Chapter 52 Marlena
I watched the video again, my thumb pressing play for the fifth time since last night. Dominic's terrified face filled the small phone screen and his whispered warnings echoed in the quiet of my bedroom. Each viewing made the anger burn hotter in my chest, made the fear dig deeper claws into my stomach.
Volkov Industries. Nikolai's company. My forgeries used as cover for weapons trafficking.
He must have known. There was no way he couldn't have known what his own company was doing, what my paintings were being used for.
And even if by some impossible chance he hadn't known at the time, he certainly knew now. Had known for months while he was dragging me through his revenge scheme, using me as bait, pretending to care.
I paused the video on Dominic's desperate face and felt tears burn behind my eyes.
He'd tried to warn me and someone had cut him off, probably killed him for trying to tell the truth. And I'd spent all this time thinking Nikolai was just a man consumed by revenge when really he was so much worse.
The burner phone I'd bought yesterday sat on the nightstand, still in its packaging. I'd picked it up at a small electronics shop in the village below the mountain, paying cash and using a fake name.
The kind of precautions that felt paranoid but necessary when you'd lived through what I had.
I pulled it from the box with shaking hands and powered it on, my heart racing as I scrolled through the contacts I'd entered. Only one name appeared on the screen.
Damien Cross.
The FBI agent who'd given me his card at the gala in New York, who'd warned me about Nikolai, who'd offered help I'd been too scared or too stupid to accept.
I'd kept his card all this time, hidden in my wallet behind old receipts and forgotten business cards. Some part of me had known I might need it eventually.
I took a deep breath and dialed before I could lose my nerve.
He answered on the second ring. "Cross."
"It's Marlena Rousseau," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "We met at a gala in New York. You gave me your card and said if I ever needed anything –"
"I remember." His voice sharpened with interest. "Are you safe?"
"For now. But I need to talk to you about Nikolai Volkov. About his company and what it's been doing."
Silence for a moment, then Damien spoke carefully. "Where are you?"
"Switzerland. In the mountains. I can't tell you more than that over the phone."
"Smart." I heard papers rustling on his end. "I have more proof than you probably realize. Documents, bank records, testimony. I've been building a case for two years but I needed someone on the inside to make it stick. Someone who could verify the connections."
"I'm not on the inside anymore," I said. "I left. We're getting divorced."
"But you have information. You were married to him, lived in his penthouse, saw things he wouldn't have shown to outsiders. And if I'm right about what I think you're calling about, you have direct evidence connecting your forgeries to his weapons trafficking operation."
My stomach turned. "How did you know about the forgeries?"
"I'm FBI, Mrs. Volkov. We know a lot of things. But what we need is someone willing to testify, someone who can put the pieces together in a way that holds up in court. Are you willing to work with us?"
The question hung in the air between us and I thought about everything Nikolai had done. The lies, the manipulation, the contract that had bound me to him. The baby I'd lost. The weapons my art had unknowingly helped distribute. People had probably died because of paintings I'd created.
"Yes," I said. "I want to help stop him."
"Good. Can you meet me tomorrow? There's a small town about an hour from where I think you are, a café called Le Refuge. One PM. Come alone."
"How do you know where I am?" The paranoia spiked again.
"I'm good at my job," Damien said, not unkindly. "And you're not the only one who wants to bring Nikolai Volkov down. I'll see you tomorrow."
He hung up and I sat there staring at the phone, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. This was it. This was how I took back control, how I made sure Nikolai couldn't hurt anyone else the way he'd hurt me.
The next morning I kissed Elena's forehead as she ate her breakfast of toast and jam at the small kitchen table. She looked better each day, color returning to her cheeks and clarity to her eyes, but she was still so fragile.
"I have to go out for a short time," I said, keeping my voice light. "Just into town for supplies. I'll be back before dinner."
Elena looked at me with those knowing eyes that saw too much. "Be careful, dorogaya."
"I will, Mama. I promise."
The drive down the mountain was nerve-wracking and every turn felt too sharp and every moment felt exposed. I kept checking the rearview mirror for cars that might be following but the road remained empty behind me. Still, my hands gripped the steering wheel tight enough to make my knuckles white.
