Chapter 55 Dmitri
A week passed in the blue house.
Anya fell into a rhythm she hadn't known she needed. Mornings in the garden, her hands in the soil, pulling weeds that had been growing here for years. Afternoons by the fire, reading books her father had left on the shelves, his notes still in the margins, his handwriting familiar in ways that made her chest ache. Spent evenings with Natalia, cooking meals that tasted like nothing and everything was at the small table in the kitchen, the windows dark against the night.
They didn't talk about Dima, Nikolai, the Key or the war that was waiting for her when she decides to stop hiding.
Anya didn't know if she was home or If this place, with its faded blue paint, overgrown garden and its ghosts of a father she'd never really known, could ever be home. But it was quiet and safe for now and that was enough.
\---
Three hundred miles away, the estate was anything but quiet.
Dima had returned the night after Anya refused to see him. He'd driven through the dark, his hands steady on the wheel, his face empty of everything but exhaustion. He'd parked the car in the garage walking through the silent house, climbing up the stairs to his room without looking at anyone or speaking to anyone not acknowledging the world that was waiting for him to fall apart.
When Natalia had come down the path, her grey eyes older than he remembered, face harder than the woman who had disappeared when he was still a boy.
"She's not ready," Natalia had said. "Give her time."
He'd wanted to argue, push past her going towards the gate, climbing through the window if he had to cause he'd driven three days and had been waiting his whole life for someone to look at him the way Anya looked at him. He wasn't going to let a locked gate and a woman who'd been dead for fifteen years stand in his way.
But Natalia had stood there, solid and unyielding, and she'd said, "If you love her, you'll wait."
So he got into his car driving off to the house with nothing but the memory of her face in the window and the memories they made.
He didn't know how long he could wait or how long he could stay away, keeping himself from driving back to that gate or begging her to listen to everything he should have told her before.
But he would try for her.m, for them and the future he still believed they could have.
\---
The jet landed at the estate's private airstrip at noon on the seventh day.
Nikolai stood on the tarmac, his hands clasped behind his back, his face arranged in the careful expression of a man who was used to greeting powerful people. He'd been told to expect a visitor but he hadn't been told who.
The plane was small, sleek, painted in colors that didn't belong to any airline he recognized. The door opened while the stairs descended with a young man descending.
He was tall, a little bit lean, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than most people made in a year. His hair was dark, cut short, styled with the kind of precision that spoke of personal stylists and private jets. His face was handsome with sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
But it was his eyes that made Nikolai's stomach clench.
They were grey, pale and cold. It was the same grey as General Smirnov's. The same grey that had been watching Nikolai from across negotiation tables for twenty-three years.
The young man descended the stairs slowly, his movements unhurried, his gaze sweeping over the tarmac, house and the staff standing at attention. He took his time, letting everyone wait, wonder, and feel the weight of his presence before he deigned to acknowledge them.
He stopped in front of Nikolai, his smile widening while extending his hand for a hand shake.
"Mr. Volkov, my father sends his regards."
Nikolai took the hand, the grip was firm, dry, exactly as long as it needed to be. "Your father didn't tell me he was sending anyone."
"No." The young man released his hand, his eyes still fixed on Nikolai's face. "He didn't, he decided it was time the Smirnov family took a more personal interest in the situation."
Nikolai's jaw tightened. "What situation?"
The young man's smile didn't waver. "The Petrova situation, the Key which means the girl." He looked past Nikolai toward the house, "my father is growing impatient, he's tired of waiting cause he has been waiting twenty-three years for your family to deliver what was promised.”
He started walking toward the house, his long strides eating up the distance, leaving Nikolai to follow.
Nikolai fell into step beside him, his mind racing. He'd known Smirnov would send someone eventually. The General was too invested, patient and dangerous to leave something this important in someone else's hands for long. But he'd hoped for more time, like time to find Anya, secure the Key and figure out how to satisfy Smirnov without losing everything he'd built.
"Young man," Nikolai said, his voice careful, "I don't believe I caught your name."
