Chapter 22 Marlena
The coffee shop on 5th Avenue was crowded enough to feel anonymous but not so packed I couldn't see the exits.
Old habits from Paris died hard.
I'd been sitting there for an hour, nursing a latte that had gone cold, when I saw him.
Dominic.
He looked different. He was thinner and older. His grey hair had more white in it, and the lines around his eyes had deepened into crevices but it was him.
My mentor. My father figure. The man who'd taught me everything about forgery and then disappeared after warning me about Nikolai.
He slid into the seat across from me without asking, his eyes darting around the coffee shop like he expected someone to jump out at any moment.
"You shouldn't be here," I said quietly.
"Neither should you, but here we are." His voice was rough, strained. "We need to talk. Now."
"Dominic, what –"
"You're in danger, Marlena. Real danger, beyond whatever mess you've gotten yourself into with Volkov." He leaned forward, his hands shaking as they wrapped around my cold coffee cup. "Your forgeries are surfacing at major auction houses. Christie's, Sotheby's, private sales in Monaco and Geneva."
My stomach dropped. "That's impossible. I stopped working years ago."
"I know you did, but someone's been selling them anyway. Three pieces so far, each one authenticated as original, each one selling for millions." His eyes locked onto mine. "They're building a case against you, Marlena. A massive art fraud scheme that traces back to you."
The coffee shop suddenly felt too small, too exposed. "Who? Who's doing this?"
"I don't know yet, but whoever it is has resources and connections. They've been moving these pieces through channels tied to Viktor's old network." He pulled a USB drive from his pocket and pressed it into my palm. "Everything I've found is on here. Sales records, buyer information, shell companies. Hide it. Don't let anyone find it."
"Dominic, I don't understand –"
"Someone wants you destroyed, and they're using your own work to do it." He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "Trust no one, Marlena. Not the FBI, not your new society friends, and especially not your husband."
"Wait –" I grabbed his arm, but he pulled away.
"I'm sorry I dragged you into this world. I'm sorry I taught you how to do what you do." His voice cracked. "But you need to figure out who's framing you before they bury you completely."
Then he was gone, weaving through the crowded coffee shop and disappearing onto the street.
I sat there, the USB drive burning in my palm, my heart racing so fast I thought I might pass out.
Back at the penthouse, I locked myself in my room and plugged the drive into my laptop.
Dominic hadn't been exaggerating.
Three paintings I'd forged in Paris, each one documented with photos, provenance reports, and sale records. The Modigliani from that last job. A Degas I'd done two years earlier and a Renoir I'd almost forgotten about from my first year working with Dominic.
All three had been sold within the last six months through different auction houses, authenticated by experts who should have known better.
Total sale price: twelve million dollars.
I scrolled through the buyer information, trying to find patterns in the shell companies and offshore accounts, and my blood ran cold.
All three transactions traced back to accounts in Monaco. The same accounts I'd seen in Nikolai's locked drawer, mixed in with his financial records.
The same accounts connected to Viktor's network.
My father's network.
Someone had taken my forgeries and weaponized them, turning my own crimes into a trap that would destroy me and the money was flowing through Viktor's old channels, which meant either he was behind this or someone in his organization was.
But there was another possibility, one that made my chest tighten with something worse than fear.
Nikolai had access to Viktor's network. He'd been tracking it for years, infiltrating it, using it for his own purposes.
What if he was the one selling my forgeries?
What if this had always been part of his plan, not just to use me as bait for Viktor but to frame me for crimes that would make me completely dependent on him?
I thought back to everything he'd done since we met. The blackmail. The contract. The way he'd known exactly where to find me in Paris, exactly which forgeries to use as leverage.
He'd been tracking my work for years. Had access to pieces I thought were buried. Had connections to the same auction houses now selling my forgeries as originals.
It all fit too well.
My hands shook as I closed the laptop and stared at the USB drive.
Dominic had said trust no one, especially not my husband but I'd already started trusting Nikolai, letting myself believe that maybe beneath the cold exterior and the blackmail, there was something real between us.
What if that had been the biggest lie of all?
What if every moment of vulnerability, every confession, every touch had been calculated to make me compliant while he destroyed me piece by piece?
I thought about the photo of my mother and his father. The connection between our families he'd never explained.
The evidence was piling up, and all of it pointed in one direction.
Nikolai knew more than he was saying. About my forgeries, about Viktor, about the connection between our families.
And I needed to find out the truth before whoever was framing me finished the job.
Even if that truth meant discovering that the man I'd started falling for was the architect of my destruction all along.
The charity gala felt like a repeat of every other performance we'd done, except this time the mask was slipping.
I stood beside Nikolai in a silver gown I hadn't chosen, smiling at people whose names I'd forget tomorrow, pretending everything was fine.
But it wasn't fine.
