Page 7

Katya

The memory of Nikolai in my apartment hasn’t left my mind since it happened.

I can still feel the cold steel of the gun pressed to my throat, the way his fingers tightened around my wrists and throat when he pinned me against the wall. I still feel his hardness when I close my eyes. And the worst part? I keep reliving it. Not just the terror, but the way his eyes burned into me. His lips on my pussy, his mouth delivering the best orgasm of my entire life.

Every time I close my eyes, I see him. Nikolai Ramensky, tearing through my life like a hurricane.

I thought I’d feel relieved when he left my apartment that night, but I didn’t. I felt exposed. Furious. And something else—something I hate admitting out loud. I felt hooked. Addicted to the danger I feel around him. That insatiable hunger that makes you want to rip your own skin off just to feel something real.

My obsession with him is becoming an illness. And I hate myself for it.

When I should be focusing on the second break-in that happened more recently, I’m thinking constantly about a man who has told me explicitly to stay off his back.

I came home two nights ago to find my apartment trashed. My drawers flung open, some of my clothes shredded, and my furniture overturned like someone had been searching for something. Or maybe just trying to send a message.

There was nothing worth stealing in my shitty apartment. Nothing valuable except for the files and notes I’d been gathering on Nikolai and some other Bratva member I first had my eyes on. But those were untouched. No, this wasn’t about theft. It was about intimidation. Someone wanted me scared. But they hadn’t found what they were looking for. That only made me more determined to find out why.

The fact that Nikolai wasn’t behind it only made the suspicion burn hotter. Because if it wasn’t him, then who? And why?

The news of the high-society party gone terribly wrong over the weekend only makes me more curious.

I heard about Alina Petrov’s death from an exclusive tip given to the magazine house I work for. Kirill Petrov, a high socialite and businessman, hosted it, and his daughter, Alina, was poisoned in front of the city’s most influential people. Her picture was taken with her body sprawled on the marble floor of a penthouse suite with froth clinging to her lips. They said she choked on her own blood before her heart gave out.

Alina died the same night. According to the autopsy report, someone slipped cyanide into something she consumed. This is something I have come to know about their world. It was a quick, brutal death, and meant to send a message.

Meredith was practically foaming at the mouth over the scoop this morning. ‘Find me an angle, Katya,’ she barked. ‘Something with teeth.’ Whatever the hell that means. For a renowned editor of a prestigious magazine house, she used the weirdest phrases.

But I knew the angle before she even opened her mouth. Nikolai was there that night. He wasn’t one for being in the public eye, but he had made it once or twice in the headlines as a rising star in his business of private security.

But why was he there? I need to know why. What is his connection to Kirill?

From the pictures I’ve dug up on him in the past, he has never been in the same frame as Kirill has. So why now? Or was it just a coincidence for him to be caught in-frame this time? I know from his other pictures that he doesn’t make it a habit to take snapshots of his clients or business partners. The man hardly takes pictures.

But I can’t stop thinking about the way his name keeps surfacing wherever there’s violence. Like he’s the thread connecting everything. And I’m unraveling right along with it.

I’m going over it at my desk while caffeine is pumping through my veins like an IV drip, when a voice pulls me out of my reverie. My work bestie, Sasha is at her desk, her fingers flying over the keyboard, typing up her latest piece on some socialite’s messy divorce.

“Earth calling Katya,” she calls over without looking up.

“Huh?”

“I said - why do you look like shit?”

“Thanks,” I mutter, dropping further into my chair. “Boss is on my neck with this piece, and I’m just thinking up an angle for better delivery.”

“Of course, you are. Heard you were working on the Alina Petrov piece. Lucky bitch.” She tosses a staple pin at me, playfully. “How’d you land that one?”

“Right place, right time,” I lie. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah, well, the whole city’s buzzing about it. Alina’s death was brutal. You hear how they did it? Cyanide. That’s so old-school too, like something out of a spy novel.” She shudders, her fingers pausing mid-type. “I heard her face turned purple before she died. And some other people at the party said she dropped like a stone.”

“Don’t believe everything you hear, Sasha.”

“It’s true. I even know how she was poisoned.”

That catches my attention, and I look at her. “And how was she poisoned?” I ask, voice tighter than I want it to be.

“The poison was in the dessert. Someone slipped it into her crème br?lée.” Sasha shakes her head, her expression turning somber. “Can you imagine? One minute she’s laughing, the next she’s clawing at her throat. The worst thing I heard is that she was standing beside Nikolai Ramensky when it happened. They were probably hitting it off before things went south. What a shame she never got to see how their night would have ended. I know for a fact, I’d kill myself again in the afterlife if I find out I missed a chance to fuck Nikolai.”

I don’t know why that whole statement rubs me the wrong way, but I suddenly feel like smashing something. But I ignore it. Because I have to prove to myself that this man’s name being mentioned in a sentence with another woman doesn’t affect me. Absolutely does not.

“Last year’s city’s most eligible bachelor, Nikolai?” I press, forcing my voice to stay casual. “He was there?” I’m trying to make it seem like I haven’t seen the photos or gotten the inside scoop of the event already. Sasha likes to talk, and I like to indulge her.

