Chapter 65 Marlena
The hotel room was quiet in a way that made my ears ring.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall across from me, at the cheap painting of a bridge that hung there, and felt nothing. Not sadness. Not anger. Not fear. Just empty, like someone had reached inside my chest and scooped everything out and left behind only the hollow shape of where feelings used to be.
Luka was gone. The baby was gone. My mother was gone.
Everyone I had ever loved was dead and I was still here in this quiet hotel room in Prague staring at a painting of a bridge I would never cross. The unfairness of it should have made me angry but I couldn't find the energy for anger. I couldn't find the energy for anything.
The clock on the nightstand said it was three in the afternoon but I couldn't remember if I'd slept or not. Time had stopped making sense. Hours passed like minutes or minutes passed like hours and I couldn't tell the difference anymore. I just sat there and breathed and stared and waited for something to happen that would tell me what I was supposed to do next.
A knock came at the door.
I didn't move at first. Whoever it was could come back later or not come back at all. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
The knock came again, harder this time, more insistent.
"Marlena," a voice called through the door. "It's Damien. I need to talk to you."
I stood up slowly and walked to the door and opened it. Damien stood in the hallway holding a leather briefcase and wearing a suit that looked too nice for the kind of hotel we were in. His face was serious and professional and I could tell from the way he looked at me that he thought I was fragile, that I might break if he wasn't careful.
Maybe he was right.
"Can I come in?" he asked.
I stepped back and let him pass and then closed the door behind him. He walked to the small table by the window and set his briefcase down and opened it with efficient movements like he'd done this a thousand times before.
"How are you holding up?" he asked, and the question was perfunctory, the kind people asked when they already knew the answer and were just being polite.
"I'm fine," I lied.
He pulled papers from his briefcase and spread them across the table in neat stacks. "I'm sorry about your mother. What happened in those catacombs was a tragedy that could have been prevented if we'd moved faster."
I didn't answer. There was nothing to say to that.
"I need to talk to you about Nikolai," Damien continued, and something in his tone changed, became more focused. "The FBI arrested him this morning at the airfield. We have enough evidence to prosecute him for weapons trafficking, money laundering, fraud, and conspiracy. The case is solid."
The words landed but didn't sink in. Nikolai arrested. Of course he was arrested. That had always been where this was going, from the moment I first called Damien and agreed to help build a case. I had known it would end with Nikolai in handcuffs.
So why did it feel wrong now?
"We're offering you full immunity," Damien said, pulling out another set of papers and setting them in front of me. "In exchange for your testimony. You testify about the forgeries, about what you saw in his penthouse, about the conversations you overheard, and we guarantee no charges will be filed against you for your involvement."
I looked down at the papers but the words blurred together and I couldn't focus on them.
"You'd be doing the right thing," Damien continued when I didn't respond. "Nikolai Volkov is dangerous. He's hurt a lot of people. He hurt you. This is your chance to make sure he pays for what he's done."
I picked up the immunity agreement and tried to read it but my brain wouldn't cooperate. The sentences were too long and complicated and my head hurt from trying to follow them.
"I need to think about it," I said.
"There's not much time," Damien said. "The preliminary hearing is in three days. We need your answer before then so we can prepare."
"I said I need to think about it," I repeated, and my voice came out sharper than I meant it to.
Damien studied me for a moment and then nodded slowly. "Alright. But Marlena, you need to understand what's at stake here. If you don't testify, our case gets weaker. He might walk. Is that what you want?"
I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't know anything anymore.
"I'll look at the evidence," I said. "Leave it with me and I'll call you tomorrow."
He didn't look happy about it but he agreed. He gathered some of the papers back into his briefcase but left the main evidence files stacked on the table. Then he gave me a business card with his direct number written on the back.
"Call me if you have questions," he said. "Any time, day or night."
After he left I sat at the table and stared at the evidence files for a long time before I opened the first one.
The documents inside were familiar. Bank records showing wire transfers from Volkov Industries to shell companies. Shipping manifests for art purchases that weighed more than paintings should. Emails with coded language about deliveries and shipments. Photos of my forgeries hanging in warehouses next to crates marked with warning symbols.
I'd seen most of this before, when Damien first showed me what he had, back when I was angry and grieving for Luka and wanted Nikolai to hurt the way I was hurting.
