“They tried to kill both of us; you just took the worst of it. That’s why the security measures exist, and why I don’t want you wandering around the city alone. It’s not about controlling you; it’s about keeping you alive.”
Something about his story is off. I just can’t see what yet.
“If they wanted us dead, why haven’t they tried again?”
“Because they think you’re no longer a threat to them. The head injury and the memory loss. … They assume you can’t remember anything that might be dangerous to their operations.”
“What would I remember that could be dangerous?”
“You were there that night conducting research for an exhibition about Russian criminal organizations,” Dmitri continues. “You’d been interviewing various family members about their more legitimate business fronts.”
He’s too smooth and practiced. But before I can question him further, he continues.
“You might have overheard conversations or seen documents that could implicate them in activities they prefer to keep private.”
“Such as?”
“Money laundering through art sales. Using gallery exhibitions to transport stolen goods across international borders. The kind of information that could destroy their operation if it reached the wrong people.”
I trace my tattoo again, trying to make sense of the timeline he’s describing. “So, they tried to kill us, but I was the real target?”
“Exactly.” He moves toward me with his arms extended. “That’s why I’ve been so protective. Why the restrictions exist. If they discover you’re recovering your memory…”
“They’ll try again.”
“Without question.”
The story makes sense, but it still bothers me. His eyes don’t quite meet mine. And it’s a little too convenient that my supposed expertise fits so neatly into his world.
Or maybe it’s that thinking about art galleries makes me want to check for weapons and plan escape routes instead of discussing color theory and brushwork techniques.
“There’s something else.” His voice goes gentle in a way that puts me on alert. “Something I haven’t told you because I was hoping your memories would return naturally.”
“What?”
“The attack didn’t just injure you. You lost other people that night. Your cousin Elena and her husband, Adam. They were with us at the gallery.”
The names mean nothing to me, but my chest aches like they should.
“They died?”
“The explosion killed them. You were the only survivor from your family.”
I sink into the nearest chair. I have no parents, no siblings, and now, no extended family. According to Dmitri, he’s the only person left in the world who cares whether I live or die.
“I’m sorry.” He kneels beside my chair. “I know this is a lot to process. I was hoping to spare you the pain until you were stronger. That’s why I shied away from discussing your family.”
His hand covers mine, warm and solid and completely convincing. But the gesture makes me want to pull away and run.
“Elena was my cousin?”
“Your father’s sister’s daughter. You two were close growing up. You stayed in touch even after she moved to St. Petersburg. She and Adam were visiting Moscow for their anniversary, and I suggested they join us at the gallery opening.”
I rub my tattoo frantically now, desperate for any spark of recognition. A face, a voice, a childhood memory—anything that would make these people real to me.
Nothing.
“I can’t remember them.”
