I have someone to find.
I sprint back to our suite, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs.
I burst into the massive walk-in closet, my eyes scanning the rows of designer silk and tailored wool that had been bought for me upon my arrival. I scramble to the back, and find a pair of thick, matte black leggings—something heavy that won't catch the light.
I dig through a drawer of sweaters until I find a plain black hoodie. It’s oversized, probably meant for lounging, but thehood is deep enough to swallow my face. I pull it on, shove my hair into a tight, low bun and yank the hood up.
I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror. My face is pale, the smear of blood Mikhail left on my jaw now a dried, brownish streak. I scrub it off with a shaking hand.
I check my burner phone. It’s a cheap piece of plastic, but it’s my only lifeline. I shove it into the hidden pocket of my leggings along with a wad of cash I’ve been collecting in bits and pieces from Mikhail’s dresser. I don’t have a car. I can’t call a ride—the Morozovs probably have a flag on every app within five miles of this estate.
I head to the guest room at the very end of the west wing. It overlooks a patch of the garden that the security lights don't quite reach. I open the window, the hinges letting out a tiny, agonizing creak. I freeze, holding my breath, listening for the heavy tread of boots in the hallway.
Nothing.
I climb onto the sill. The cold air bites at my cheeks, a sharp contrast to the humid steam of the sauna earlier. It’s a twelve-foot drop to the mulch below. Not impossible, but my ankles are already protesting the idea.
Better a broken ankle than a broken life, Ira. Jump.
I dangle from the ledge, my fingers screaming as they grip the stone, and I let go. I hit the ground with a muffled thud, rolling into the damp bushes just as a flashlight beam sweeps across the brickwork above me.
I press my face into the dirt, the scent of wet earth filling my nose. Stefan’s voice carries over the wind.
"Check the perimeter of the west wing. The Boss wants eyes on everything while he's out."
"Copy that," another voice grunts.
I wait until the light fades, my pulse thumping in my ears like a drum. I stay low, crawling through the hedges until I reach the wrought-iron fence near the service entrance. There’s a gap near the bottom where the brick has crumbled—I found it during my "meditative walks".
I squeeze through, the metal catching on my hoodie. I hear a soft rip. I don’t stop. I run until I’m several blocks away, blending into the early evening crowd in a nearby neighborhood.
The coffee shop is a hole-in-the-wall place calledThe Grime. It’s perfect—dimly lit, smells like burnt beans, and the teenagers behind the counter are too busy on their phones to notice a woman in a black hoodie sitting in the corner.
My contact is already there. He’s a wiry man named Aris. He looks like he hasn't slept in a week, nursing a cup of tea like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
I slide into the booth opposite him. "You're late," he mutters without looking up.
"I was busy getting away without my husband noticing," I snap, my voice low. "Thank goodness I showed up at all. What do you have, Aris? Tell me you didn't call me out here for another dead end."
Aris finally looks at me, his eyes darting to the door. "I found the trail, Irina. It wasn't easy. Your father’s people... they bury things deep."
"I know how Boris works. Just get to it."
He reaches into a battered satchel and pulls out a photocopy of a transfer ledger. The ink is faded and blurry. He slides it across the sticky table.
"This is from the private clinic in Jersey," he says, his voice a frantic whisper. "Ten years ago. There was a payment made—heavy, six figures. It wasn't a donation. It was for a 'specialized transition' of a ward."
My fingers tremble as I touch the paper.
This is it. This is what I have been looking for, for a decade. Ten years of looking for a ghost.
"Where?" I breathe.
"The trail leads back to the suburbs of New Jersey. The person... they weren't sent to Europe. They were never out of reach. They were moved to a private residence, masked by a shell company."
"New Jersey," I repeat, the words feeling heavy.
He’s been here? He’s been around me this whole time?
