I pressthe note to my chest, tears streaming down my face. Andrey's arm comes around my shoulders, pulling me against his side.
"He's okay," I whisper. "He's still out there."
"He is." Andrey's voice is gentle. "And he's watching over you."
We stand there for several minutes, the cold seeping through our clothes. Finally, Andrey guides me back to the car, and we drive home in comfortable silence.
Back at the estate, I read the note again in the warmth of the library, memorizing every word. Andrey pours himself a glass of vodka and settles into one of the leather chairs, watching me with those intense eyes.
"Can I see it again?" he asks after a while.
I hand him the note, expecting him to read it quickly and hand it back. Instead, he studies it carefully, his brow furrowing in concentration. He holds it up to the light from the window, turning it at different angles.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the note, then enlarges the image on the screen. His eyes narrow as he zooms in on the top right corner.
"I knew it!" he exclaims suddenly, making me jump.
I turn from where I've been browsing the bookshelves. "What?"
He motions me over. I cross the room and lean over his shoulder, looking at the phone screen. He points to the top right corner of the paper in the photo.
"Look at this. The color is slightly different here."
I squint at the screen. He's right. There's a faint discoloration in that corner, barely visible to the naked eye but obvious when enlarged.
Andrey zooms in further, and suddenly, I see them. Numbers. Tiny, carefully written numbers hidden in the paper's texture.
"Oh, my God," I breathe.
He enlarges the photo even more, and the numbers become clearer. They're arranged in a specific pattern. An address.
"It's a location," Andrey says, his voice tight with excitement. "Your father left you coordinates."
My heart pounds. "We need to go there. Right now."
"Mariya—"
"Please." I grab his arm. "What if he's there? What if this is his way of telling me where to find him?"
Andrey's jaw tightens, but I can see him considering it. Before he can respond, footsteps echo in the hallway outside the library.
The door opens, and Matvey steps inside. His expression is carefully neutral, but I catch the tension in his shoulders.
"Boss," he says, looking at Andrey. "Sophia is here. She's asking to speak with Mariya."
38
ANDREY
Istare at the note in my hand, turning it over like the answer might be written on the back. The address means nothing to me. No recognition sparks in my memory, no connection to any property I know or territory I control.
I pull out my phone and type the address into Google, watching as the screen loads and shows an image of a bed and breakfast. The kind of place that advertises "rustic charm" and "romantic getaways" on its website. It's three towns away, far enough to be discreet but close enough to reach without drawing attention.
I study the note again, holding it closer to the light streaming through my office window. There's something else there, barely visible in the corner. An extra number, faint like it was written quickly and smudged. I squint at it, making out what looks like a seven.
A room number.
