When I return to the kitchen, Anja looks up, one eyebrow slightly raised in question. Her calculation is still there, burning quietly behind the exhaustion.
“Everything all right?” she asks as she stands to refill her mug again.
I nod once and reclaim my spot at the island, picking up my own coffee. “Just the first moves falling into place. Your information helps.”
She studies me for a long beat, emerald eyes searching my face as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m the lesser evil or simply a different kind of predator. Then she leans forward slightly, voice dropping with new purpose.
“There’s more,” she says, sitting back on the stool at the island. “Fadir kept yet another phone in the nightstand drawer. A burner. He thought I never noticed him switching SIM cards when he thought I was sleeping. The contacts are coded with numbers instead of names. But one of them ended in 47. He called it every Thursday at 2 a.m. like clockwork. I never heard the conversations, but afterward he’d always pour himself a double whiskey and pace the living room like something was closing in.”
I file the detail away, already calculating how we can use the pattern. Thursday calls. 2 a.m. Regular enough to exploit.
Four and seven.
The slow squeeze on Fadir has officially started, and the young woman across from me is feeding the fire with a steady and precise kindling.
I watch her take another sip of coffee, the steam curling around her face, and feel that unwelcome pull again. It’s the instinct to protect what’s now under my roof, mixed with the colder knowledge that she could still complicate everything if I let the lines blur even a fraction.
For now, I keep it locked down. Business only, I need to keep reminding myself.
Motherfucker!
But as the morning light continues to pour through the windows and the city moves on below us, I can’t shake the quiet sense that Anja Kuzmin might prove to be more than either of us bargained for in this war.
Chapter 5 - Anja
The dress is sleek black silk that clings just enough to look expensive without screaming for attention. It skims over my hips and falls in a soft column to the floor. A stylist, Alexey, arranged to show up at the penthouse three hours ago with garment bags, makeup palettes, and strict instructions.
Now my long hair is swept up into an elegant twist, a few strategic strands left loose to frame my face, and the auburn highlights catching the light like embers whenever I move. Borrowed diamond studs, I assume, sparkle at my ears.
I stare at my reflection in the full-length mirror of the guest suite and barely recognize the woman looking back.
She looks poised. Polished. Like someone who belongs on the arm of a man like Alexey Sokolov instead of the broke, betrayed girl who was dragged out of a warehouse in the rain barely a week ago.
The transformation is remarkable.
My stomach twists with nerves and something sharper.
Anticipation.
A soft knock sounds on the door.
“Ready?” Alexey’s voice carries through the wood, calm as ever.
I smooth my hands down the silk one last time, draw in a breath that does nothing to settle the odd sensation in my chest, and go to open the door.
He stands in the hallway in a tailored black tuxedo that fits him as if it's cut for his body alone. The ebony fabric makeshis shoulders look even broader, and the crisp white shirt a stark contrast against his olive skin.
His dark brown hair is combed back neatly, though one stubborn strand still falls across his forehead. Those eyes sweep over me once, a quick assessment, before settling on my face with that same detached professionalism he’s maintained since the morning after the deal.
“You look the part,” he says simply. No compliments that feel oily, no lingering stare that makes my skin crawl. Just facts.
“So do you.” I lift my chin, narrowing my eyes as I thought I saw a hint of smoldering in his gaze. But it was gone before I could be sure.
He offers his arm. I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid warmth of him through the layers of fabric. His touch is light, impersonal, exactly as promised. Still, the contact sends an unwelcome spark up my arm that I immediately shove down.
The ride to the gala is quiet. The black SUV glides through the city streets, rain from earlier in the day leaving the pavement glossy under streetlights. Alexey sits beside me in the back, checking something on his phone with one hand while the other rests loosely on his thigh.
Every few minutes, he glances at me, but never says anything unnecessary. The silence isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it is heavy with purpose.
