lace up my sneakers and pull my hair back into a ponytail, then head downstairs.
The guards are everywhere. In the hallway, at the bottom of the stairs, and by the front door. They all turn to look at me as I pass, their expressions carefully neutral. I glare at each one, daring them to try and stop me. Daring them to tell me I can't go outside.
No one does.
Maybe Andrey actually talked to them like he said he would. Maybe they understand now that I'm not a prisoner anymore. I'm the Pakhan’s wife, and that means something.
The thought makes my stomach flutter in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
The front door opens easily, and I step outside into the cool morning air. It's beautiful out here, the sun just starting to burn off the early fog and the grounds stretching out in manicured perfection. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh air that doesn't smell like smoke or fear or expensive cologne.
I start jogging slowly, letting my body warm up. My muscles protest at first, stiff from days of inactivity and stress. But gradually, they loosen, falling into the familiar rhythm. Left foot, right foot, breathe in, breathe out. It's meditative, this repetitive motion. It clears my head in a way nothing else can.
The estate is massive, with paths winding through gardens and around the main house. I follow one that leads toward the back of the property, past a tennis court and what looks like a pool house. Everything is perfectly maintained, not a leaf out of place, not a weed in sight. It must take an army of groundskeepers to keep it looking like this.
I think about the library as I run. About Daisy and the other two people who died. About the way the building looked, reduced to rubble and ash. Someone did that. Someone planted a bomb and walked away, knowing people might die.
Was it meant for me? Was it a warning, like Andrey said? Or was it something else entirely?
And what about the attack on the docks? Is that connected to me, too? To my father and whatever secrets he's been keeping?
The questions chase each other through my mind, round and round with no answers. I push myself harder, my feet pounding against the path, my breath coming faster. Sweat beads on my forehead and trickles down my spine, but I don't slow down. I need this, need to feel my body working and to feel something other than fear and confusion.
I think about Andrey. About the way he looked at me in his office, like he was trying to see inside my head. About the way he'd defended me against Bogdan, his hand around the older man's throat, his voice cold and deadly. "Touch her, and you die."
No one's ever protected me like that before. Not since my father sent me away.
No one's ever made me come apart so thoroughly as Andrey has. I mentally shake my head. I can't let sex sway me, no matter how good it is. I can't let myself feel anything for him beyond what's necessary for survival. He kidnapped me. Forced me to marry him. The fact that he's also incredibly attractive and makes my body sing doesn't change that.
Does it?
The path curves around a stand of trees, and I follow it, my mind still churning. I think about Sophia, about the way she'd looked at me with such hope when I told her she could come back anytime. About how her father had blamed her for something that wasn't her fault.
I think about my own father, about the note in my bra and the bird I can't decipher. About nine years of silence and the sudden reappearance now, when everything is falling apart.
What is he trying to tell me? What does the bird mean?
My lungs are burning now, my legs starting to ache, but I don't stop. I push through it, welcoming the physical discomfort. It's easier to deal with than the emotional turmoil.
