Because he's right. Zoya is in my head, and I can't get her out.
I think about her sleeping in my bed this morning, the way she looked so peaceful. I think about her questions last night, the way she pushed for information about Damir. I think about the way she kissed me, the way she felt in my arms, the way she made me forget everything else.
I think about the order sitting in my filing cabinet, the one that says her brother has to die. The one I'm supposed to execute.
And I think about how the thought of her hating me for it makes my chest feel hollow.
I walk to the heavy bag and drive my bare fist into it. The canvas splits my knuckles, but I don't stop. I hit it again and again until my hands are bloody and raw. Until the physical pain drowns out everything else.
But even then, I can't stop thinking about her. About the way she trusted me enough to fall asleep in my arms. About the way she looked at me when she asked for mercy for her brother.
About the way I wanted to give it to her.
Grisha is right. She's in my head, and I can't get her out. And that's going to get us all killed.
I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find the number I need. The photographer who covered the wedding yesterday. He answers on the second ring.
"I need you to leak some photos," I say when he picks up. "Send them to Rurik Karpin. Tell him they're from a friend."
"Which photos?"
"The ones of me and my wife. All of them."
"Understood. Consider it done," he mutters, and he understands without my giving him some two-bit lecture. This is war, and he's setting a trap. The Karpins will know Damir's position to me now, and it will spur action on their part. It will make Damir's life hell unless he retaliates, and they will march into battle right alongside him.
I hang up and stare at the phone for a long moment. By tonight, Zoya's face will be circulating through the Karpin network. By tomorrow, he'll come for her again. The thought should satisfy me. This is what we wanted—to draw him out, to make him careless. But all I can think about is Zoya in danger, Zoya in the crosshairs of men who would kill her without hesitation.
I punch the bag again, harder this time. The pain shoots up my arm, but it's not enough. Nothing is enough to quiet the voice in my head telling me I'm making a mistake.
That I'm about to destroy the only good thing I've ever had.
But it's too late now. The wheels are in motion. And I can only hope that when this is over, there's still something left of the woman I married.
Something left of me.
19
ZOYA
The pharmacy door chimes as I step onto the sidewalk. The afternoon air carries the scent of exhaust, and rain clouds are gathering overhead. I pull my coat tighter and head toward the main street, where the bus stop sits under a flickering streetlight.
Maksim will be back from his meeting soon, and after three weeks of being married, I know I should go straight home, but his apartment feels too small today, too full of questions I can't ask and answers I'm not sure I want to hear. The city moves around me in its usual chaos—pedestrians hurrying past, cars honking at the intersection, the distant sound of construction work echoing off the buildings.
I check my watch—four thirty. Enough time to walk the long way home, maybe stop at the bookstore on Tverskaya Street. Maksim doesn't approve of my wandering the city alone, but he's not here to stop me.
The van appears at the curb as I turn the corner onto Sokolnicheskaya. Two men step out—one tall with a scar cutting across his jaw, the other built broad with hands that haveseen violence. They move toward me with purpose, and I know instantly that this isn't random.
"Zoya Mirova." The scarred man says my name with disgust in his tone. They're not calling me Vetrova, so I know this is about Damir.
I step back, but the broad one is already behind me. His hand closes around my arm, and when I try to pull away, his grip becomes iron. The few pedestrians on the street keep walking, eyes averted. In this city, no one wants to see trouble.
"Don't scream," he murmurs against my ear. "This doesn't have to hurt."
The van door slides open. The interior is dark, empty except for a bench seat bolted to the floor. I twist against the man's hold, but he lifts me off the ground and pushes me inside. My knees hit the metal floor, and the door slams shut before I can scramble back toward it.
The engine starts immediately. The scarred man sits across from me, his eyes never leaving my face. The van moves through the city, turning left and right until I lose track of direction entirely. Through the tinted windows, I catch glimpses of familiar buildings fading into unfamiliar ones.
"Who are you?" I ask.