Page 23

Allie

I push open the heavy, ornate door of the Russian bathhouse, my heart doing a salsa routine against my ribs.

Even though it’s only the lobby, humid air greets me like a warm, damp hug, cloaking the nervous tremble in my hands as I hand over my credit card for a day pass.

“It’s an extra five dollars if you want to get our water-safe phone covers,” the woman offers me.

“Meaning…we’re allowed to keep our phones on us?” I ask.

The woman nods, smiling.

“Many of our customers like to listen to music while they relax,” she says with a knowing smile, her accent rolling the r s into a melody.

“Thanks, I’ll need all the relaxation I can get,” I quip, sliding my phone into the protective embrace of the waterproof case.

She runs my card and hands it back to me with a slip and a pen.

I pause with pen in hand as she also hands me an intake sheet to fill out.

Should I have paid cash?

Used a fake name?

Maybe they won’t be able to trace the credit card I used back to this specific intake sheet?

Oh well.

Maybe it’s a little late now, but nonetheless, I scribble a fake name down on the intake sheet, then with my phone secured, I go through the doors into the women’s locker room.

Even though most people apparently choose to go through the bathhouse only clad in their birthday suit and robe, I brought my bathing suit to wear.

And I snuggle into the lush robe provided to me at my locker.

Feeling like a detective in one of those old black-and-white films, I slip out of the locker room and make my way down the silent hall.

Except I’m about as stealthy as a cartoon character on a covert mission.

My eyes sweep across the dimly lit corridor, every shadow and whisper an invitation to uncover secrets or a potential pitfall.

“Okay, Allie, you’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath, channeling every Nancy Drew cell in my body.

I hear laughter and low conversations ahead through a door marked “Gender Neutral Common Room.”

With a deep breath, I open the door and enter the room.

Lounge chairs are set up surrounding a steaming pool with a waterfall at the far end.

I pretend to ignore the conversation as it ebbs and flows around me, the Russian syllables weaving through the air like an exotic dance I can’t quite follow.

I strain my ears, trying to catch a thread of meaning, but it’s like listening to a radio station just out of range—mostly static with the occasional clear note.

“ Spasibo ,” someone says, and I latch onto the word like a lifeline—it means “thank you,” one of the few phrases I picked up from a fling with a language app.

But that’s where my understanding ends, the rest of the chatter slipping away from me, elusive as the steam that coils around my ankles .

I move closer to a group perched near the heat of the sauna, their voices a low hum.

If I can just pick up something, anything useful.

.

.

But no, it’s all whispers and the hush of heated air swirling through the space, wrapping around my skin and urging me to let go, to breathe and forget why I’m really here.

I lower onto a lounge chair close enough to the group to eavesdrop, but not so close to look like I’m creeping on them.

As I sit down on the lounge chair, the wood snaps beneath me and the whole chair collapses.

It’s a sound that’s too loud in the quiet buzz of the bathhouse, a quirky hiccup of sound that has no place in this clandestine setting.

One of the men, a hulking Russian man with a black cropped beard and beady dark eyes, comes over, offering me a hand.

Nervously, I take it and immediately notice the press of a large, gold thumb ring against my hand.

Three little rubies press into my palm as he pulls me to my feet and I can’t help but remember what Thatcher had told me about the mark on his wife’s neck.

I gulp as he points to a sign that’s on the now broken chair.

“Out of Order,” he says.

“The chair was broken already.”

Unfortunately for me, the sign is written in Russian, so even if I had been paying attention, I wouldn’t have known not to sit there.

I shrug and give him the only response I can think of…

the truth.

“I don’t speak Russian.”

“Then what are you doing in a Russian bathhouse?” the man asks, his Russian accent thick like molasses .

“A friend of mine told me about this place. Said it was…very relaxing. I thought I’d give it a try.”

His gaze skims over me, assessing and I’m not sure what it is about this man, but he’s unnerving to my core.

His touch on my arm is gentle, but it’s firm.

Firm enough for me to realize this isn’t a man to be messed with.

He could crush me with his thumb if he wanted to.

“Here,” he says, leading me to a lounge chair near their group.

“This one is not broken,” he says.

Before I can say thank you, he’s turned his back to me and is heading back to his group.

I’m a sore thumb in a sea of subtlety, but I square my shoulders and press on.

