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.

IRINA VOLKOV

The next morning, I took the metro to Tverskaya and found a secondhand boutique that catered to women who needed to look expensive without actually being expensive. The owner, a rail thin woman with black hair and calculating eyes, sized me up immediately.

"Special occasion?" she asked in Russian.

I nodded. "Dinner. Somewhere nice." I kept my voice neutral, but the woman's eyes sparkled with understanding.

"Rich boyfriend?"

"Something like that."

She disappeared into the back and returned with three dresses. All designer labels, all slightly worn butt beautifully maintained. The kind of dresses that whispered wealth without shouting it.

I chose a midnight blue dress with a fitted bodice and flowing skirt. Elegant. Sophisticated. The king of thing my character, Anastasia Sokolova would wear. It cost more than I wanted to spend, but when I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw exactly what I needed to see. A woman worth investing in.

A woman worth three hundred thousand euros.

Shoes and a small clutch bag came next, then a stop at a department store for the makeup. By the time I returned to my apartment, the afternnon sun was already fading, and my nerves were wound tight as piano wire.

I spent an hour getting ready, transforming myself into Anastasia. Hair swept up in an elegant chignon. Makeup subtle but flawless. The dress fit perfectly, and the heels.

God, I hated heels, they made my legs look longer than they actually were.

It's just for today. Yeah.

When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself.

Perfect. So fucking perfect.

I packed my go-bag and hid it in the closet, ready to grab the moment I returned. Passport, cash, change of clothes, laptop. Everything I needed to disappear.

At 6:30 PM, I called a taxi. Not Uber, too traceable. A regular Moscow cab that I paid for in cash.

The drive to Tverskoy Boulevard took twenty minutes through evening traffic. I watched the city scroll past my window. The lights, the crowds, the endless sprawl of concrete and ambition. Two years I'd lived here as a ghost. After tonight, I'd be a ghost somewhere else.

Restaurant Turandot was exactly as opulent as its reputation suggested. Crystal chandeliers, gilded mirrors, waiters in crisp white shirts moving like synchronized dancers. I felt suddenly, acutely aware that I didn't belong here.

But I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and walked in like I owned the place.

Rule number one: Fake it until you make it.

"Good evening," I said to the maître d' in perfect Russian. "I have a reservation. Under Romanov."

The man checked his list and nodded. "Of course. Mr. Romanov is already seated. This way, please."

My heart began to hammer. This was it. Three months of messages, filled with carefully constructed lies and late-night conversations that had felt too real, all leading to this moment.

Calm down, Irina. It will soon be over.

The maître d' led me through the main dining room, past tables filled with Moscow's elite, oligarchs and their mistresses, businessmen sealing deals over wine that cost more than most people's monthly salary. Eyes followed me. I ignored them.

We stopped at a table in a semi-private alcove. A man sat with his back to me, broad-shouldered in an expensive charcoal suit. Dark hair cut short. Even from behind, he radiated a kind of controlled power that made my stomach flip.

"Your guest, Mr. Romanov," the maître d' announced.

The man stood and turned.

Fuck me.

My breath caught in my throat.

He was... not what I expected. The profile picture hadn't done him justice. He was tall, easily six-foot-three, with sharp Slavic features and ice-blue eyes that seemed to look right through me. Or...my soul.

Handsome, yes, but in a way that was almost intimidating. Like a blade honed to lethal perfection.

His eyes-cold, calculating was what made me stopped. The eyes of someone who saw too much.

For one terrible moment, I wanted to run. No need for the real estate blah blah and just run for dear life.

Then he smiled, and the coldness melted into something warmer. Almost shy.

"Anastasia," he said, and his voice was exactly as I remembered from their audio calls. Deep, slightly accented. "You're even more beautiful than your pictures."

I forced myself to smile, to step forward, to take the hand he offered. His grip was firm, warm, and sent an unexpected shiver up my arm.

Dear God.

"Damien," I said, and was proud that my voice didn't shake. "It's so good to finally meet you in person."

"Please, sit." He pulled out my chair with the kind of old-world courtesy that should have felt out of place but somehow didn't.

As I sat, I caught sight of two men seated at a nearby table. Both wore suits. Both had the kind of alert stillness that marked them as either bodyguards or something worse.

I looked at Damien questioningly.

"Security," he said with an apologetic shrug. "I know it seems excessive, but in my line of work, you can't be too careful. I hope they don't make you uncomfortable."

Ah. Damn.

"Not at all," I lied smoothly. "I understand completely."

Inside, warning bells were screaming. Damn-what kind of "import-export" businessman needed armed security?

I kept my smile fixed, my body language open and relaxed.

"Would you like wine?" Damien asked. "I took the liberty of ordering a bottle of Château Margaux. I remember you mentioning you preferred red."

