Sophia stared at the email, her heart pounding. It was a trap obviously a trap. Volkov knew exactly who she was. Had probably known the moment she saw Sophia's name. And that last line I'm especially curious about your inspiration was a threat wrapped in courtesy.
But it was also an opportunity.
If Sophia could get close to Volkov, could infiltrate that world, she might find evidence that would destroy Cross more thoroughly than any testimony. Financial records. Client lists. Proof of the criminal network that kept him protected.
She just had to be willing to risk everything.
Sophia drafted a response:
Ms. Volkov,
I'd be delighted to meet. I'm currently dealing with some personal matters that limit my mobility, but I should be free soon. May I reach out in a few weeks to schedule something?
The inspiration for 'Truth' comes from witnessing something I can never unsee. Art is how I process trauma.
Thank you for your interest,
Sophia
It was a stalling tactic. Sophia needed time to plan, to figure out how to meet Volkov without Agent Chen finding out, without compromising her safety. But more than that, she needed to understand what she was walking into.
She spent the next three days deep-diving into Elena Volkov's background. The woman was a ghost not literally, but close. Born in Moscow in 1982, immigrated to the U.S. in 1999, became a citizen in 2007. She'd appeared in New York's art scene around 2015, initially as an art advisor to wealthy collectors. The gallery opened in 2018 with funding from a venture capital firm that dissolved two years later, its assets absorbed into one of Volkov's LLCs.
Clean on the surface. Suspicious underneath.
Sophia found photos of Volkov at charity events, always perfectly styled, always with powerful people. A senator. A hedge fund CEO. A tech billionaire facing insider trading charges. And repeatedly, consistently, Damien Cross.
In one photo from a gala last year, Cross and Volkov stood close together, his hand on her lower back, her head tilted toward him in conversation. The body language was intimate but not romantic more like partners. Conspirators.
Sophia screenshot the image, added it to her growing file.
On day thirty-two in the safe house, Agent Chen arrived with unexpected news.
"The grand jury indicted Cross this morning," Chen said, unable to hide her satisfaction. "Murder in the first degree. He's being arraigned tomorrow."
"Will they deny bail?"
"The DA is pushing for it. Cross is a flight risk he has money, connections, international contacts. But his lawyers will argue he's a respected businessman with no prior record. It could go either way."
"If he makes bail"
"If he makes bail, we keep you here. Safe. Until trial."
But Sophia didn't want to be kept safe anymore. She wanted to finish this.
That night, she checked her email. Another message from Volkov:
Sophia,
I understand about personal matters. These things take time. But I wanted you to know I showed your work to a colleague who was quite impressed. He's a collector of contemporary portraiture, and he's specifically interested in 'Truth.' Would you consider selling it? Name your price.
The colleague prefers to remain anonymous, but I can assure you he's serious and well-funded.
Do take care of yourself. I hope your personal matters resolve soon.
Elena
Sophia read the email three times, her skin crawling. The "anonymous collector" was Cross of course it was. He wanted the painting, wanted to destroy the evidence of how Sophia saw him. Or maybe he wanted it as a trophy. Either way, the message was clear: he was watching. Waiting.
And he was willing to pay for what he wanted.
Sophia typed a response:
Elena,
'Truth' is not for sale. Some pieces are too personal to part with.
But I have other work that might interest your colleague. Perhaps when we meet, we can discuss a commission. I'm quite skilled at capturing people exactly as they are.
Sophia
She hit send, then immediately texted Agent Chen on her burner phone:
I need to go out. Not now. Soon. There's something I have to do.
The response came quickly: Absolutely not. Too dangerous.
It's the only way to end this. Trust me.
I can't let you leave the safe house. Those are my orders.
Then I'll have to leave without permission.
There was a long pause. Then: If you do that, I can't protect you.
I know, Sophia texted back. But I can't live like this forever. At some point, I have to take the risk.
Another pause. Then, surprisingly: What do you need?
Sophia smiled. Agent Sarah Chen was breaking protocol. Maybe she understood that sometimes, the only way to be truly safe was to stop running.
I need a wire. I need surveillance backup. And I need you to trust that I know what I'm doing.
You're going after Volkov.
I'm going after all of them.
The next message took five full minutes to arrive: Give me 48 hours to set it up. And Sophia? Don't make me regret this.
Sophia looked at her secret laptop, at the files she'd compiled, at the portrait of Damien Cross she'd painted the truth of him, rendered in oil and rage.
She wouldn't make Chen regret it. She'd make Cross regret ever looking up at her window that night.
She'd make him regret waving.