Because somewhere in this fog, there’s a clue waiting to be found and something tells me this man holds the key to the mystery.

I pull out my phone and open Google Translate, hoping for some digital espionage assistance.

The screen’s soft glow illuminates my face as Russian words float through the air, snagging on the app’s net.

The app isn’t catching every word of their conversation, but it’s doing pretty well, all things considered.

I strain to listen as the men’s voices drift over.

At first, it’s just idle chatter about work and family and sports.

But then the tone shifts, growing hushed.

I glance down at my phone screen, trying to catch fragments of meaning from the swirling Russian.

“You took care of the body?” the man who helped me asks gruffly.

My blood turns to ice.

Body?

“ Da ,” responds another.

“It sleeps with the fishes now.”

“Well, some of it sleeps with the fishes,” another man says.

“The other half of it is fed to our dogs.”

A round of sinister chuckles.

I glance around nervously, hoping no one notices the sheen of cold sweat on my brow.

Who did they kill?

Could it be connected to Thatcher and his wife’s mysterious death?

“Drakon will be pleased,” the first man with the beard says.

“I’m surprised he didn’t join us here today. After his long flight.”

“He will. Soon. But he’s got one thing on the mind and that’s avenging his brother.”

Drakon.

Brother.

Avenge.

My heart does a jitterbug of nervous excitement.

I’m so focused on eavesdropping that I don’t notice one of the men detach from the group and lumber toward me.

He’s bald and burly, with prison tattoos snaking up his thick arms.

“You,” he barks in English, beady eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“What are you doing with that phone?”

Busted.

All the men turn to look at me, their dark eyes snagging on me and my cheeks flame hotter than the sauna rocks.

Panic rises in my throat.

Think fast, Allie.

I swipe out of Google Translate and pull up a text with my sister as I plaster a clueless smile on my face.

“Just messaging a friend,” I reply lightly.

“Telling her how relaxing this place is. She thinks I’m crazy for coming here alone.” I force out a girlish giggle and wave my phone like a white flag before I scramble to my feet and clutch my robe closed.

“See? Girl talk.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Pyotr,” the man with the thumb ring barks.

“Leave the poor girl alone to have her steam.”

“Uh, no, I was just, um, I was just heading to check out the next room, anyway,” I stammer .

“Are you afraid of us, Девочка?” Pyotr says, his voice threatening.

Unbeknownst to me, even if you’ve swiped another tab to be open…

Google Translate will still do its job.

As I’m holding my phone up to Pyotr, Google translate pops up with a notification at the top: Девочка…

baby girl.

Pyotr’s beady eyes narrow even more suspiciously onto me.

“Are you eavesdropping on us?”

I barely let him get the words fully out before I’m laughing nervously.

“Eavesdropping? Do I look like I can speak any language other than English?” I play the dumb American girl card, hoping they buy it.

“You better hope you weren’t listening,” the man from before says, standing now.

He’s massive.

Towering over me.

His entire body covered in tattoos.

I point at the broken chair.

“Seriously, guys. I sat on a broken chair,” I titter a laugh.

“You think I’m some language savant?”

The man takes a beat to stare at me and even though I want to make a run for it, I can’t just take off.

It will look too suspicious.

“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it. I’m going to check out the mudroom.” Despite my racing heart, I calmly walk out of the common room and instead of turning into the mudroom, I duck into the supposed sanctuary of the women’s steam room.

Am I safe?

Not quite.

The room swirls with more than steam—tension thickens the air.

Two women lounge across from me; their conversation a mix of smooth English and accented syllables.

One clutches a champagne flute like a scepter, bubbles winking at me mischievously, her slurred words painting her life in broad, sloppy strokes of opulence and naivety.

“Totally untouchable,” she giggles, the sound bouncing off the tiled walls.

“While I’m with Drake, I’m untouchable! And he’s got plans, big ones! He told me.”

“You be careful with Drake,” the other woman says, her Russian accent thick, but her English beautiful.

“They don’t call him Drakon for nothing.”

Drakon and Drake…

they’re the same person.

I really hit the jackpot at this bathhouse.

Then again, I’ve never heard of a Russian bathhouse in South Carolina before.

So, it would make sense there was a connection to whoever this Russian mobster is.

“Mmm, that must be nice,” I chime in, my voice a playful lilt.

