“That woman knows what she heard,” Alexei whispers loudly.
“Maybe.”
“Not maybe. Definitely. And the way she talked to Sasha…” He shakes his head. “She was gathering intelligence, Dmitri. Finding out about family structure, relationships, and weak points.”
“Or she was being polite to the woman she believes to be her sister-in-law.”
“When was the last time you saw someone with amnesia conduct an interview that smooth? She got more information out of Sasha in five minutes than most people get in months.”
I want to argue, but he’s right. Katya handled that conversation like a professional.
“So, what are you suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting that your pet FSB agent remembers more than she’s letting on. And when she remembers everything…”
“What?”
“She’s going to kill you, Dmitri. And probably me, too, just for good measure.”
The words settle into my bones like ice. He’s right. She’s a weapon.
But that doesn’t change a thing.
I don’t care if she kills me in the end. She’s mine now. And I’ll burn down everything else before I let her go.
8
Katya
The gallery downstairs isn’t about art. It’s a front.
I know it the second we step inside.
“I need to handle some things with my associates,” Dmitri explains as he guides me to a plush leather chair in the lobby area with his hand resting firmly on my lower back. “It shouldn’t take long.”
The way he says “associates” makes it clear these aren’t legitimate business partners. More like the kind of people who solve problems with violence instead of lawyers.
“Can I look around while I wait?” I keep my posture upright, ready to move if needed, though I have no idea why.
“Stay in the lobby. And please don’t talk to anyone.” His fingers squeeze my shoulder once before he steps back, a gesture that feels more like a warning than affection.
The “please” sounds polite, but his tone says it’s not a request. I watch him disappear through a door marked “Private” and wonder what kind of art gallery needs that much security.
The lobby is impressive, with marble floors, expensive-looking paintings on the walls, and the kind of setup that screams money. But something is off about it. It’s too clean and too perfect, like a movie set instead of a business.
“Beautiful pieces, aren’t they?”
I turn to find a young woman about my age approaching with a warm smile. She’s wearing the kind of outfit that says, “art professional”. Black dress, tasteful jewelry, and her hair pulled back in a sleek bun. But her hands flutter nervously at her sides, and she keeps glancing toward the private door.
“They are,” I agree, though I’m not sure I mean it. To me, they look like a preschool tossed paint on a canvas. “Do you work here?”
“Marina Listov. Assistant curator.” She extends her hand for me to take and adds, “And you must be Mrs. Kozlov.”
The way she says my married name makes me study her face more carefully. There’s something nervous about her smile, like she’s been told what to say.
“‘Katya’ is fine. How long have you worked here?” I shake her hand and notice how quickly she pulls away and wipes her palm against her dress.
“About six months. It’s a wonderful opportunity.” She gestures toward one of the paintings. “This Kandinsky piece just came in from a private collector. Your husband has exquisite taste.”