The wire was smaller than Sophia expected a tiny device that Chen taped between her shoulder blades, hidden beneath her shirt. It felt like a target, like a betrayal of her body's autonomy. But it was also insurance.
"It's voice-activated," Chen explained, her hands moving in sign as she spoke. "Picks up everything within fifteen feet. We'll have a van two blocks away monitoring the feed. If anything goes wrong, we can be there in ninety seconds."
"And if something goes wrong in eighty seconds?"
Chen's expression was grim. "Then you run. There's a panic button on your phone hold the volume buttons simultaneously for three seconds. We'll get an alert immediately."
They were in a hotel room in Manhattan, not the safe house. Chen had arranged everything off the books no official reports, no paper trail. If this went sideways, they were both finished. Chen would lose her job. Sophia would lose her life.
"You don't have to do this," Chen said, though they both knew it was too late for second thoughts. "We can still walk away. Wait for the trial. Let the system work."
"The system isn't working," Sophia signed. "Cross made bail this morning. He's out there, free, probably celebrating with his lawyers. Meanwhile, I'm in hiding, and Michael Torres is still dead."
Chen nodded slowly. She understood. Sometimes justice needed a push.
The meeting with Elena Volkov was set for 3 PM at a café in Chelsea, just two blocks from Volkov's gallery. Sophia had suggested somewhere public, somewhere with witnesses. Volkov had agreed immediately, which made Sophia more nervous than if she'd pushed back.
At 2:45 PM, Sophia stood outside the café, watching through the window. Chen and her team were in position the van around the corner, two plainclothes officers at nearby tables, one agent across the street pretending to window shop.
Sophia was as protected as she could be.
She stepped inside.
Elena Volkov was already there, seated at a corner table with a perfect view of the door. She looked exactly like her photos platinum blonde hair styled in a sleek bob, designer clothes that managed to be both understated and expensive, minimal jewelry except for a diamond ring that could fund a small country. She was beautiful in that ageless way that came from money and good surgeons.
She smiled when she saw Sophia, gestured to the empty chair. "Sophia Reid. What a pleasure to finally meet you in person."
Sophia sat, hyper-aware of the wire against her skin, of the officers watching, of Chen listening to every word. "Thank you for meeting with me."
"Of course." Volkov's English was perfect, just the faintest trace of an accent softening her consonants. "I was intrigued by your work. You have real talent. That portrait 'Truth' it was quite striking."
"Thank you."
"The subject," Volkov continued, her eyes sharp despite the casual smile. "He seemed familiar. Do I know him?"
Here it was. The moment of truth. Sophia could lie, deflect, pretend the portrait was fictional. Or she could push forward into the danger.
"I think you do know him," Sophia signed, watching Volkov's face carefully. "I think you know him quite well."
Volkov's smile didn't falter. "Really? Do tell."
"Damien Cross. Your colleague. Your partner. The man I watched murder Michael Torres six weeks ago."
The café noise seemed to fade. Volkov took a sip of her espresso, perfectly composed. "That's quite an accusation."
"It's not an accusation. It's a fact. I was the witness. The one who testified to the grand jury. The one Cross has been trying to intimidate ever since."
"And yet here you are," Volkov said, "sitting across from me, the business partner of the man you claim is a murderer. Either you're incredibly brave or incredibly foolish."
"Maybe both."
Volkov laughed a genuine sound that didn't match the calculating look in her eyes. "I like you, Sophia. You have spine. Most people in your position would be cowering in witness protection, not reaching out to arrange coffee meetings."
"I'm done cowering."
"I can see that." Volkov leaned back, studying Sophia like she was evaluating a piece of art. "So what do you want? Money? Is this blackmail? Because I should tell you, I have very good lawyers."
"I don't want money. I want information."
"About?"
"About Cross. About his clients. About who hired him to kill Torres and why."
Volkov's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose. "And why would I give you that information?"
"Because Torres was cooperating with the FBI. Because there's a RICO investigation building. And because when this all comes crashing down and it will. you're going to want to be on the right side of it."
For the first time, Volkov's composure cracked. Just slightly. A tightening around her eyes. "You're suggesting I cooperate with law enforcement."
"I'm suggesting you save yourself. Cross is going down. The evidence is overwhelming. But you? You could still walk away. Immunity in exchange for testimony. A new life somewhere safe."
"Safe," Volkov repeated, her voice bitter. "There's no such thing as safe in this world, Sophia. You of all people should know that."
"Then help me make it safer. Tell me who ordered the hit on Torres."
Volkov was quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing the rim of her espresso cup. Finally, she spoke. "You're wearing a wire, aren't you?"
Sophia's heart stuttered. She forced herself to keep her expression neutral. "No."