Chapter Two

IRINA VOLKOV

The apartment building in Tekstilshchiki looked worse in daylight than it did at night. Yeah.

Crumbling concrete, rust stained walls, windows that was covered with mismatched curtains or cardboard. I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, the elevator had been broken for six fucking months and the landlord hasn’t done anything to it.

Try not to breathe too deeply, the stairwell smelled like cigarettes, boiled cabbage, and desperation.

God!

Irina, this is temporary, okay? Everything is temporary. In less than a week, if Friday went according to the plan, I will never see this place again.

I let out a breath.

I unlocked three separate deadbolts—don’t ask me why—before pushing the door to apartment 412. The space was barely bigger than a prison cell. One room that served as a bedroom, living room, and office, plus a bathroom so small that I’d have to squeeze past the toilet to reach the shower. My room.

Or at least, I rented it under a fake name that can’t be traced back to my real identity.

I dropped my bag on the narrow bed and immediately went to the window, checking the street below. No unfamiliar cars. No men loitering on corners. No one who looked like they might be watching.

Paranoid? Yeah, maybe. But paranoia had kept me alive for two years.

I pulled out my laptop. Encrypted, purchased with cash, registered to yet another fake identity and opened my secure folder. Inside were dozens of documents: fake passports, driver’s licenses, bank accounts in five different names. My exit strategy, meticulously planned over months.

After Friday, Irina Volkov would cease to exist. Anastasis Sokolova would disappear into the digital ether. And someone new, I was thinking Elena Petrova, art gallery owner from Prague would board a train west and never look back.

But first, I needed to prepare for the meeting. With Damien Romanov.

I pulled up the file I’d compiled on him. It wasn’t much. I guess he’s a very private person.

The profile said he was thirty-two, worked in import/export, had studied economics at Moscow State University. Claimed to live in Arbat, one of the city’s more affluent districts.

The profile picture showed a man with dark hair and sharp features, but it was slightly blurred, taken from a distance. Professional, but not too professional. Wealthy, but not pretentious. Lonely, but not desperate.

The perfect mark.

So why did my instincts scream that something was off?

I’d run his information through every database I could access. No criminal record. Clean. No red flags—carpet. His story checked out.

Okay, this is more suspicious. In my experience, everyone had secret. Everyone had something that didn’t quite add up. The fact that Damien Romanov appeared squeaky clean—not that I didn’t want him to—either meant he was exactly what he claimed to be, or he was very, very good at hiding who he really was.

M phone buzzed. I grabbed it, heart racing, but it was just Katya.

Katya: Coffee tomorrow? I have drama. SO MUCH DRAMA.

I smiled. Katya was the closest thing I had to a real friend, which was dangerous, why? Because real friends asked questions. Real friends wanted to know where you lived, what you did for work, why you never seemed to be in the place twice.

But Katya also made me feel human. Made me remember that was version of life where people didn’t lie about everything, where trust wasn’t a weapon, where friendship didn’t require three layers of false identity.

Me: Can’t tomorrow. Soon though? Miss you.

Katya: You're always busy. What are you, a spy?

If only Katya knew how close to the truth that joke was.

I set the phone aside and returned to my laptop. I had work to do. The con with Alexei required perfect execution. One slip, one inconsistency in my story, and the whole thing could collapse.

No, I don’t want that to fucking happen.

I reviewed Anastasia Sokolova’s entire history: childhood in Saint Petersburg, move to Moscow for university, worked as a freelance graphic designer, parents deceased, no siblings. It was a sad story, but not too sad. Vulnerable enough to justify needing help, strong enough to seem worth investing in.

I’d worn this identity so long it almost felt real.

A sharp knock on the door made me freeze.

Nobody knocked on my door. Nobody knew where I lived. I made sure of that. Even Katya thought she lived in Khamovniki, on the other side of the city.

My hand moved to the knife I kept in my desk drawer. My heart hammered against my ribs as I approached the door silently, checking the peephole.

A man stood in the hallway. Expensive suit, sharp eyes, the kind of face that suggested violence was just a career choice away. Behind him, I could see another man, equally well-dressed, equally dangerous.

I shivered.

"Irina Volkov," the man said, his voice carrying through the thin door. "We know you're in there. We just want to talk."

I didn’t move. Didn’t even dared to breathe.

“It’s about your debt. Sergei sent us to you.”

Sergei. That son of a bitch loan shark who took over Viktor’s gambling debts. The man who’d made it very clear two years ago that I now owed him five hundred thousand dollars, and he didn’t care how I’m going to get it. He just wanted his money.

I’d been paying Every month, like clockwork, I sent the wire transfers anonymously. I was almost done.

How the fuck did they find me?

“I know you’ve been making payments,” the man continued. “Sergei appreciates that. But he’d like to meet with you. Discuss terms. You know he’s a reasonable man.”

Reasonable my ass. Right. I had seen what Sergei’s “reasonable” looked like. A girl who’d tried to run from her debt ended up in the Moskva River with concrete blocks tied to the ankles. I will not be next.

“We’ll be back,” the man said when I didn’t respond. “Think about it. Sergei is losing patience. He’d rather have you as a willing partner than…well. Let’s not think about the alternative.”

Footsteps retreated down the hall. I waited five full minutes before moving, my entire body shaking.

They found me. After two years of careful anonymity, somehow, they’d found me.

I’m running out of time. I need the courage to wait until Friday. I need to disappear now. Forget the three hundred thousand from Damien. I’d have to make do with what I had, find another way to pay off the remaining debt remotely, from another country, another identity.

I was already pulling clothes from the closet when my phone buzzed again.

Damien Romanov: I've been thinking about you all day. Can't wait for Friday.

Then:

Damien Romanov: Actually, I have a surprise. The investment opportunity I mentioned? The paperwork came through early. I can have the money ready by tomorrow if you're available to meet.

I stared at the message, my mind racing.

Tomorrow. Not Friday. Tomorrow.

Three hundred thousand euros. Enough to pay off Sergei completely and still have money left over to start fresh. To truly disappear. Pooff!

Jeez! This guy is Godsent! An angel in disguise.

But it meant meeting him with almost no preparation. Meant taking a massive risk.

Every instinct I had screamed at me to run. To grab my go-bag and disappear into the Moscow crowds right now, this second, before Sergei's men came back.

But every practical bone in my body knew the truth: thirty-seven thousand dollars wouldn't be enough. Even if I made it to Prague or Berlin or London, Sergei would find me eventually. Men like him always did. And then I'd pay a much higher price than money.

This was my only chance.

One meeting. One con. One last dance with a man I'd never seen in person.

And then freedom. Real freedom.

My fingers moved across the screen:

Anastasia: Tomorrow works perfectly. Where should we meet?

The response was almost instant:

Damien Romanov: Restaurant Turandot. 7 PM. I'll make a reservation under my name. Dress code is formal. I want to see you at your most beautiful, princess.

Turandot. One of Moscow's most expensive restaurants. Ornate, luxurious, very public. That was good, public meant safe. Public meant I could walk away if something felt wrong.

Except I didn't own anything formal. What I had was just pratical, something forgettable and designed to help me blend into crowds. I’d need to buy a dress. Shoes. Makeup.

It’s an investment. The last investment. After tomorrow night, I’d never I’d never have to worry about money again.

Anastasia: I'll be there. Can't wait to finally meet you in person.

I set down my phone and looked around my tiny apartment. Tomorrow night, I’d walk out of this fucking place and never come back.

Just on more lie to tell. One more performance to give.

And then, Irina Volkov and Anastasia would cease to exist.