Every time he touched my waist, I thought about the Monaco accounts. Every time he introduced me as his wife, I wondered if he was the one framing me.
Every time he smiled that cold, perfect smile, I saw the photo of my mother and his father and felt the weight of secrets crushing me.
"You're tense," he murmured near my ear as we moved through the ballroom.
"I'm fine."
"You're a terrible liar when you're not trying." His hand tightened on my waist. "What's wrong?"
Everything, I wanted to scream. Everything is wrong and you know it and you won't tell me the truth.
Instead, I said, "Nothing. Just tired."
He didn't believe me, I could see it in the way his jaw tightened, but he let it go as Catherine Kensington approached with more people who wanted to meet the mysterious Mrs. Volkov.
I played my part. Smiled. Laughed at appropriate moments. Deflected questions about our "whirlwind romance" with the ease of someone who'd been lying for months.
But inside, I was coming apart.
"Mrs. Volkov."
I turned to find Damien Cross standing too close, his FBI badge notably absent but his cop eyes missing nothing.
"Agent Cross," I said carefully.
"Just Damien tonight. I'm off duty." His smile was warm but his gaze was sharp as it flicked between me and Nikolai. "Congratulations again on the marriage. You two seem very happy."
The way he said 'happy' suggested he knew we were anything but.
Nikolai materialized beside me, his presence a wall of cold control. "Cross. I didn't realize the FBI attended private charity events."
"We make exceptions for good causes." Damien's smile didn't waver. "Actually, Mrs. Volkov, I was hoping to speak with you privately for a moment. About a mutual acquaintance."
"Marlena doesn't have time for –"
"I'd love to," I interrupted, meeting Damien's eyes. "Excuse us, darling."
I felt Nikolai's fury radiating off him as Damien led me to a quiet corner near the windows overlooking Central Park.
"You're playing a dangerous game," Damien said quietly once we were alone.
"I don't know what you mean." I said, running my hand through my hair.
"Yes, you do. I've been investigating your husband for two years, Mrs. Volkov. I know what he is, what he's capable of, and I know you're in over your head." He pulled a card from his pocket, pressing it into my hand. "Your husband isn't who you think he is. When you're ready for the truth, call me."
I looked down at the card. A private number, nothing else.
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because I've seen what happens to people who get caught in Nikolai Volkov's web. They don't usually walk away." His voice softened. "And you seem like someone who deserves a chance to escape before it's too late."
"I can handle my husband."
"Can you?" He glanced over my shoulder to where Nikolai stood watching us with an expression that would have frozen hell. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone who just realized she married a stranger."
I pocketed the card, my heart racing. "Thank you for your concern, Agent Cross. But I'm fine."
"For now." He nodded politely. "Have a good evening, Mrs. Volkov."
As he walked away, I turned to find Nikolai cutting through the crowd toward me, his expression dark and dangerous.
"What did he say to you?" His voice was too quiet, too controlled.
"Nothing important."
"Don't lie to me, Marlena. What did Cross want?"
"Just to congratulate us on the marriage." I met his gaze steadily. "Why? Is there something he might have told me that you don't want me to know?"
His jaw clenched. "We're leaving."
"The gala isn't over –"
"I said we're leaving. Now."
The car ride home was suffocating silence until I couldn't take it anymore.
"We need to talk," I said.
"Not now."
"Yes, now. I'm done waiting for you to decide when I'm allowed to ask questions." I turned to face him in the darkness of the backseat. "I found the photo, Nikolai. The one of my mother and your father."
He went very still, his expression unreadable in the passing streetlights.
"I know you've been tracking my forgeries for years. I know someone's selling them through Viktor's old network. I know there's a connection between our families that you've been hiding from me." My voice rose despite my best efforts. "So stop treating me like I'm stupid and tell me the truth."
"You want the truth?" His voice was ice. "You can't handle the truth."
"Try me."
We stared at each other across the leather seats, and something shifted in his expression. A decision being made.
"Fine," he said quietly. "Follow me."
Back at the penthouse, he led me to the elevator. But instead of pressing forty-four or forty-five, he pressed forty-six.
The forbidden floor.
My heart hammered as we rode up in silence. The doors opened to reveal a space I'd never seen, and my breath caught.
It was a war room.
Wall-to-wall screens showed surveillance footage from multiple locations. Filing cabinets lined one wall, each drawer labeled with names and dates.
Maps covered another wall, pins and strings connecting locations across three continents.
And in the center of it all, on the largest screen, was a photo I recognized from childhood.
Viktor Rousseau.
My father.
Younger than I remembered, but unmistakably him. Those cold eyes. That predatory smile.
The room tilted sideways as understanding crashed through me.
All of this – the surveillance, the files, the maps, the obsessive documentation – was focused on one man.
My father.
"That's..." My voice came out strangled. "That's my father."
Nikolai stood behind me, his presence a wall of controlled fury and cold purpose.
"I know,"