Keep her talking .

It’s a lot safer and more natural for me to have girl talk than be out there with a bunch of burly men speaking Russian.

I lean forward, the steam parting as if inviting me into their world.

“What’s it like? Dating a man who fights for you? One who’s available and not hung up on an ex?”

“Well…he isn’t exactly available,” she says, throwing air quotes around the word.

“But in some ways, that’s even better! I get all the best parts of Drake and his wife gets the tired, frustrated man. She gets vacuum cleaners as presents and I get diamonds!” She thrusts her hand out, showing me the sparkling tennis bracelet frosting her wrist.

“Drake…that’s such a sexy name, too!” I squeal, sliding down the bench to get closer to the girls.

“I know. So exotic, right?” she says in her own Southern drawl.

“Drake Mikhailo?—”

“Paige,” the Russian friend says, with a slow side-eye to me.

“We probably shouldn’t spill all our side-piece secrets, should we?”

“Oh.” I pull back, holding my hands up.

Paige is the open book.

This other girl is onto me, though.

“Of course. Sorry if I was prying. ”

Paige waves her friend off, though.

“Oh, Serena is just protective. Besides, I only see Drake when he’s stateside.”

“Does he visit often?” I adjust my bathing suit strap as Serena sighs and shucks her robe off her body.

I dart my gaze forward, avoiding staring at her naked body.

“Every couple of months, he’ll come for a week or two,” she drawls, sipping more of her champagne.

“But I can do whatever I want in the meantime. And he covers my rent and everything! As long as I don’t date anyone while he’s gone. I learned that lesson the hard way when my date’s hand was on my doorstep the next day!”

“Paige!” Serena scolds, her eyes darting to me.

I immediately try to rearrange my face to be less horrified, smiling but I’m pretty sure it comes across as a grimace.

“Wow, he uh…he really cares about you. The most I ever got on my doorstep was flowers!” My titter turns even more shrill.

Scoffing, Serena yanks her robe back on and storms out of the steam room.

Shit.

“She seems upset,” I say.

But Paige just rolls her eyes.

“She’s married to Drake’s second-in-command. They call him the Enforcer, but that’s so stupid. He’s freaking Ivan. Anyway, she’s just mad because they’re stuck in our country until they find some guy who murdered Drake’s brother. They only just pinpointed that he’s around here in South Carolina about a week ago! Something about some cell tower disrupter thing they discovered on the property or something.”

I nod.

“They, uh…they probably miss Russia,” I say.

“Ugh, I can’t imagine why. Drake took me to St. Petersburg once and it was all beets this and borscht that. I couldn’t wait to get home for a fried green tomato, you know? ”

I nod even though I don’t know.

Not in the least bit.

“Look,” Paige slurs, swiping through her phone with a manicured nail.

The screen flickers in the steamy haze, revealing a selfie of her and an older man smiling in front of a very old looking church.

But the smile doesn’t reach Drakon’s eyes—they seem to be calculating your worth and finding you wanting.

A chill creeps down my spine despite the sweltering heat of the sauna.

“This is us in front of Savior of the Spilled Blood. Isn’t he handsome?” she says.

“Wow, you two are... You make a beautiful couple,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice steady as my heart does an anxious samba in my chest.

She’s spilling more than champagne here and I have a feeling it’s going to catch up with both of us.

Fast.

“We do, don’t we?!” She laughs and gives the photo one last adoring glance before tucking her phone away.

“The whole…severed hand on your door thing doesn’t bother you?” I whisper.

“It…did at first. I tried to run, but Ivan and Serena found me.” She leans closer, whispering, the scent of expensive perfume mingling with the eucalyptus steam.

“That’s when Drake bought this place for me. My own bathhouse to steam at whenever I want!” Her gesture encompasses an imaginary empire and she nearly topples over before righting herself with a hiccup.

Just then, the sound of angry voices filter through the foggy air outside the steam room.

From outside the steam room, I hear Serena barking at the men.

“She’s in there. Drunk as a skunk, spilling secrets.”

My nerves jangle like an alarm bell.

They’re coming for me.

Well, they’re actually coming for Paige.

But they’ll get me too, no doubt.

Without a second thought, I lunge for the steam nozzle and twist it hard to the left.

A hissing crescendo fills the room as visibility drops to zero, steam filling quickly around us.

