: Chapter 30

I always thought the Kopolov estate looked imposing and majestic, but tonight, it almost looks… cheerful. My sister lives here. My newfound family.

When Matvei opens the door, the smell of Zoya’s cooking wafts through the air, and my stomach growls.

His parents have been detained, and if I know anything about the Kopolov family and loyalty, they’ll wish Yana’s shot wasn’t only a warning. I’m not sure what part his father plays in any of this, but my gut feeling is that they were both complicit.

Rafail has had an office set up for me, just past the dining room, all souped up with every electronic I could possibly need. I can’t get used to this feeling of being wanted. Useful. Not some tacked-on contractor who’s disposable and invisible but someone who’s an actual asset.

Matvei’s here to talk to Rafail about what happened. I feel for him after everything he’s been through, but he doesn’t seem as bothered as I’d expect.

“Anissa,” he says with a sigh. “I hated my parents. I did my best to do what was right, but they made their bed.”

Yeah. And now they’ll sleep in it.

It’s a small gathering after dinner. A quiet night, but the air still feels charged from what happened the day before. The Kopolovs are scattered throughout the estate—some in a lounge nursing drinks, Polina looking after her children.

Vadka prowls, restless and irritable, but he doesn’t say much. He scowls out the window, his eyes tracking every shadow and car that passes. I get the feeling he doesn’t stay here very often in the evening. Matvei’s mentioned he has a wife and son and doesn’t socialize with the rest of them like he used to, but it seems the latest events have shifted everyone’s focus.

“Where’s Zoya?” Yana asks curiously, but she’s nowhere to be found after dinner. I feel for her. In a way, her problem is the opposite of mine. I always felt invisible. She probably wishes she could be sometimes.

“How are you?” Yana’s look of concern takes me by surprise. She seems so serious, borderline ruthless, but there’s an underlying layer of concern that makes me feel appreciated and wanted.

“I’m good,” I tell her honestly. Now that I’ve decided to stay, now that I feel like I belong, the constant need to move, to run again, isn’t harping at the back of my mind. I’m relieved, honestly. I didn’t know how much that restless energy drained me.

I excuse myself, trying to temper the pride I feel. I have an office. I have a list of work they need me to do, so when I go to the office they have prepared for me, no one asks any questions. I love that.

The space Rafail’s set aside for me is ridiculous—sprawling desk, dual monitors, encrypted terminals, and fingerprint scanners. State-of-the-art equipment and a setup people kill for. It’s mine.

For a second, I let myself breathe, settling into familiarity. I can hear Matvei’s voice on the other side of the door, sarcastic and rough. The familiar huff of a laugh and clink of glass. My chest warms as my fingers hover over the keyboard. The blue light of the screen casts a shadow over my hands as I log in.

Then I hear it. The soft click of a door opening, but not behind me where the entrance is. I freeze.

“There y’are.”

My stomach drops. My pulse races. I scream internally and know if I had the wherewithal to scream for help, I’d be instantly flanked, but when I turn, I see the entrance to the office is already barricaded. And Cillian O’Rourke leans against the wall like he owns the place.

I stand. “What the fuck are you doing in here?” My chair scrapes against the floor, my heart racing. I should scream for help. I should⁠—

“Go ahead. Yell for help. I’ve got explosives prepared to detonate with the click of a button.” He holds up his phone. It glints in the overhead light. “Modern technology. Don’t even need a fancy detonator anymore. The apps do it all, hmm?”

Explosives. He’s got this place hot-wired. If I scream… I shake my head, my mind racing. Matvei’s mother and father were in league with the Irish. Of fucking course they were. How else would their son have gotten in so deep? They played the long game, biding their time, and all the while, Rafail trusted them.

He walks in a slow path around the room. “I like what they’ve done with the place. You were always better working with the right toys, weren’t you, lass?”

“What are you doing here?” I ask in a low whisper. If the others hear, and Cillian pulls that trigger…

He doesn’t answer right away. Just walks a slow, circling path around the room.

“You… you were plotting this. You were the one who fucked with my accounts. You were the one who fucked with my flight when I tried to leave⁠—”

“For a clever lass, it sometimes takes you a minute, doesn’t it?” He smiles faintly. “You were losing it, and that sick boyfriend of yours was having his fun, eh? I just nudged things along.”

I want to throw something. My chair, my laptop. But I don’t. Just on the other side of the door, I have a goddamn cavalcade ready to come in, but who knows how many others he’s planted? I could take his phone…

“You were working with his parents,” I say, my voice flat. “All this time.”

I try to keep calm, my palms planted on my desk. I don’t know where this is going, but I know one thing for sure—I’ll need to record what he says if we’re to keep peace with the Irish. I click a mouse on my computer and begin recording.

“Don’t move,” he snaps in a low whisper.

Cillian’s eyes flicker, a glint of crazy behind the charm. “He and I had an understanding. You weren’t meant to go off-leash like this. You weren’t supposed to belong to him,” he murmurs. “You were meant for something bigger.” He steps closer. “For me.”

Rage rises in my chest. I glare at him. “And yet you never made a move. You kept your distance, didn’t you? None of you cared two shits about me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, lass,” he says, low and quiet. “It’s complicated with us.”

He laughs softly, but there’s a sick sort of tone to it. “I watched you. You think I didn’t want to come for you? But in my world, women are owned. I wanted you to think I didn’t want you and knew if I made my move too soon, you wouldn’t have felt it. I knew if you felt you didn’t have a place with us, you’d appreciate it when you did.”

What kind of fucked-up narcissistic bullshit is that? He’s batshit crazy.

“Matvei was a tool. A weapon.” His eyes narrow dangerously. “But he doesn’t own you. You know how the Kopolovs work. Has he married you, lass? Even fucking proposed?” He shakes his head. “No. You’re his kept woman.” He leans in. “Disposable. His little ghost, who can vanish into vapor.”

Oh god. He’s sliced me open and rubbed salt in the wound.

“So this is what you’re going to do,” he says, leaning in, the bright red button right under his finger. “Unless you want me to press detonate.”