The first thing I did when I reached the apartment I'd rented in London, right adjacent from the last confirmed sighting of him, was to set up my sniper rifle by the window.
The glass was treated enough to look ordinary from the outside, but positioned so anyone passing by wouldn't be able to see in. From here, with the scope pressed to my cheek, I already had the perfect line of sight. Close enough to observe him. Far enough that he would never suspect I was already in his shadow.
I left the rifle to settle and stepped into the bathroom. With a practiced motion, I stripped off my shirt and pulled the hair dye out of my duffel bag, sitting on my bed.
Before arriving, I've ordered my grandfather's men to keep their distance, but close enough to intervene if things went sideways. After all, paranoia ran deep in our bloodline. Grandpa was terrified that history would repeat itself. And I couldn't blame him for that.
But what he didn't know, was that I had already slept with my target.
Alexandre Barinov didn't just know my face. A man as dangerous as he is, would remember every detail, every vulnerability, every tell. And the moment he saw my natural hair, he would know exactly who I was.
So I squeezed the bottle tight, letting the first cool trail of dark brown dye drip into my palm. A new shade. A new disguise.
A new version of myself to hunt the man who stole the old one.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, toweling the freshly dyed strands of my hair, dressed only in a black lace bra, a soft chime lit up the dark of my studio apartment. It was an ale, blinking on my burner laptop.
Motion detected. My pulse flicked upward as I crossed the room. Still toweling the droplets from my shoulders, and clicked open the feed.
And there he was.
Alexandre Barinov walking out onto his balcony, dressed in a black hoodie and jeans. The evening light cutting a silver edge along his profile. A phone dangled from his fingers, his posture loose, unguarded. To unguarded.
I slipped in my earphones, pulling the scope to my eye and zoomed in until every line of his face sharpened into focus. One of our techs had given me a directional mic, where it can catch vibrations from the air. It pierced words that shouldn't have been audible from this distance.
Still, I couldn't shake it. How a man this dangerous could be found so easily. It was he was daring someone to take a shot at him. Inviting it.
He was too calm. Too exposed. Too willing to be seen.
I could've pulled the trigger and shoot him right then and there. It would've been so easy, with the way now he was leaning against the railing of the balcony, speaking into his phone. Looking all carelessly handsome, and familiar.
But until I understood the game he was playing, I couldn't pull the trigger. Not yet. Not when he might be carrying answers. A reason my memories were ripped away in the first place.
I steadied my breath and listened.
"Any leads?" His voice cut cleanly through the wind, sweeping off the Thames, low and edged with something sharp.
Whoever answered must have disappointed him. His jaw flexed, a violent tic he didn't even bother hiding.
"I refuse to believe she's dead."
The anger in his tone was controlled, like a simmering fury that could melt through steel.
I instinctively leaned closer to the scope, drawn in despite myself.
"I know what you're saying," he went on, pacing a slow line along the balcony rail. "But she's not dead. She's out there. Somewhere. I just know it."
A gust of wind caught his hair, and he shoved it back with his hand. The gesture hit me with a jarring flicker of memory. The way I had done the same just nights ago, my fingers threading through those dark strands, soft and warm against my skin. Too familiar. Too intimate.
He paused, his shoulders tightening. Then his voice dropped lower, dangerously certain.
"I have a feeling."
Another beat. A breath.
"Well...I'll believe it when I see her corpse myself. Until then, we keep searching. Everywhere. Even if it costs me everything."
I froze, breath caught in my throat. I didn't know who 'she' was, who could've inspired that kind of obsession. That kind of rage.
But whatever she meant to him...he was willing to burn his world down to find her.
A chill crawled up my spine, like I was missing something obvious. Like a shadow of recognition was brushing just out of reach, somewhere deep in my bones.
I adjust the volume, trying to catch the muffled reply from the other end. The line crackled, but his response came through clearly. Too clearly.
"She wasn't just any woman," he snapped. "She was my wife. In every way that matters."
My entire body went still.
Wife?
A cold rush shot through me, rooting me to the floor. I stared at his figure on the balcony. His broad shoulders, tense posture, the agitation rolling off of him, and something deep inside me twisted. Sharp and inexplicable.
He had a wife.
The realization sucker-punched me. A wife. I had fucking slept with him. Touched him. Let him into my space, into my skin, into—
I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering.
He kept talking, his voice taut with conviction but I barely heard the words now. All I could think about was the brutal simplicity of it.
He has a wife, but she was missing. Presumed dead. Maybe that was why he had let himself be found so easily, because he was holding onto that foolish hope that she'd come back.
And here I was, hunting him, after letting myself be reckless with him.
A sick heat coiled in my stomach.
I've been foolish. Careless.
No wonder he had felt dangerous in ways that didn't make sense. No wonder there had been moments, small, fleeting moments, where I had felt the strangest tug of familiarity in his eyes. His touch. His voice.
Maybe, just maybe, I had something to do with his wife's disappearance as well.
I forced my breath out slowly and tore my gaze from the screen.
Whatever history he had with that woman, whatever bond or obsession that tied him to her...it didn't matter.
I was here to finish a mission.
Still, the words wouldn't stop echoing in my skull, refusing to quiet.
She was my wife.
In ever way that matters.
And even though I didn't know her, this woman he mourned with such furious devotion, I could feel the cold, inexplicable sting of betrayal settling into my bones.