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I force a smile, "And Ilya?"
"He's asleep," Lena whispers. "It took ages to get him to bed, poor thing. He kept asking about his mother."
"Look, Lena," I begin, taking a deep breath, "I know this might sound strange, but it's crucial that you let me stay here tonight. It’s… important.”
She looks surprised, clearly unsure. "Stay here tonight? I don't know..."
Before she can finish her sentence, a sleepy voice interrupts from behind her, "Roman?" I see Ilya, rubbing his eyes, his hair tousled, standing in pajamas, a look of relief on his face. "Roman, you’re here!"
Lena looks between us, her eyes widening in realization. "Are you the man from the park?"
I nod, crouching to Ilya's level. "Yeah, little guy and I have had some adventures together."
“Valentina told me about you, about what a good man you are,” she states, though she is still hesitant.
I look up at Lena. "I promise, I’m here to help."
She hesitates, then steps aside, allowing me entrance. "Alright, if Valentina and Ilya trust you, that's enough for me. But remember, he's everything. Don't let anything happen to him."
“Trust me," I respond firmly, "I won't."
Lena casts a final, lingering glance at the young boy, her expression one of muted concern mixed with resignation. “You can sleep on the couch, if you wish. I’ll take Ilya to his room and stay with him.”
She hesitates for a moment, her gaze flitting between the boy and me. She tells me she’ll get blankets from the linen closet and leaves the room.
Ilya's little face crumples, tears brimming in his eyes. "Where's Mama?" he asks in a tremulous voice.
I kneel, ruffling his hair gently. "She's working, champ. She'll be back soon," I promise, fighting back my own rising concern.
Lena returns quickly, depositing a pillow and blankets on the couch. She tells Ilya to come to bed, but he runs to me for a hug. I hug him tightly, promising him everything is perfectly fine. He follows Lena reluctantly, and I hear the distinct sound of a lock turning on the bedroom door. I understand her fear and don’t blame her for taking precautions.
I let my gaze wander over the apartment. The place is filled with memories: photographs of Valentina and Ilya, art projects, a life of love and simplicity. But with every second I spend there, it becomes evident there's much more to Valentina than meets the eye. My instinct pushes me to investigate, to know more.
Behind a family portrait hanging beside the fireplace, I find a sleek Glock, its cold metallic touch contrasting the warmth of the memories. I almost laugh. It's hidden in plain sight. She's crafty, this woman.
The living room is a stark juxtaposition to what I discover next. As I peruse through the bookshelf in her small study, I notice a few titles that seem out of place, considering they’re surrounded by children's books and romance novels. Books on weaponry, advanced combat techniques, and languages from all corners of the world.
Tucked behind them, I find a slim, leather-bound journal. Flipping it open, I note the pages are filled with precise, meticulous handwriting detailing various assignments, names, and locations. All was written cryptically, giving no indication of her intentions.
In the corner, a seemingly innocuous potted plant catches my attention. When I pull it aside, I reveal a small, concealed safe. Without the combination, I can't access it, but I'd bet it's packed with intel—currency, fake IDs, possibly even more weapons.
I make my way to a bedroom I have yet to see, a thick lock protecting its contents. A little work soon has it open, my skills from back when I was a young street tough coming out through muscle memory. The door opens slowly, and I see the fusion of her worlds evident. Beside a desk filled with bills, projects from Ilya's school, and family photos, there's an intricate computer setup.
Multiple screens display a mix of encrypted chats, maps marked with points of interest, and facial recognition software scanning crowds. Next to the keyboard, a custom-made, pearl-handled knife rests, its blade gleaming menacingly in the dim light.
One drawer, slightly ajar, piques my interest. Inside, there's a collection of small trinkets: a locket, a feather, a silver coin. Tokens from her assignments, I assume. Every killer has their rituals, and perhaps these are Valentina's, symbols of missions completed, lives taken.
Curiosity drives me to the walk-in closet, and it contains costumes of all kinds — a nurse, a police officer, a corporate executive — accompanied by a collection of wigs that would make a Hollywood star jealous.
It's a revelation. The very dichotomy of her existence, being a mother on one hand and a deadly assassin on the other, is intriguing. I marvel at the double life she's been leading. It's not every day you meet someone who's a perfect blend of tenderness and ruthlessness.
Anxiety claws at my gut. I can't shake the thought that Vladimir might have done something to her. Every passing second just reinforces my fear.
I lift a chair from the dining table and carry it to the front door. I’ll protect Ilya and his babysitter tonight, and first thing in the morning, earlier than they would like, I’d bet, I’m taking Ilya with me to a secure location that will be safe, and Lena will be safer if she’s nowhere near us.
Decision made, I rest, though I don’t sleep. My mind is too frantic to sleep. I failed to protect Valentina; I will not fail to protect her son.
Chapter 23
