Chapter 113 Anya
I left Moscow three days after signing the papers.
I could not stay. I could not risk Nikolai finding me. The weight of those signatures followed me like a ghost, pressing on my chest every time I breathed.
I had destroyed him. Taken everything he built and gave it to his enemy. The memory of the pen in my hand, the way it trembled, the way the ink bled into the paper like blood, would not leave me.
Yes, Katya had forced me. But I had still signed. And now Nikolai's empire belonged to someone else.
I took the money Katya had given me and bought a train ticket to the south. As far away from Moscow as I could get. The bills felt dirty in my palm.
The train ride took two days. I spent most of it staring out the window. Watching the landscape change. Watching Moscow disappear behind me.
I ended up in a small city on the Black Sea.
Sochi.
A place where nobody knew me. Where I could pretend I had never been married to a crime lord.
I rented a tiny apartment. One room. A kitchen barely big enough to stand in. And a bathroom with a shower that only produced cold water. The first night, I sat on the floor with my back against the wall and cried until I had nothing left. Then I slept. Then I woke up and cried again.
Two weeks later, I got a job at a hotel cleaning rooms. The work was hard. My back ached. My hands became rough and red. The cleaning chemicals burned my skin. Some mornings I could barely straighten my spine. But I did not complain.
But it kept me busy. It kept me from thinking about Nikolai. From seeing his face every time I closed my eyes. From hearing his voice in the silence.
At night I lay awake in my small bed and wondered if he was still alive. The news report had said critical but stable. But that was months ago.
Had he survived? Had he woken up?
Did he know what I had done?
The guilt was a physical thing. It lived in my stomach.
Months passed. Winter turned to spring. Spring turned to summer. The Black Sea glittered under the sun. Tourists came and went. I cleaned their rooms and took their tips.
I stopped jumping every time I saw a tall man with dark hair. Stopped scanning every crowd for Mikhail's face.
I started to believe I was safe. That I had escaped. That I could build a new life here.
But I was wrong.
It was a Tuesday evening. I had just finished my shift at the hotel. My feet were sore. My uniform smelled like bleach. I was walking home through the market when I saw him.
A man watching me from across the street. He was tall and muscular, wearing a dark jacket. His eyes followed my every move.
My blood turned to ice.
I walked faster and turned down a side street. The old familiar fear flooded back. My palms started sweating. My breath came in short gasps.
He followed.
I heard his footsteps behind me.
My heart raced. It pounded in my ears. I could feel it in my throat.
I started running.
Behind me I heard footsteps, running. It was getting closer.
I turned a corner and slammed directly into someone.
Strong hands grabbed my arms and held me steady. The grip was firm.
I looked up.
It was Gregor. One of Nikolai's old guards.
"Hello, Mrs. Markov," he said. "We have been looking for you."
The world tilted beneath my feet.
"Let me go," I said. My voice came out weak. I tried to pull away but his grip was too strong. His fingers dug into my arms like iron bands.
"I am afraid I cannot do that," Gregor said. "Boss wants to see you."
"Nikolai?" My heart stopped. Then restarted twice as fast. A wave of dizziness washed over me. "He is alive?"
"Very much alive," Gregor said. His expression did not change. "And very eager to talk to you."
Relief and terror crashed into each other inside my chest. He was alive. But he wanted to see me. And I knew what that meant.
"I do not want to see him," I said. Tears burned behind my eyes.
"That is not your choice," Gregor said.
The other man appeared behind me and blocked my escape. I was trapped. Caged. Just like before.
"Please," I said. My voice cracked. "Please just let me go. Tell Nikolai I am sorry. Tell him I did not have a choice." Tears spilled down my cheeks. I hated myself for crying.
"You can tell him yourself," Gregor said.
They walked me to a car parked nearby. It was black and expensive. The windows were tinted.
They put me in the back seat. Gregor sat beside me. The other man drove.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked. My hands were shaking in my lap.
"Moscow," Gregor said.
"No," I said. "I cannot go back there." My voice rose. "Please. Please just let me go."
"You do not have a choice," Gregor repeated.
I spent the drive back to Moscow in silence. My mind was racing with fear and guilt and a terrible desperate hope. I twisted my hands together until my knuckles turned white. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.
Nikolai was alive.
After seven months of wondering, of fearing the worst, of waking up in the middle of the night convinced he was dead, he was alive.
But what would he say when he saw me? What would he do when he learned what I had done?
Would he understand? Would he forgive me? Or would he look at me with the same cold hatred I deserved?
We arrived in Moscow late at night. The city looked the same. The same buildings. The same streets. The same memories lurking around every corner.
They took me to a building I did not recognize. On the outside, it looked old and abandoned. But inside, it was clean and modern. Obviously renovated recently.
They led me upstairs to an office. It has large windows overlooking the city.
And there, standing by the window with his back to me, was Nikolai.
He looked thinner than I remembered. His shoulders seemed narrower. But he was alive. Standing, breathing and existing in the same room as me.
I could not move. I could not speak. I could not breathe.
"Leave us," he said without turning around.
Gregor and the other man left. The door closed behind them. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot.
I stood there, waiting. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might break through my ribs. My hands trembled at my sides. Tears clung to my eyelashes. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Finally Nikolai turned to face me.
His eyes met mine. And I saw everything in them. Pain. Anger. Betrayal.
"Hello, Anya," he said. His voice was cold. "It has been a long time.”