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There’s a fifty-fifty shot of going in the right direction. I can go left or right, and I force myself to turn left, making myself choose without any real idea if it’s correct. All I know is that I need to get away from the hotel, no matter what direction I go in.
I can feel the blisters forming on my heels and pinky toes from the too-big boots within a block, but I don’t slow down. I don’t stop. I keep going, turning down streets that look like large, main ones until I feel as if I’ve put enough blocks between the hotel and me to stop and ask a passing stranger which way the train station is.
He looks at me suspiciously and says something in Russian that I don’t understand that sounds more than a little irritated. But all Russian sounds that way if I’m being honest.
“Only English,” I say, pointing at myself. “Train. Train station. Go? Train—” I mimic whatever I can think of—a train whistle, wheels rolling—and the man looks at me as if I’m a complete idiot. With my bruised face, wet hair, and oversized clothing, I probably look fucking homeless.
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m one of the richest women in the world by virtue of my own inheritance and my husband’s wealth, and yet I’m on the street in a country where I don’t speak the language, looking desperately poor and begging for directions.
The man shakes his head, looking disgusted, and keeps pedaling down the street. I have to ask two more passersby before I finally find a woman who speaks heavily-accented English and is able to point me in the direction of the train station.
Fortunately, I’m not too far off. I turn down the street she pointed out, hoping that I haven’t been so noticeable that it will be easy for Viktor to ask about a dark-haired woman in oversized clothing trying to find a way out of Moscow.
With any luck, I’ll be on a train before he can figure it out, even if I have. And if I’m paying with cash, it will be much harder for him to find me.
My entire body hurts by the time I make it to the train station, every inch of me on fire with pain. Still, I force myself to limp into the ticketing area, trying to stand up straight and look more like a woman who should be traveling on her own, and not the injured, escaped bride of a Russian mobster.
“I need a ticket out of Moscow,” I tell the woman at the counter.
She raises an eyebrow. “Where to?”
“Just whichever one is leaving next.” I pause, realizing how desperate that sounds, and regroup. “I just felt like being a little spontaneous today, that’s all. A vacation to a random spot. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
That’s exactly the kind of bougie nonsense that will probably catch her off guard, and it does exactly that. I see a pinched expression cross her face as she taps on a keyboard, as if she’s thinking about how muchshewould like to take a random vacation, in the middle of the week, to anywhere she might feel like going on a whim.
She gives me the price, and I hand her the wad of cash, with no real idea of what the equivalencies of Russian money are. She raises her eyebrow again, and for a terrifying moment, I think she’s going to question me, accuse me of stealing the money, call security. I see a flicker of something pass over her face, and she opens her mouth.
And then her eyes settle on my face for a second, looking at me. Not just glancing, but reallyseeingme, and I know what she’s looking at—the bruises on my face, purple and yellowing, the fingermarks healing on my throat. She looks back down at the wad of cash and peels off a few bills, handing me back the rest.
“Your name?” she asks brusquely, and I let out a sigh of relief.
With that sort of innate understanding that all women have, I know that I’ve gotten lucky. If it had been a man at the counter, he’d have probably called security on me. But this woman saw my bruised face, the suspicious wad of money, and my uncertainty about where I was going. She saw a battered woman running from a man.
She’s incorrectly assumed, of course, that it’s Viktor who did it. But in a way, he did. And I’m not about to correct her.
“Irene Boltskaya,” I say, making up a fake name on the fly.
“ID?”
My breath catches in my throat.
“I lost it,” I say lamely. “On the way here. Is it really necessary if I’m paying with cash?”
Her eyes flick over my face again.
“Usually, yes,” she says. “But today, I’ll let it go. You seem to be in a hurry, Ms. Boltskaya.”
“Just eager for some relaxation.” I shove the money clip back onto my waistband, trying not to think about how difficult it will be once I get off of the train to go any further without some kind of identification.I’ll worry about that when it happens,I tell myself. The first thing is to get out of Moscow. Once that’s accomplished, I can concern myself with trying to get ahold of Luca, maybe, and telling him what Viktor has done. I know he’ll protect me if he can. It will cause the war that I’ve tried so hard to prevent, but I’m not sure if I can care about that anymore.
Viktor has gone too far this time. And I can’t stay with a man who would do those things to me.
The next train leaves in less than an hour. Too long for my comfort, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I take the ticket and thank the woman behind the counter and hurry towards the waiting area, sitting in the furthest corner and keeping my head down in an effort to be as hard to spot as possible. If Viktor or any of his men get this far before I leave, I’m hoping that they simply won’t recognize me. I take my hair out of the braid as well, running my fingers through it so that it’s thick and curly around my face, obscuring my features.
Every footstep and voice sends a dart of panic through me until I feel as if I’m constantly on the verge of an anxiety attack, but the minute's tick by. When I hear my train number called for boarding—or at least I think so, based on the number I hear and the people standing up to head towards the track—I let out a small sigh.Just a few more minutes,I tell myself.A few more, and I’ll be on the train. He won’t catch me then. There’ll be nothing to trace me. That woman won’t tell him anything.
Of course, I know what means Viktor has at his disposal to make people talk. But I force myself not to think about it as I get into line, keeping my head down as it moves slowly forwards towards the train sitting on the tracks.
My escape. Just feet away, and now inches, closer and closer, until I can smell the heat from the metal.