He remembered. Of course he did. It was a detail my character, Anastasia had mentioned in passing two months ago. The fact that he'd retained it, that he'd thought to order it. It was exactly the kind of gesture that would make a real woman's heart flutter.

Good job Damien.

I wasn't a real woman. Not tonight. Tonight I was Anastasia, and Anastasia would be charmed.

"That's very thoughtful," I said warmly. "Thank you."

The waiter appeared, poured the wine with practice elegance, and disappeared. Alexei raised his glass.

"To new beginnings," he said, his ice-blue eyes locked on mine.

"To new beginnings," I echoed, touching my glass with his.

CHAPTER FOUR:

IRINA VOLKOV

The wine was excellent. Probably worth more than everything I owned. I took a small sip of my wine and set the glass down, hyperaware of every movement, every gesture. One fucking wrong move, one slip in my performance, and this could all fall apart.

"You look nervous," Damien observed. Not accusatory. Just... observant.

"A little," I admitted, because Anastasia would be nervous. "I'm not usually good at first meetings. I'm much better behind a screen."

Nice one Irina.

“I understand.” He leaned back, and something about the movement was graceful, almost predatory. “Same here. But I actually wanted to meet you. I’ve thought about you all the time since we started talking. Do you know what that is like? To have someone occupy your thoughts one hundred percent?”

Yes. I mean I do. Because despite everything, despite all the lies, despite the scam, despite knowing this was supposed to be purely transactional. I had thought about him. More than I should have.

“I think about you,” I said softly, and it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Something flickered in his eye. Satisfaction? Pride? But it was gone too quickly for me to identify.

“Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

The waiter returned to take our orders. I barely registered what I asked for, some kind of fish, I thought. My mind was too busy analyzing Damien, searching for weaknesses, for cracks in his polished exterior.

But he gave me nothing. Every movement was controlled. Every word carefully chosen. He asked about my work, my dreams, my favorite books, all the conversations we’d had before, but now in person, with his intense gaze fixed on my face.

I answered as Anastasia would. Charming, slightly vulnerable, grateful for his attention. It was a role I'd played a hundred times before.

So why did it feel different this time?

Halfway through dinner, he reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

"The investment," he said, sliding it across the table. "Three hundred thousand euros, as promised. I've already had my lawyers draw up the partnership papers. All you need to do is sign."

Really?

My hand trembled slightly as I took the envelope. Inside were official-looking documents and a certified bank check made out to Anastasia Sokolova.

Three hundred thousand euros.

Damn. F for Freedom.

I looked up at him, and for just a second, I saw something in his expression that made my blood run cold. Not kindness. Not attraction.

Recognition.

My brain screamed danger. I needed to make a move quickly. Disappear into thin air with my money.

"Is something wrong?" he asked, his voice perfectly pleasant.

"No," I said quickly. "No, this is... this is incredibly generous, Damien. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "After all, what's mine is yours now. Isn't that how partnerships work?"

Something about the way he said it made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Irina Volkov, time up. Time to go.

But the check was real. The money was real.

I tucked the envelope into her clutch and forced myself to relax. I was being paranoid. This was just a normal dinner with a lonely businessman who'd been foolish enough to fall for my scam.

In an hour, I'd walk out of here, cash the check, and disappear forever.

But with the way he was staring at me right now, it was like Damien Romanov had no intention of letting me walk out at all.

Dessert arrived. Some elaborate confection involving gold leaf and raspberry coulis. But I barely tasted it. Every cell in my body was screaming at me to leave. To take the money and run.

But silly me stood still.

Damien was watching me with those ice-blue eyes, and something about his gaze made it impossible to move. Like a rabbit frozen in the sight of a wolf.

“You’re quiet,” he observed, setting down his fork. “You have second thoughts about the partnership?”

Huh?

“No,” I said quickly. “Not at all. I’m just…overwhelmed. This is very generous of you.”

“You deserve it.” H e leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to something more intimate. “You’ve been with me for these past few months. Been there. Listening. Understanding a lonely businessman like me. Do you know how rare that is? To find someone who truly sees you?”

Guilt building. I pushed it down ruthlessly. This is not the time to feel guilty. Not now. Not when my freedom was literally sitting pretty in my clutch bag.

“I feel the same way,” The foolish, stupid part of me meant it.

Damien's smile was slow, satisfied. "Good. Because I have a plan for you."

My pulse quickened. "A plan?"

"Come back to my apartment. Just for a drink. I'd like to show you the view from my place, it's quite spectacular. And we can discuss the investment in more detail." He paused. "Unless you have other plans?"

Every alarm bell in my head went off at once.

Rule number Five: Never go to a target's home. Always keep meetings public.

Always maintain an exit strategy.