“здесь!” The harsh syllables of Russian cut through the billowing steam just as two shadows loom in the doorway.

My breath hitches, caught in my throat as the door flies open.

“Where is she?” one of the burly figures growls, their Russian accent thick as the steam.

“I can’t see a fucking thing,” another man snaps.

“Probably melted in all this heat.”

If only melting were an option.

I stay silent, statue-still until I hear footsteps and the two men enter, leaving the doorway open.

I seize the moment when their heads turn toward Paige as she squeals, “What are you doing in here?!”

I yank my robe on and run out the door of the steam room like a ghost in a cloud, my feet light and swift on the damp tiles.

Dashing to the locker, I snatch up my belongings—swimsuit clinging to my skin—and stuff them into my bag with a haste that would make a pickpocket envious.

The fire exit looms ahead, a red beacon of escape.

I burst through it, the alarm blaring its betrayal.

Ignoring the cacophony, I sprint across the parking lot, my heart pounding a rhythm with my flip-flops as they slap the concrete.

Each breath feels like freedom, laced with the metallic tang of fear.

Outside, the warm summer air slaps my face, sobering me from the adrenaline high.

“Biscuit,” I gasp, the terror gripping me anew.

Even though I signed the forms with an alias, I paid with my credit card.

What else could they find out about me?

My address?

My sister’s location?

I need to get to Biscuit.

Right now.

With my car keys in hand, I dive into my car, the engine roaring to life with a reassuring purr.

Tires squeal as I take off, my only thought: Get to Biscuit.

“Come on, Thatcher, pick up,” I murmur as I dial his number, one hand steering while the other clutches my phone.

The rings echo in the void, unanswered.

“Dammit, Thatcher Bryant, where are you when I need your stoic, sarcastic ass?”

No time for voicemails.

Plan B.

I call my sister next and leave her a voicemail telling her to watch out for Russian men.

I’m sure it sounds like a crazy person’s rant.

I swerve onto the main road, and skid to a stop in front of my apartment, barely parking.

I throw my car into park, and run into my apartment, quickly changing my clothes before throwing everything that’s important to me into a go-bag.

Biscuit looks up from his nap on the couch, seeming utterly confused.

“Sorry, Biscuit. We’ve got to take a detour today,” I mutter as I scoop up his little wriggling body and lock the door behind us.

His tongue lolls out in a canine grin, oblivious to the danger nipping at our heels.

Jumping back into the car, I grip the wheel hard.

Where can we go?

Abby doesn’t finish her shift at the hospital for another several hours.

And Thatcher isn’t answering his phone.

I suddenly find myself wishing I had Griffin and Hunter’s phone numbers, too.

The newspaper office , I think with a sudden moment of clarity.

There’s plenty of security there.

I can wait this out in Soleil’s office.

She will know what to do.

Minutes later, the neon sign of the Charleston Sun buzzes a welcome as I skid through the entrance, Biscuit tucked under my arm like a fluffy football.

My heart is doing its best impression of a jackhammer, each beat a reminder that this story that was supposed to be my big break—may just be my last.

Yes, it was an intriguing piece when I first noticed Thatcher helping that woman on the date…

but it wasn’t supposed to be this .

It wasn’t supposed to be my life on the line!

“Okay, Allie, deep breath,” I whisper to myself.

I flash my badge at the security guards and scan it in to open the turnstiles.

“Biscuit!” Our security guard waves at my dog…

an office favorite, but I don’t stop for pleasantries.

Instead, I charge past him with a fast wave.

There’s no time for elevator chitchat or polite nods.

I take the stairs two at a time, Biscuit bouncing against my side.

Reaching the fifth floor, I don’t bother with stealth.

Who cares about decorum when you’ve got Russian mobsters at your heels?

I ignore Soleil’s assistant’s objections and fling open the door to my editor’s office.

“Soleil! Soleil, I need your help—” My words crash into silence.

There, on Soleil’s sleek leather couch, are two men.

One is a high-ranking military officer, if the number of medals and badges adorning his uniform are any indication.

And the other man lounges like he owns the place.

I recognize him immediately from the selfies Paige showed me in the steam room.

None other than Drake “Drakon” Mikhailo is sitting on Soleil’s couch.

“Ms. Larsen,” Drakon drawls in a thick Russian accent.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”