The waitress brings my food, and I eat slowly, savoring each bite. The sandwich is nothing special, just turkey, lettuce, and tomato on wheat bread, but I make it last. For this one hour, I let myself pretend. I'm not Mariya Pushkin, daughter of a Bratva traitor.
When I finish eating, I pay my bill and head back across the street. The afternoon sun is warm on my face, and for just a moment, I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting myself feel it. These small moments of peace are all I have. These tiny pockets of time where I can pretend the world isn't as dangerous as I know it to be.
The library is busier when I return. A few college students have claimed tables in the study area, their textbooks and laptops spread out around them. An older man browses the mystery section, running his finger along the spines as he searches forsomething. A woman with a toddler reads picture books in the children's area, her voice soft and soothing as she points at the colorful illustrations.
"How was lunch?" Daisy asks as I pass the front desk.
"Good," I reply, which is neither true nor false. It was what it always is—a brief escape from reality.
I grab my cart of books that need to be reshelved and make my way into the stacks. This is my favorite part of the job, the quiet solitude of moving through the aisles, putting books back in their proper places. There's something meditative about it, the repetitive motion, the familiar Dewey Decimal numbers, the weight of the books in my hands. It's mindless work that lets my thoughts drift without going anywhere too dangerous.
I'm in the literature section, sliding a copy of Dostoevsky onto the shelf, when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
It's a feeling I've learned not to ignore, a primal instinct that's kept me alive for nine years. Someone is watching me. My breath catches in my throat. I freeze, my hand still on the book, and slowly look up.
Through the gap in the shelf, between the rows of books, I see a face. A man with dark, nearly black hair, styled in a way that's too deliberate to be casual. Blue eyes that seem to pierce right through me, sharp and intelligent and focused entirely on my face.
My heart slams against my ribs, so hard, I'm sure he can hear it from where he stands. For a moment, we just look at each other through that narrow space between the books. His gaze is intense, knowing, as if he can see past the careful façade I've built.
He knows who I am.
And then he smiles.
The certainty of it hits me like a physical blow. This isn't just paranoia. This isn't my imagination running wild after years of looking over my shoulder. This is real.
It's not a friendly smile. It's not the polite smile of a stranger caught staring. It's the smile of a predator who's finally found his prey. The smile of someone who's been searching for a long time and has just hit the jackpot. There's satisfaction in it, and something else. Something that makes goosebumps rise all over my body.
The book slips from my fingers and hits the floor with a thud that seems impossibly loud in the quiet library.
He's Mafia.
And he's found me.
4
ANDREY
I'm about to be pissed.
I stand near the reference section of the library, pretending to browse a book on Russian history while my eyes scan the building for the hundredth time. The informant swore she worked here. Swore he'd seen her just last week. But I've been here for twenty minutes, and there's no sign of her.
If that bastard lied to me, if he wasted my time with false information just to save his own skin, I'll make sure he regrets it. Slowly.
Matvey is positioned outside the back entrance, watching for any sign of her. We've covered both exits. If she's here, she can't escape. But the longer I wait, the more I wonder if this is just another dead end in a search that's lasted nearly a decade.
I'm considering leaving when the front door opens and a woman walks in. My heart slams against my ribs.
It's her.
I'd know her anywhere, even though it's been years since I last saw her at some Bratva gathering in Moscow. She'd been eighteen then, quiet and unremarkable, always hovering near her father's side. Just another daughter of a Bratva member, nothing special.
But now? Now she's twenty-seven, and the transformation is stunning.
Her blonde hair is longer than I remember, falling in soft waves past her shoulders. She's wearing jeans and a simple sweater, nothing fancy, but the way she moves catches my attention. There's a grace to her stride, a confidence that wasn't there before. She's taller than I expected, maybe five-six, with a lean, athletic build that suggests she takes care of herself.
And when she turns slightly, adjusting the strap of her purse on her shoulder, I catch a glimpse of her profile. High cheekbones, a delicate nose, and full lips. She's beautiful in a way that takes me completely by surprise.
I watch as she walks to the circulation desk and exchanges a few words with a young woman with red hair. Mariya smiles, but it's a careful smile, one that doesn't quite reach her eyes. She sets her purse inside a desk drawer, then grabs a cart loaded with books and heads toward the stacks.