But something felt different now.
I went through the documents slowly, reading them more carefully than I had before, and small things started jumping out at me. Dates that didn't quite line up. Email headers that looked slightly off. Shipping records that referenced ports Nikolai had told me his company never used.
I pulled out my phone and opened the photos I'd taken months ago in Nikolai's war room, the ones I'd sent to Damien as evidence. I compared them to the documents he'd just left with me.
They didn't match.
Not completely. Small details had been changed. A date altered here. An amount adjusted there. Names added to emails that weren't in the original versions. Nothing huge or obvious. Just tiny modifications that made the evidence look stronger, more damning, more clear cut than it actually was.
My stomach turned over.
I went through the rest of the files more carefully, comparing everything to the photos on my phone and to my own memories of what I'd seen and heard. The pattern became clearer the more I looked. Someone had been editing the evidence, manufacturing connections that didn't exist, making Nikolai look guilty of things he might not have actually done.
Damien.
It had to be Damien. He was the one who'd compiled all of this. He was the one who'd been building the case. He was the one who had the most to gain from a conviction, from taking down a high profile target like Nikolai Volkov and adding it to his record as a win.
I felt sick.
I'd trusted Damien. I'd gone to him because I thought he was honest, because I thought he wanted justice and not just another notch on his belt. I'd believed him when he said the evidence was solid and Nikolai was guilty and all we needed was my testimony to make it stick.
But he'd been lying. Not about everything. The core of it was probably true, Nikolai had done bad things and his company had been involved in weapons trafficking and money laundering. But Damien had embellished it, had added details and changed facts to make the case stronger, to make sure the jury would convict.
He was dirty too. Just in a different way than the people he was trying to prosecute.
I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes and tried to think through what this meant.
If I testified, I'd be helping Damien put Nikolai in prison based partly on lies. Based on evidence that had been manufactured or altered to fit the story Damien wanted to tell. And yes, Nikolai had done terrible things. He'd manipulated me and used me and cost me almost everything I loved. He deserved to face consequences for that.
But not like this. Not based on lies. Not with me standing in a courtroom swearing to tell the truth and then repeating things I now knew weren't completely accurate.
I thought about my mother. About how she'd looked at me in the catacombs right before she died and told me to live for both of us. About what kind of life she would have wanted me to have.
Not one built on lies. Not one where I became the kind of person who testified in court knowing the evidence was dirty. Not one where I let myself be used again, this time by someone who pretended to be on my side.
I picked up my phone and called Damien's direct number. He answered on the first ring.
"Marlena," he said, and I could hear the hope in his voice. "Have you made a decision?"
"I'm not testifying," I said.
Silence on the other end. Then, "What?"
"I said I'm not testifying. I won't be part of your case."
"Marlena, listen to me." His voice changed, became harder. "You don't understand what you're throwing away. This immunity deal doesn't come around twice. If you walk away from it now, you could be charged as an accomplice. You could go to prison."
"Then I go to prison," I said, and my voice was steadier than I felt. "But I won't stand in court and swear to evidence I know has been tampered with."
Another silence. Longer this time.
"You think you're protecting him," Damien said finally, and now his voice was cold. "But he doesn't deserve your protection. He's a criminal who destroyed your life."
"I know what he is," I said. "But I also know what you are. You changed the evidence. You altered documents to make your case stronger. I compared them to the originals."
I could hear him breathing on the other end of the line. When he spoke again his voice was quiet and dangerous.
"Be very careful what you're accusing me of."
"I'm not accusing," I said. "I'm just telling you why I won't testify. Find another witness. Build your case on real evidence. But leave me out of it."
I hung up before he could respond.
My hands were shaking as I set the phone down on the table. I had just made an enemy of an FBI agent. I had just walked away from immunity and opened myself up to prosecution. I had just chosen to protect a man who had hurt me more than anyone else ever had.
But the alternative was worse. The alternative was becoming someone who sent a man to prison based on lies, who let herself be used as a weapon one more time, who looked in the mirror every day and saw someone who'd traded the truth for safety.
I couldn't be that person. My mother wouldn't have wanted me to be that person.
I looked at the evidence files still spread across the table and felt something that wasn't quite peace but was close to it. A kind of quiet certainty that I'd made the right choice even if it was the harder one.