Page 8

SANDY

Waiting is the worst part.

Lev is digging. Aleksandr is watching. And Talia is worrying herself into knots. But I can’t just sit around the estate sipping tea, hoping justice will magically crawl out from whatever rock Morozov’s hiding it under.

Dimitri is still in that concrete cage, one bad day from not making it out. And me? I’m done waiting.

I slump against the bay window in the west wing of the estate, watching rain trace jagged patterns down the glass.

Two weeks. Two weeks since they'd taken him.

Two weeks of lawyers, bribes, and threats that went nowhere.

The clock ticks away another hour of Dimitri's life, each sound like a hammer against my heart.

My phone buzzes with another text from Lev. Nothing yet. The judge is still deliberating on the motion.

Of course, he is. Because that's what corrupt officials do.

They deliberate while good men bleed. I toss the phone onto the cushion beside me, watching it sink into the expensive fabric worth more than a year's rent for my apartment.

Funny how wealth means nothing when the person you love is locked away.

All these rooms, all this space, are empty echoes without him.

The baby kicks in a tiny flutter of protest against my ribs. I place my hand over the small bump, barely visible beneath my sweater.

“I know,” I whisper. “I miss him too.”

Talia doesn’t see it that way.

“You need to let Lev and Aleksandr handle this,” she told me this morning, her voice tight with fear masked as logic. “You're pregnant, Sandy. This isn't just about you anymore.”

She'd cornered me in the kitchen as I made tea, her eyes puffy from another sleepless night. Talia had aged years in weeks, her usual graceful demeanor fractured by worry. Still, she watched me like I was a bomb about to detonate.

“I'm not reckless,” I'd snapped, the ceramic mug hot against my palms.

“You're angry,” she corrected. “And angry people make mistakes.”

The tea scalded my tongue as I took a defiant sip. “We're all angry.”

“But we're not all carrying Dimitri's child.” Her voice softened as she reached out, her fingers ghosting over my arm. “He would want you safe. Both of you.”

I set the mug down with more force than necessary, causing the tea to slosh over the rim. “He would want to be here. And every second we waste playing by their rules is another second he's not.”

“Aleksandr has connections ? —”

“Connections that haven't done a damn thing!” The words had exploded out of me, weeks of pent-up frustration cracking through the surface . “Connections that keep saying ‘wait’ and ‘patience’ while Dimitri is in a cell with men who'd kill him for a pack of cigarettes!”

Talia flinched, but her eyes remained steady. “You think I don't know that?”

Shame washed over me. Of course, she did. Of course, she was suffering too. I rubbed my temples, trying to massage away the constant headache that had taken up residence since Dimitri's arrest.

“I'm sorry,” I murmured. “I just feel so helpless.”

“We all do.” She squeezed my shoulder. “But running headfirst into danger won't bring him home any faster.”

Maybe she was right. But the thought of Dimitri bleeding out behind bars while I sit on my hands makes my skin crawl.

So, I won’t stop. Not when Petrov is still breathing. Not when I know deep down that he is the key to all this.

After dinner, I wait until the house grows quiet. Talia retired early with a migraine. The kids are fast asleep. Aleksandr is on a call with his contacts in Moscow. The security team is changing shifts. That brief ten-minute window where attention wavers just slightly is enough for me to slip away.

I change into black leggings and a black sweater, practical clothes that won’t draw attention.

The guard at the gate barely glances at me as I drive past in one of the less conspicuous sedans from the garage.

I’m not the pregnant girlfriend of his imprisoned boss, just another staff member heading out for the evening.

I timed it perfectly to coincide with the shift change and kitchen deliveries.

That's how I ended up parked two blocks from Petrov’s office on a Tuesday night, with the engine off, lights dimmed, and a camera clutched in my hands.

The Upper East Side is quieter after nine.

There are fewer cars, fewer distractions, just the occasional cab rolling by, and the buzz of distant neon signs.

Petrov's building sits like a monument to arrogance.

Stone and glass, pristine and smug. I watch the front doors like a hawk, my heart thudding with every passing second.

My back aches from sitting in one position for too long. I shift, trying to find comfort that refuses to come. The baby seems restless tonight, too, putting constant pressure against my bladder that I stubbornly ignore. This is too important to be interrupted by bathroom breaks or discomfort.

I pull out my phone to check for messages.