She knows I am working on the story already, and chances are, I already know all of this. But she still feels the need to tell me. And it’s a way for her to actually just gossip with someone about it.

“Rumor has it he was. I haven’t seen the pictures, but I’m sure you will when the photographer sends them in.” Sasha's lips curve up. “That guy’s like a fucking phantom. He owns a security company. So, I am positive he is not the kind of man you want to mess with.” She leans in, eyes glinting with curiosity. “You’ve been asking me about him before, now you’re acting clueless or like his name somehow annoys you. Something you wanna share?”

“Just trying to get the story,” I say, but the lie tastes bitter. “The story with Alina’s death… it feels too deliberate.”

“You think Nikolai had something to do with it?” she asks, voice dropping to a whisper.

“I think he knows more than he lets on,” I say. “He’s roped into their world. Mafia, politics. His company has probably made him see much more than the average man. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Sasha shrugs. “Well, good luck with that. The man’s like smoke. Impossible to catch. He doesn’t even grant interviews.”

But I’m not giving up yet. Every lead I chase, almost always circles back to him. Nikolai. The man who broke into my apartment and left me more obsessed than ever.

***

I’ve spent the last few nights combing through the darkest corners of the city, scraping together fragments of information about the murder. From what I’ve gathered, Nikolai’s been on a spree, eliminating threats with brutal efficiency.

The name Lev Antonov, a man who has been rumored to be one of his most recent kills, comes up more than once. From what I've heard, Lev hasn't been seen in weeks, and the truth behind his disappearance remains a mystery. Rumors circulate that Nikolai and his men were seen at Lev's house before news of his disappearance spread. However, this information is only known if you're hearing it from reliable sources. The sources that not everyone knows about.

People like Nikolai have learnt to manipulate information so that they're immune to the law. Even when the truth of his actions is heard enough by a sizable number of people, most of them still keep their heads down and forget they ever heard his name. But I’m not most people.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About the way he looked at me. The way he touched me. The anger knots inside me when I think of how much I am letting his presence affect me. How could I let myself feel anything but hatred for him? He’s a murderer. A walking nightmare wrapped in the kind of beauty that makes you forget your own damn name.

And yet, I can’t help myself.

Maybe I’m just sick. Maybe I’ve been chasing this vengeance so long that the lines have blurred, and now I can’t tell what I want more: revenge or another encounter with him. Both terrify me. Both keep me awake at night.

Tonight, I’m walking aimlessly through the city’s seedier districts, passing through alleyways thick with piss and rot. The stench makes me want to turn around, but I push on. The desperation driving me doesn’t care about comfort.

I haven’t been able to see him for days now, it is almost like he has been avoiding me. But I’ve seen him around this area a few times conducting business. So, I know that something will bring him around soon enough.

I turn a corner and hear it. Hear him.

Nikolai.

He’s in an alley up ahead, pacing with his phone pressed to his ear. I shrink into the shadows and press my back against the filthy brick wall. He hasn’t seen me, because he is too caught up in whatever he’s snarling into the receiver.

“You think I don’t know? You think I’m blind?” Nikolai snaps with fury. “The last thing I need is another idiot screwing things up. Tell Rurik to meet me at the west cabin of the Ridgecrest outpost by midnight. Alone. Or I’ll consider him part of the problem.”

He goes quiet, listening. I inch closer, desperate to catch every word.

“No excuses. If he’s not there, I’ll drag him up the damn mountain myself. West cabin, do you hear me? And make sure he understands I don’t give second chances.”

He cuts the call, his fingers clenching the phone before shoving it into his pocket. He looks around with eyes alert. I hold my breath, praying he doesn’t spot me. After a moment, he storms off.

West Cabin, Ridgecrest outpost. Midnight.

I wait until he’s gone before stepping out into the light, my pulse thundering. This is it. A place. A time. And a meeting that sounds like it’ll be important. I can’t let it slip by.

But I need more. More than just a name. So I ask around.

I find myself at a grimy pub just off Fifth Avenue, a few miles from where we were. It’s a dump where locals gather to drown their sorrows and trade gossip like currency. The bartender eyes me with suspicion when I approach, but I shove a few bills across the counter.

“You ever heard of Ridgecrest Outpost?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound like I’m not at all terrified of what I’m about to do.

He narrows his eyes. “Why’s a girl like you asking about a place like that?”

“Just curious.”

“Curiosity will get you killed.” He snorts, wiping down a glass. “Ridgecrest Outpost’s up in the mountains. Used to be called Ridgecrest Hunting Lodge. Four cabins spaced out along the ridge—North, South, East, and West. Equidistant but too far apart to feel safe.”

“What happened to it?”

“Depends who you ask.” His observation sharpens like he’s expecting me to flinch. “Some say the cold up there drove people mad. Others say it was Viktor Morozov’s obsession that did it. Man built the place decades ago and tried turning it into an elite retreat. But his madness poisoned the place. They found him dead in the North Cabin. He carved something crazy into the wood before he went. A few years later, a hunting party went missing from the South Cabin. Only two made it out, and they were half-mad, talking about something stalking them from the trees.”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “East Cabin rotted through a long time ago, crushed by ice and rock. Now, only the North and West Cabins still stand. But no one stays there.”

