Later that evening, alone in the bedroom, I try to make sense of what happened today. When Pavel showed me those handsignals and symbols, my body had an automatic response that felt as natural as breathing.
FSB. The acronym has lodged itself in my mind like a key turning in a lock. Russian Federal Security Service.
I close my eyes and let my mind drift, not fighting the fragments that want to surface. A voice calling out coordinates. The weight of a weapon in my hands. The satisfaction of a mission completed successfully.
Agent Sidorov, report to briefing room three.
The words materialize from nowhere, spoken in a voice I almost recognize. My eyes snap open, and my heart pounds.
Agent Sidorov.
Not Katya Kozlov. Agent Sidorov.
I press my fingers to my temples as more pieces try to break through—a training facility, the smell of gun oil and leather, and the feel of tactical gear against my skin. Everything feels so familiar.
Whatever Dmitri has told me about my past, whatever story he's constructed about our marriage and my supposed career as an art curator—none of it explains why I know things I shouldn't know.
None of it explains why I feel like I'm finally waking up from a dream I never knew I was having.
24
Dmitri
Alexei’s sedan tears up the drive, sending gravel flying. He only drives like that when Moscow’s on fire.
“Shit.” I watch him through the kitchen window as Katya sips coffee behind me.
“More unexpected visitors?” she asks.
“My brother. He doesn’t come uninvited unless Moscow’s burning.”
Alexei’s out before the car stops, stalking for the house. He spots me through the glass and signals.
Urgent.
“Business emergency?” Katya asks.
“Looks like it.” I face her. “This might take a while.”
“I’ll give you privacy. Maybe another walk.”
“Stay close.”
She nods, and Alexei pounds on the door like he’s raiding the place. I let him in before he wakes the whole countryside.
“We’ve got a problem,” Alexei says the second he sees me.
I let out a long sigh and ask, “Whendon’twe?”
“Multiple government agencies coordinated surveillance operations starting yesterday. FSB, federal financial crimes unit, and at least two black ops divisions that I can’t identify.”
My stomach drops, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Boris counted fourteen surveillance teams circling our sites. They’re not watching; they’re prepping for arrests. Semenov wants to activate protocols and scatter our key people until the heat dies down.”
The suggestion makes sense, but implementing emergency protocols means abandoning the estate and returning to Moscow’s heightened security environment.
It means ending this interlude with Katya before I’m ready.