Nothing from Lev. Nothing from Aleksandr. I only received a text from Talia asking if I wanted chamomile tea before bed.

Guilt twists through me. She thinks I’m upstairs, resting.

She'll check eventually and find my room empty.

Another betrayal to add to the growing list.

A couple walks past my car, arm in arm, laughing about something trivial. I sink lower in my seat, absurdly jealous of their normal lives and ordinary problems. What I wouldn't give to have my biggest worry be which restaurant to try for dinner or which movie to stream on a weeknight.

The digital clock on the dashboard ticks over to 9:30pm.

Talia would kill me if she knew I was here alone. But I’m doing this for Dimitri and our baby.

The sound of the building's revolving door spinning pulls me from my thoughts. I straighten, camera ready.

At 9:37pm, the bastard finally emerges. With slick hair, a tailored coat, and a face like a wax figure carved out of contempt, Benjamin Petrov looks both ways and slides into the back of a black sedan that pulls up to the curb like clockwork.

I memorized his face from the photographs in Lev’s files. Petrov has been on Morozov's payroll for years. He is the man who makes problems disappear with a signature and a hefty fee. The man who fabricated the evidence that put Dimitri behind bars.

“He's a snake,” Lev had told me. “The kind that slithers into your life so quietly you don't notice until you're already poisoned.”

I wait a second, then two, before twisting my keys in the ignition and easing into traffic.

Following someone through the city takes skill.

Too close, and they'll notice. Too far, and you'll lose them at a light.

I watch enough crime dramas to know the basics, but theory and practice are different beasts.

My palms sweat against the steering wheel as I keep three cars between us, my heart hammering every time I think I lost them.

A horn blares as I cut off a taxi to make a yellow light. The driver shouts something obscene, but I keep my eyes forward. I can't afford to lose Petrov now.

They don’t go far. Just ten blocks downtown to a private lot tucked behind an upscale steakhouse and a cigar bar. I park across the street, half-shielded by a delivery truck, and kill the lights again.

The restaurant glows with warm light. I can see silhouettes of the wealthy at play through gaps between the curtains. Champagne toasts and business deals are sealed over rare steaks and expensive bourbon.

Petrov steps out, lights a cigarette, and leans against the car like he has all the time in the world. Two minutes later, another car pulls in.

Isaak Kiril.

My pulse spikes the moment I see him. I recognize his face from one of the files in Petrov's office. Lev warned us about him. Kiril isn’t just some thug. He’s Morozov's cleaner. The guy you call when you want a body gone and no trace left behind.

He and Petrov shake hands. They laugh, the sound of it making my skin crawl like a death sentence sealed with a smile.

I raise my camera, zoom in, and snap a photo. Then another. And another.

Through the lens, I catch details my eyes miss. The thick envelope Petrov passes to Kiril, the casual way Kiril tucks it inside his jacket, the handshake that lingers too long, the wary glances they throw around the parking lot like two predators making sure they aren’t observed.

There’s a fresh cigarette for each of them, the smoke curling up into the night air like specters. They talk for nearly twenty minutes, heads bent close. I capture it all, finger pressing the shutter button repeatedly, collecting evidence with each click.

They don’t hide. They don’t care who sees. Confidence like that only comes from believing you’re untouchable.

But as I snap one more shot of Petrov handing Kiril a slim black envelope, Kiril's gaze swings right to me.

Panic explodes in my chest. I drop the camera and duck, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I’m afraid it might give me away. I hold my breath and crouch below the dash, every muscle trembling like I'm wired too tight.

Did he see me? Or did he just sense someone watching? I press my hand to my mouth, stifling the ragged sound of my breathing. The baby kicks violently, responding to the surge of adrenaline flooding my system.

“It's okay,” I whisper, one hand on my stomach. “We're okay.”

But are we? My mind races through worst-case scenarios. Kiril coming over and finding me. Recognizing me as Dimitri's girlfriend. Doing something to silence me and make me disappear. The thought sends chills down my spine.

Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. I don’t dare peek. The sound of tires screeching echoes down the alley. I risk a glance, and Kiril's car is gone. Petrov's, too.

They didn’t see me. But Kiril felt something. I knew that look. It’s a predator sensing motion in the brush.

I slump back against the seat, my breath catching in my throat. My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s Talia. Three missed calls and a flurry of texts.