"No, it’s not. It’s impressive. And it tells me you’re smart enough to know what’s happening around you, even if you pretend not to." Her mouth tightens, but she doesn’t argue. "That works in your favor, Zoya. Keep being smart, and this doesn’t have to get messy."
She holds my gaze for a moment. "Are you threatening me or complimenting me?"
"Both."
That earns the first crack in her expression—a flicker of something I can’t quite read.
"I, uh... I need to go. I'll keep that in mind," she says.
"Good. But don’t mistake silence for safety. You’ve made an impression. Just make sure it stays a good one."
She walks to her vehicle without looking back. Her movements are controlled but carrying an undercurrent of tension. I watch her drive away, noting the route shetakes. Nothing about her behavior suggests she's checking for surveillance—just a tired woman going home after a long shift.
The initial contact has established the parameters of our relationship. She's intelligent, tough, and protective of her brother. She won't be easily intimidated or manipulated. But she's also isolated, vulnerable, and dealing with forces larger than she can manage alone.
She’s hotter than the photo. Sharper, too. There’s something in the way she carries herself—steady, unbothered, like she’s carved out a little corner of control in a world that could crush her without trying. It makes her tempting. Dangerous, maybe. But if this plays out the way I think it will, I might get a taste of that forbidden fruit before it’s over.
Tomorrow, I'll begin systematic pressure designed to break down her resistance and turn her cooperation from possibility to necessity. The assignment has moved from surveillance to active manipulation.
But tonight, I find myself thinking about the intelligence in her eyes and the backbone she showed when confronted with a direct threat. Zoya Mirova will not be an easy target.
Which makes the eventual victory more satisfying to anticipate.
3
ZOYA
Iunlock my apartment door and step inside, already cataloging what needs to disappear. The cramped space feels smaller now, each corner holding evidence of Damir's world. I move through the rooms with methodical focus, gathering the pieces that could tie me to his business.
The first burner phone goes into a plastic bag. Then the second. Three notebooks filled with names and numbers follow. I pull out the loose floorboard near my bedroom window and retrieve the stash notes Damir insisted I keep—backup locations for money drops, contact codes, emergency protocols I never wanted to memorize but did anyway.
Everything goes into the bag.
In my bedroom closet, behind a stack of folded sweaters, I find the envelope with my false identity papers. Mila Kozlova. I practiced the signature until it felt natural. The documents are clean, professional work that cost Damir more than he should have spent. I slip them into my jacket pocket.
The money takes longer to move. I access three different accounts from my laptop, transferring funds to a fourth account I opened months ago under Mila's name. My fingers moveacross the keyboard with the same rhythm I use to count cash at the track—steady, automatic, efficient. Twenty-seven thousand rubles. Not enough to disappear forever, but enough to buy time.
I delete the browser history, then delete it again from the trash folder.
The plastic bag of evidence sits on my kitchen counter, waiting. I'll burn it all tomorrow, somewhere safe and far from here. Tonight, I need to know who's watching me.
I peer through the gap in my curtains at the street below. A black sedan sits parked across from my building, the same model I've seen twice today. A man leans against the driver's side door, his posture casual but alert. Even from three floors up, I recognize the set of his shoulders.
The enforcer from the track.
My pulse quickens, but I don't step back from the window. Instead, I study him. He checks his phone, scans the street, then looks directly up at my building. Not searching—knowing exactly where to look.
They've been watching me longer than I realized.
I grab my keys and jacket, then head for the door. If he's going to follow me, I need to understand how committed he is to the surveillance. More importantly, I need to know if he's alone.
The stairwell reeks of someone's burnt dinner as I descend. I take the steps slowly, giving myself time to think. When I push through the building's main door, the night air hits my face with the bite of early autumn. The man straightens but doesn't move away from his car.
I turn left toward the convenience store on the corner, my footsteps deliberate on the cracked sidewalk. Behind me, a car door closes with a soft thud.
At the store, I buy a bottle of water I don't need and take my time choosing a newspaper. Through the window, I watchhim position himself across the street, hands in his pockets, eyes tracking my movements.
I exit the store and turn right, heading back toward my building but taking the long route around the block. His footsteps follow, maintaining distance but never losing me. When I turn down a side street and then double back, he's still there.