The young man glanced at him, his grey eyes amused. "Dmitri Smirnov." He looked back at the house, windows and the world he was about to claim as his own. "And I'm not just here to observe, Mr. Volkov. I'm here to finish what my father started."
On the other hand Dima heard the news from Irina.
She found him in the library, surrounded by papers he hadn't touched, a fire burning low in the hearth. She didn't knock, she doesn't knock anymore. Just pushed open the door and stood there, her dark eyes sharp with her arms crossed over her chest.
"Father's guest has arrived."
Dima looked up, his eyes tired, his face blank. "Guest?"
"Smirnov's son, Dmitri." Irina moved into the room, her boots silent on the rug, her voice low. "He landed an hour ago. Father's already taking him on a tour of the house, showing off, trying to make an impression."
Dima's stomach turned. "Why would Smirnov send his son?"
"Because he's done waiting." Irina stopped in front of the fire, her back to him, her voice tight. "Anya's gone, the Key is missing and father doesn't know where either of them is while Smirnov is running out of patience so he's sending in the cavalry." She turned to face him, her eyes dark. "Dmitri isn't just here to observe, he's here to take over bringing his own people, resources and way of doing things."
Dima stood, his hands flat on the desk, his heart pounding. "What does he want?"
Irina's laugh was soft, bitter. "What do you think? He wants the Key, Anya and wants to be the one who delivers both to his father and claims whatever reward comes with it." She moved closer, her voice dropping. "He's young, Dima and from what I've heard, he's not burdened by his father's patience. He'll do whatever it takes to get what he wants and he doesn't care who gets hurt in the process."
"She can't come back," he said quietly. "Not while he's here."
Irina nodded slowly. "I know but Father won't stop looking for her and now he has Smirnov's resources backing him up. It's only a matter of time before someone finds her."
Dima moved to the window, looking out at the grounds, trees and road that led away from this house and everything in it. He thought of the blue house, the woman who had stood between him and the only thing he'd ever wanted.
"Maybe not," he said. "Maybe there are still places even Smirnov can't reach."
Irina joined him at the window, her shoulder brushing his, her voice soft. "You really love her, don't you?"
Dima was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, his voice barely a whisper, "More than anything.”
Irina nodded slowly. "Then you need to find a way to protect her because Dmitri Smirnov isn't like our father. He's not going to wait for her to come back, he's going to hunt her down and when he finds her—" She paused, her jaw tightening. "When he finds her, he's not going to let her go."
\---
Dmitri Smirnov stood at the window of the guest room they'd given him, looking out at the grounds.
It was a beautiful property. He could feel them, the ghosts of the people who had lived here, people who had died here and people who had been erased to keep this family's power intact.
He didn't care about any of them cause he only cares about one thing, one person.
Anya Petrova.
He'd seen photographs of her, studied her file, learned her habits, her preferences, and her weaknesses so he knew what she looked like when she laughed, when she cried and when she's afraid.
She was smart of which she took from her father. Smarter than her mother, her father and anyone in this house which was full of old men who thought they knew how to play the game.
But she wasn't smarter than him.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the messages that had come in while he was in the air. Reports from the people his father had placed in the city, countryside, and places where a woman on the run might try to hide but still there was nothing yet. There was always a trail, and he was very good at following trails.
He'd find her and when he does he's going to offer her a choice.
Which was the Key, or her life.
He smiled, his reflection pale in the dark glass cause it wasn't really a choice at all.
\---
At the blue house, the message got there with just a phone call.
Natalia answered it in the kitchen, her voice low, her eyes on Anya sitting by the fire. She listened for a long time, her face still while her hands steady on the receiver.
When she hung up, she stood in the kitchen for a moment, her back to the room, her shoulders tense.
Anya looked up from her book. "What is it?"
Natalia turned, her grey eyes dark. "There's someone new at the estate, someone who's looking for you."
Anya's stomach clenched. "Who?"
Natalia crossed to the fire, kneeling to stir the embers, the flames leaping up at her touch.
"His name is Dmitri Smirnov, he's the General's son and he's not here to negotiate."