Page 63 of Beautiful Ruin

I ease up on the gas when we approach an older district of Moscow.

The city changes slowly, shedding the cleaner edges of money and privilege until the streets narrow and the buildings press closer together. Here, Moscow looks older and more tired, less interested in pretending it is anything other than a place that has survived too much and chosen suspicion as a civic virtue.

The pavement gleams under the rain. Puddles gather along crumbling sidewalks, reflecting streetlights in long, trembling ribbons of amber. The buildings here are weathered, brick facades scarred by decades of brutal winters and mild rainy seasons. Water stains trail beneath windowsills as rust crawls along metal balconies. A few satellite dishes cling stubbornly to exterior walls like barnacles on an old ship. Dim lights glow from behind curtains as we pass.

Areas like these are the kinds of places where, despite people living stacked on top of each other, people mind their own business because asking questions can get you killed. I know neighborhoods like this intimately from my childhood.

Beside me, Sofia goes still. Her fingers tighten around mine the closer we get to our destination. She has been quiet this entire drive, which unsettles me more than her argument with me over something pointless. At least then her sharp tongue and reckless questions would break up this tense silence.

I glance at her from the corner of my eye.

Rain paints moving shadows across her face through the windshield. Her hair is still damp, curling slightly at her temples from the heat blasting from the vent in front of her. She looks pale in the dashboard glow but her chin is lifted with that stubborn determination I’ve come to be fond of.

I pull to a stop in front of a narrow apartment building when Sofia points to it, shutting off the ignition before leaning forward to study it through the windshield.

The building is older than the others surrounding it, or perhaps it has simply been less fortunate with being upkept. Peeling paint curls around the entrance, reminding me of freshly carved scars. The stone steps are cracked down the middle leading up to the front doors. The stairwell lights flicker weakly behind the glass door, throwing a jaundiced glow over the small lobby beyond. A row of dented mailboxes lines one interior wall, most of them tagged with fading names and numbers. One security camera sits above the entrance, angled too obviously away to be useful.

It’s nowhere near as derelict as some of the hideouts I’ve scouted in years past, but it still sets my teeth on edge.

There are too many windows facing the street to know if we’re being watched. Too many parked cars with fogged glass and no easy way to tell whether they are empty or not. The alley to the right of the building is dark and narrow enough for a man to hide with a gun drawn at the entrance.

Sofia squeezes my hand, pulling my attention away from scanning the rest of the street. “Ready?”

I hold in an exhale.

No, I am not ready for the possibility that the man upstairs is exactly as innocent as she says he is. He has had the last twenty years to craft himself into a victim with enough truth to make his lies believable. I have no choice but to go up there with her and see for myself because I refuse to allow her to do any of this alone again.

I’d rather die than let Sofia go unprotected again.

I step out first. The cold rain slides beneath my collar and down the back of my neck. I close the door quietly, every trained sense sweeping the area around us. My hand lifts to brush the concealed weapon at my side, finding comfort in its presence.

I move around the front of the vehicle and open Sofia’s door before she can do it herself. Her eyes lift to mine and a small smile tugs at her mouth. She takes my hand when I offer it to her, slowly stepping onto the wet pavement as I guide her from the passenger’s side.

I sweep the street one more time, then guide her toward the entrance with a hand hovering near the small of her back. The front door is not locked. That is the first thing that bothers me.

I pull it open slowly, the hinges complaining in a soft metallic whine that is swallowed by the rain coming down behind us. The lobby beyond smells damp from the runner carpet that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in decades. Cigarette smoke is a permanent undercurrent that cuts through the sour mildew smell. The heat inside is weak, fighting a losing war against the drafts slipping in through the cracked seal at the front door.

By the time we reach the third floor, Sofia is practically vibrating with anticipation.

The hallway is narrow, lined with scuffed doors and faded carpeting that muffles our footsteps. She stops in front of the unit number with one digit missing. A cracked plastic three hangs crooked beside an empty nail hole where the second number should be. The door itself is brown, scratched near the handle, the paint chipped around the frame.

I stand slightly behind her, keeping my shoulders squared and my hand hovering near my weapon.

When she knocks, all that greets her is silence.

She frowns, tilting her head back slightly to look at me. “He was supposed to be here…”

My suspicion spikes immediately. “How were you both communicating?”

“Through email, mostly. I…” She hesitates, her eyes darting back to the door. “He mentioned when I saw him last that there were people after him. He wouldn’t tell me who.”

That instantly puts me on edge.

I tug her back from the door and move in front of her, using myself as a physical shield. The old lock gives way instantly when my boot meets the side of the door, pieces of it splintering as it flies open and slams against the wall.

I rip the gun out of its holster and bring it up in front of me.

“Stay in the hallway,” I murmur back to her quietly.