AllFreeNovel
Share Us
For her, and for the unforeseeable future I find myself increasingly wanting to share with her, this is a lead I can't afford to lose. It's time for a face-to-face chat with the elusive ex-fiancé. Whatever secrets Iosef has been hiding, I intend to bring them to light.
Chapter 27
Valentina
The streets are slick with the remnants of a recent snowfall, mirroring the chill in my bones. I need to find Roman. I need to find my son. My options are limited; it's not like I can just pop into Roman's penthouse and ask for a cup of tea. But I've got another card up my sleeve.
Across the street from my besieged home sits a local bar, a likely hub for loose tongues and even looser affiliations. It's a gamble, but when you're desperate, the odds don't matter. You play the hand you're dealt.
Striding up to the entrance, I let my disguise take over. A crisp white shirt, a black pencil skirt, and a demeanor that screams, "Don't mess with me; I'm from the government." I've forged the Health Department badge, memorized the lingo. I even put my hair up in a severe bun for the effect.
The bar is a hive of activity. Men swigging vodka, murmuring over business deals, eyeing the women who linger at the periphery. The air is thick with desperation and cigarette smoke, but it's the scent of information I'm after.
"I need to see the manager," I declare to the first staff member I see, flashing my fake ID with practiced ease.
"Certainly, ma'am," he stammers, clearly unnerved. The power of a suit and a badge and a little confidence. He leads me through the labyrinth of tables to a cramped office at the back.
The manager, a weary man with a comb-over and a growing paunch, rises from his desk. "What can I do for you, inspector?" He eyes the badge but doesn't question it. They never do.
"I need to inspect the premises. Recent reports suggest health violations."
His eyes widen. "At this hour?” He checks himself right away. “Of course, of course. Right this way."
As he guides me through the kitchen, the storage, and the restrooms, my eyes are scanning, my ears finely tuned. I ask questions I don't care about: "When was the last pest control?" "Show me the cleaning logs." It keeps him occupied, makes this look legitimate. All the while, I'm listening to the chatter, tuning in for any mention of Roman or activity concerning my home across the street.
Nothing. Not a word. If Roman has been here, there's no trail to follow. The manager is sweating bullets by the time I'm done, clearly fearful for his livelihood. I send him off to find some paperwork, getting the man out of my hair for a short time, at least.
I've barely left the manager's line of sight when I spot my real target—the computer sitting on his cluttered desk. I've got minutes, maybe less, to do what I need to do. Taking advantage of the time, I quickly make my way over and wake the computer from sleep mode. It's not password protected. Amateur mistake.
I open the software for the surveillance cameras and speed through the footage from the past day. My pulse is a frantic rhythm in my ears, a ticking clock keeping me on edge. What I'm looking for is a needle in a digital haystack, but I have no choice but to keep scanning the grainy images, clicking through various timestamps until I find it.
There.
The picture quality isn't great, but it doesn't need to be. I'd recognize that silhouette anywhere, the way Roman holds himself as he walks. And stumbling to keep up with him, is Ilya. My heart clenches at the sight of my son, but it's a feeling of bittersweet relief. They're leaving the house, walking briskly toward a parked car.
Minutes later, the screen fills with men I'd recognize as part of the Chechen mob even if they wore disguises. The timeline adds another layer of gravity to what I'm seeing—Roman must have gotten Ilya out just in time. I feel a mix of rage and gratitude so potent it almost chokes me. Rage at the men who would dare to step onto my property, who'd dare to threaten my son; gratitude that Roman got to him first.
I freeze the frame, squinting to make out the details of the car Roman and Ilya get into—a dark sedan. I can just barely make out the make and model, and a partial license plate. It's not much, but it's a start.
I snap a quick photo of the screen with my phone. There’s no time to dig for more, to see where they might have gone. I hear footsteps approaching. The manager's coming back. I quickly close the surveillance program and put the computer to sleep, turning just in time to see the manager step back into the office.
"Find everything you needed, Inspector?" he asks, an undercurrent of relief in his voice. He offers me the paperwork, and I take it, giving the sheets a perfunctory look before handing them back.
I flash him a dry smile. "For the most part, yes. You'll hear from us soon."
And with that, I leave. As I step out into the night, my mind is racing. Roman has Ilya; they're both safe, for now. And I have a make, a model, and part of a license plate—fragments of a lifeline I have to follow, because it's all I've got.
It's a thin thread in a tangled web, but it's mine to unravel. And God help anyone who stands in my way.
I walk a block to a twenty-four-hour internet café and boot up my laptop. I start from where the video ended and retrace Roman's route, using a combination of CCTV footage from local businesses and a few well-placed questions to people who don't realize they're giving me valuable information.
The breadcrumbs lead me to a grand hotel in the heart of downtown St. Petersburg, all chandeliers and marble floors—a place where people like Roman would stay. A place I'd stay if I weren't in the middle of a crisis. It's a fortress, guarded by men in suits and a reception desk that undoubtedly holds a guest register I need to see.
I hail a cab that drops me off just outside the front entrance.
I slip into the hotel like a shadow, every step calculated. My eyes scan the place, taking in the exits, the guards, the reception area. When I find an opening—the receptionist is momentarily distracted by a guest's lengthy complaint—I glide past, an unnoticeable blur in a dark corner. The guest logs are right there, on the computer the second receptionist has momentarily abandoned to deal with a phone call.
Flipping through the logs as quickly as the dated system allows, I find what I'm looking for: Roman Nicolaevich, Penthouse Suite. A small surge of triumph rushes through me. My instincts were right, though I’m shocked he’s bold enough to use his real name with my brother gunning for him.
