Chapter 57 The Proposal
The basement door was old, the wood warped with age while the handle was cool beneath Anya's fingers. She stood there for a long moment, the key pressed against her palm, her heart pounding in her chest. Behind her, the fire crackled, above her, the house settled into its evening quiet and somewhere beneath her feet, buried under years of dust and silence as her father's secrets were waiting.
She turned the key.
The lock was stiff, unused for years, but it gave a soft click that seemed too loud in the quiet house. The door swung open, revealing a staircase that descended into darkness. The air that rose from below was cold, still and thick with the smell of earth and old stone.
She stepped down.
The stairs creaked beneath her weight, walls were rough, the stone slick with moisture while the light from the kitchen fading behind her as she descended. She reached the bottom, her hand finding a cord, pulling it. A bare bulb flickered to life, casting weak yellow light across a room that had been waiting for her since before she was born.
It was a small space, the ceiling low, the walls lined with shelves that held nothing but dust. A workbench stood against the far wall, empty except for a single box. It was wooden, dark in colour but not larger than a shoebox. It sat in the center of the bench.
Anya walked towards it, her footsteps soft on the stone floor. She ran her fingers over the lid, feeling the grain, the smoothness of wood that had been handled many times before it was left here. Her father's hands had touched this box. Her father's hands had placed it here, knowing she would find it someday.
She opened it.
Inside was a photograph wrapped in a yellow cloth, she lifted it carefully, the paper soft with worn edges. It showed a man she didn't recognize, young, handsome, dressed in a uniform she didn't know. He was standing beside a woman, her face was really clear, her hand resting on his arm. Behind them, a house she'd never seen, a garden she'd never walked through and a life that had ended before she was born.
Beneath the photograph was a letter, folded small, the paper crisp despite the years. She opened it, her hands steady, her breath held in her chest.
My darling Anya,
If you're reading this, you've found the box. You've found the truth I couldn't bring myself to destroy. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger, I'm sorry I couldn't finish what I started, I'm sorry I left this for you.
The man in the photograph was Dmitri Smirnov, while the woman is his mother. She was my friend before she was his wife, before she was his victim that was buried in a grave that doesn't bear her name.
I tried to save her and her son but I failed, and now he's become something I couldn't stop, something I couldn't save him from and something that will come for you if I'm not there to protect you.
The Key is not enough but the evidence, files and truth will destroy Nikolai and hurt Smirnov but it will not stop Dmitri. He's been preparing for this his whole life, he knows what I built, how to find it and use it.
There is only one way to stop him, protect yourself and end this before it begins.
In the box, beneath the letter, is a key to a safe in Zurich. The safe contains everything Dmitri has been hiding. His crimes, secrets, things he's done that even his father doesn't know about. If you find it and release it, he will fall and so will everyone who ever protected him.
But once you start, you can't stop and once you become what you need to become to defeat him, you can't go back to being the girl you were before.
I'm sorry, Anya. I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger but I know you can do this. I know you're stronger than I ever was and you'll finish what I started.
I love you. I'll always love you.
Dad
Anya read the letter over and over again till the words blurred recalling her father's voice echoing in her ears.
She reached into the box, her fingers finding the key. Small, brass, the number 417 stamped into the metal. The key to a safe in Zurich and it has everything Dmitri Smirnov had been hiding for twenty years.
She closed her fingers around it still standing there, the key in her hand, when she heard the footsteps upstairs.
\---
Three hundred miles away, in the estate she'd left behind, Nikolai Volkov was losing control of his house.
Dmitri Smirnov had been there for three days, and in three days, he'd managed to do what Nikolai had spent twenty-three years preventing. He'd turned the staff against each other, the family against itself and the carefully constructed order of Nikolai's world into chaos.
He did it with smiles, invitations and the kind of charm that made people forget they were being manipulated until it was too late.
He took coffee with Evelyn, listening to her stories about the old days, parties she'd attended, the men who had courted her and the life she'd left behind. He walked the grounds with Maxim, asking questions about security, protocol and the weaknesses in the system Nikolai had spent decades building. While he sat with Irina in the conservatory, talking about nothing, just watching everything, filing away every word she let slip.
And he waited, for what, no one knew but everyone could feel it.
On the third evening, he came to Nikolai's study.
He didn't knock or announce his arrival. He just walked in, closing the door behind him, his grey eyes fixed on the man behind the desk.
"We need to talk."
Nikolai set down his pen, his jaw tight. He'd known this was coming because he had been preparing for it since the jet landed on his airstrip but knowing and facing were different things.
"Sit down."
Dmitri didn't sit. He moved to the window, his back to Nikolai, his hands clasped behind him. He stood there for a long moment, looking out at the ground and sky.
"Your wife is very charming," he said. "Evelyn. She's told me so much about her life here, about the parties, dinners and the way you courted her. She seems very happy."
Nikolai's hands tightened on the desk. "She's comfortable."
"She's medicated." Dmitri turned, his smile thin. "There's a difference but she's not the reason why I'm here."
He crossed to the desk, stopping on the other side, his hands flat on the wood. He was close enough that Nikolai could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the way his pupils contracted in the lamplight and the stillness of a man who had learned to wait.
"The Key," Dmitri said, " and the Petrova girl, you've lost both."
Nikolai's jaw tightened. "She ran, we're looking for her and we'll find her."
"You've been looking for weeks and you found nothing up till now." Dmitri's voice was soft, almost gentle. "My father is not patient, Mr. Volkov. He's waited twenty-three years for what was promised to him, he e's tired of waiting."
"What does he want?"
Dmitri's smile widened. "He wants what he's always wanted, the Key, evidence and an end to any threat to his empire." He paused, his grey eyes fixed on Nikolai's face. "But I want something else."
Nikolai's stomach turned. "What?"
Dmitri straightened, moving away from the desk, his footsteps silent on the rug. He walked to the fireplace, his hand resting on the mantel while facing his back at Nikolai.
"The Key is old money, secrets and wars that have already been fought." He turned, his face half in shadow. "I want new blood, I want the Petrova girl not her father's evidence or legacy but her."