“Why?” I laugh. “Are there ghosts up there or something?”

“Ain’t ghosts you need to worry about,” he mutters. “It’s the people who use that place for business nowadays. Dangerous folk. If you’re smart, you’ll stay away.”

“Well, lucky for me, I’m not smart.”

He looks at me like he’s trying to decide whether I’m crazy or just stupid. Probably both. But he takes my money, so I guess he doesn’t care.

The more I ask, the clearer it becomes: Ridgecrest outpost is the kind of place that doesn’t appear on maps. The kind of place you have to want to find. And if Nikolai’s headed there, then that’s where I need to be.

But it’s not just about him. It’s about Irina. About the truth that keeps slipping through my fingers no matter how hard I claw for it. It’s about revenge. And maybe… maybe it’s about something else. The sick need to prove I’m not broken. To prove that whatever he’s done to me – whatever twisted pull he has over me, it’s not enough to make me quit.

I leave the bar, the city’s cold breath gnawing at my skin. Ridgecrest outpost. It sounds like a place you go to disappear. Or die.

It’s a risk I’m willing to take. Because if he’s meeting someone there, then I have to be there, too. I have to see him, hearhim.Findoutwhathe’splanning. I’ve already crossed too many lines to stop now.

***

Following Nikolai up the mountain for over three hours makes me feel like I should have given this much more thought. He is driving up ahead in a sleek, black SUV that has rugged tires spitting gravel as it carves through the winding roads.

And he is moving fast, cutting through the curves as I trail him from a distance in my old, beat-up sedan, struggling to keep up with his aggressive speed. Keeping my headlights off is a gamble, but it’s the only way I can tail him without giving myself away.

The roads grow narrower, snaking higher and higher until the city below is nothing but a blur of lights. I almost lose him a few times, but the slick mud and broken pavement force him to slow down, giving me the chance to catch up.

I kill the engine when he finally parks near the base of a trail. He gets out, his posture tense as he glances around before taking out a bag and locking the SUV. When he starts up the trail on foot, I leave my car a hundred yards back and follow him.

The forest swallows him quickly, and soon his retreating figure is nothing more than a dark blur threading through the trees.

I can’t afford to lose him. But I also can’t afford to be careless, not with him.

The forest is a maze of black shapes as I glide through, and everything looks the same. But I keep him in my sight, hanging back just far enough to avoid detection. He’s heading for what I deduce from my compass on my phone to be the west cabin of the Ridgecrest outpost.

He stops twice, the first time to look over his shoulder. The second time, he scans the woods longer than I’d like. I press myself against the nearest tree and try to calm my hammering heart. God, what was I thinking coming up here?

I hear him curse a couple of times when his foot gets stuck in mud, but then he keeps moving. He seems to be on edge. I wonder why.

It takes an hour to reach the top. The cabin squats there like something dead and forgotten, almost rotting into the ground. I see him slow down and press his phone to his ear. I can’t hear him from this distance, but I watch his face harden and his free hand twitch like he’s ready to hit something.

I duck behind a boulder, keeping my body low to the ground. The ache in my legs feels distant, and the throb in my heart is just background noise. The only thing that matters is him.

He ends the call and pockets the phone. Then starts pacing, his head jerking like he’s looking for something. Or someone.

I inch closer. I know I’m too close. I know it’s reckless. But the compulsion doesn’t care about sense. I need to hear him. To see what he’s planning.

My foot catches on something, a root or a rock, I can’t tell. It’s enough to snap a twig and split a crack in the air like gunfire.

Fuck.

In the blink of an eye, Nikolai’s head whips around, and he is moving faster than I expect. The shot rings out before I can even register the glint of metal in his hand.

The bullet slams into the tree beside me, and splinters spray into my face. I dive to the side, barely avoiding another shot that hisses past my shoulder.

“Come out,” he snaps. “You’ve got ten seconds before I stop playing nice.”

I scramble backward as my lungs seize up. My leg hits something solid, and I lose my footing, collapsing hard against a fallen tree stump. Pain flares through my ankle, so hard enough to make my vision blur.

I try to get up, but my leg refuses to cooperate. The twisted ankle’s already swelling, my skin pulled tight and throbbing like it’s about to split open. And worse, I can feel the blood trickling down my temple where I hit my head.

Everything spins. My pulse pounds in my ears. I make another attempt to rise, but the pain shoves me back down. I can’t move. I can’t run.

Then Nikolai appears above me with his gun aimed at my face. That haunting expression I’ve seen in my dreams far too many times is looking back at me.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Is this how I’m going to die?

“Following me was your first mistake,” he says, voice flat. “Thinking I wouldn’t find you was your second.”

I brace myself and curl my fingers into the dirt. Waiting for him to end it.

But the shot never comes.

Instead, he just stands there. Whatever he’s waiting for, I don’t have the strength to figure it out. Then the world tips sideways, and my vision goes dark. I hear his voice one last time before everything fades.

“Congratulations, Katya. You just earned yourself a private meeting.”

Then, nothing.