Page 88 of Blood & Snow

She agreed to help with planning after that night in my apartment, though she hasn't said the words aloud.

But when I ask her questions she gives analytical answers and they're helpful.

I've given her files on the burner phone and I know she's using them.

I count the views on each document and know she's accessed them.

Her presence in the car feels less like resistance now, and more like resignation.

She's stopped asking questions about where we're going or what we're doing.

The transformation unsettles me if I have to be honest with myself.

The womanwho had fire in her veins and defied me openly now follows orders without argument.

She's being tamed and I hate that it's me who's doing it.

"Where are we going?" she asks as I park near the market entrance.

Igor and Ivan are already there, scouting ahead, and waiting for us.

I shut off the car and notice a cluster of holiday-clad shoppers passing.

It's going to be chaotic and messy but it has to be done.

"Information gathering." I check my watch.

"Stay close to me and don't wander off."

We exit the car dressed in layers, sock hats and mittens, scarves wrapped around our necks to help us blend in with the rest of the holiday crowd but we're anything but festive.

The market sprawls across several blocks, vendors selling everything from handmade ornaments to roasted chestnuts.

Families weave between stalls while children point at towering displays of Ded Moroz figures.

The air smells of cinnamon and pine, woodsmoke from braziers warming the crowd.

I see Igor and Ivan throughout the market, maintaining visual contact while appearing to browse.

I spot them at intervals—one examining matryoshka dolls, another buying hot tea from a cart.

Disguised as holiday shoppers, they're surveilling everything, but their four eyes combined aren't as keen as Nadya's.

I take her arm and guide her through the crowds.

She moves stiffly beside me, and though she's not as discreet in her observations as my men, she is infinitely more aware.

The festive environment isn't distracting her keen eyes at all.

They sweep the crowd and lock on something no one else has pointed out yet.

I don't even see it until she says something.

"There," she murmurs, nodding toward a man in a dark coat standing near a jewelry stall.

I follow her gaze and see him too—mid-thirties, nervous energy, clutching a leather satchel against his chest.

He checks his watch repeatedly and scans the crowd.