Le Refuge sat on the main street of a town so small it barely qualified for the name. Just a handful of shops, a church with a crooked steeple, and this café with its cheerful red awning and window boxes full of geraniums. I parked around the corner and walked in at exactly one PM.
Damien waited in the back corner booth with a folder of papers spread across the table in front of him. He looked different than I remembered from the gala, less polished and more tired. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and his suit was slightly rumpled like he'd been wearing it for days.
He stood when I approached and offered his hand. "Mrs. Volkov. Thank you for coming."
"It's just Marlena now," I said, sliding into the booth across from him. "Or it will be soon."
"Marlena, then." He sat and pushed a menu toward me. "Order something. We might be here a while."
I ordered coffee I didn't want and he ordered the same, then we sat in tense silence until the waitress brought our cups and left us alone again.
"Show me what you have," I said.
Damien opened the folder and spread documents across the table between us. Bank records showing wire transfers from Volkov Industries to shell companies in the Caymans. Emails discussing shipments and deliveries with coded language that wasn't quite coded enough. Shipping manifests for art purchases that weighed far more than paintings should. And photographs of my forgeries, the ones I'd created in Paris and sold through Dominic's network, hanging in warehouses next to crates marked with biohazard symbols.
"Your paintings were perfect covers," Damien explained, his finger tracing connections between documents. "Art moves through customs with minimal inspection, especially high-value pieces with proper documentation. Volkov Industries would purchase your forgeries through intermediary buyers, then use the same shipping containers to move weapons, biological agents, materials that would otherwise be flagged immediately."
I felt like the room was spinning fast and I gripped the edge of the table to steady myself. "How many?"
"At least thirty of your pieces over three years. Maybe more. We're still tracking down all the connections." He pulled out another document, this one showing a list of buyers. "These shell companies purchased your work and every single one has ties to arms dealers, terrorist organizations, or rogue states trying to circumvent international sanctions."
"Did Nikolai know?" My voice came out as barely a whisper.
Damien's expression was grim. "The transactions went through his company's accounts. He signed off on the budgets. Either he knew exactly what was happening or he was criminally negligent in overseeing his own business. Either way, he's legally responsible."
"What do you need from me?"
"Everything you can remember. Dates, amounts, people you dealt with. Any conversations you overheard, any files you saw in his penthouse. And most importantly, your testimony that these forgeries are yours and that Nikolai knew about your work." He paused. "This won't be easy. His lawyers will come after you hard, try to discredit everything you say."
"I don't care." The words came out fierce. "People died because of what he did. Because of what I unknowingly helped him do. I need to make this right."
Damien studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. Let's start from the beginning."
We spent three hours in that café going through every detail I could remember. Every forgery I'd created, every buyer Dominic had mentioned, every conversation I'd overheard in Nikolai's penthouse. Damien took notes in careful handwriting and occasionally asked clarifying questions that showed he'd already done extensive research on his own.
By the time we finished, my coffee had gone cold and the afternoon sun was slanting through the café windows at a sharp angle. I felt wrung out and exhausted but also strangely lighter, like confession had lifted some of the weight I'd been carrying.
"This is good," Damien said, organizing his papers back into the folder. "Really good. With your testimony and the documentary evidence I already have, we can build a case that will stand up in court."
"What happens next?"
"I'll need you to come to Geneva next week to give a formal statement. Bring any evidence you have, anything Nikolai might have left behind. Photos, documents, anything that can corroborate your account." He handed me a card with an address. "This is a safe location. Don't tell anyone where you're going, not even your mother."
I took the card and slipped it into my pocket. "When will you arrest him?"
"Soon. Within the month if everything goes according to plan. We're coordinating with international authorities since his operations span multiple countries." Damien's expression softened slightly. "I know this isn't easy. Testifying against someone you were married to, even under the circumstances."
"He stopped being my husband the moment
I found out what he really was," I said coldly. "I'll do whatever it takes to make sure he pays for what he's done."