Page 46 of Rafi

Something in his voice shatters me, a quiet force that cuts through the chaos in my mind. He’s not afraid to stand in Igor’s way, even without knowing the depths of his depravity.

For the first time in a long time, a flicker of hope stirs beneath my fear. Maybe, just maybe, Rafi is someone who can face the darkness I’ve been running from. And maybe I don’t have to face it alone. But then I start to spiral again as my thoughts turn to something more sinister. How did Igor even know where to find me?

26

RAFI

At her insistence, and above my protestations, we’ve come back to the shelter so Tayana can pick up a few things and check the cameras, hoping we’ll find a clue – anything that can help us identify who attacked her place of work. She seems to think it was her uncle, but I’m still not convinced it was her uncle. Why now? Why here?Why even?

The only reason she can give me is the possibility that he found out what she was doing and this conflicted with his own interests. It seems a stretch at best, but I’m humoring her; the shelter is surrounded by our men flanking every corner of the property as we settle behind her desktop and she logs in to the cameras.

I glance over at her. Her eyes are scouring the screen, trying to narrow down the reel to the date and time in question. The angle of her jaw is tight, her lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line.

Her hand tightens on the mouse, her knuckles whitening, her focus fixed on the screen. Her indifference feels rehearsed, but I let it slide for now. Instead, I follow her gaze, watching as the Russians go back and forth, as though searching for something.

“What are they even looking for?” she hisses, zooming in on a box being carried out by a soldier in fatigues. She pauses, and her lips part in surprise before she cocks her head and flicks the screen to the image of another soldier.

“Is there anything here you’ll miss?” I ask, trying to give her an answer.

“Everything in there is backed up to a secure server that’s impenetrable,” she says with a small, tight shrug. “Good luck to them if they think they’re going to find anything.”

“What are you looking at?” I ask, as she snaps from soldier to soldier, blowing up the images for a closer look. She keeps her eyes planted firmly on the cameras as she speaks.

“Definitely not Igor’s men,” she says finally.

“How can you tell?”

“These men are wearing a uniform. Custom fatigues. See?”

She points to what looks like a logo on the leg of one of the men’s pants, then the next. It appears they’re all wearing them. A star with the profile of a lion’s head on either side of it. I’ve never seen it before.

“That’s a little…unconventional,” I point out.

“This logo is very specific. Igor doesn’t like labels. Definitely not his men.”

“So who does it belong to, then?”

She shrugs her shoulders and I lean back, crossing my arms as I study her profile. “Tell me why you hate your uncle so much.”

Her posture stiffens slightly, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she keeps her gaze on the screen, carried away by her thoughts.

“He hurt me, Rafi,” she says after a beat, her tone clipped. “I’d rather not cut open old wounds, if you don’t mind.”

Her words are final, a line drawn in the sand. But her voice falters just slightly at the end, enough to reveal the weight she’s carrying.

Before I can push further, the shrill ring of a phone shatters the taut silence between us. Tayana stiffens, pulling the device from her pocket. The phone’s new, codified and secure—I made sure of that after the attack on her shelter.

“It’s my father,” she says, her eyes darting to the screen before flicking up to meet mine.

I nod toward the corner of the room. “Take it. I’ll wait here.”

She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the phone like it might combust. Then, without another word, she moves away, her steps deliberate and quiet as she answers the call.

I keep my eyes on the screen, but my mind is on Tayana. Her reluctance to speak about her uncle, the way her shoulders carry a weight that seems older than her years—it’s a puzzle I can’t help but want to solve.

From the corner of the room, her voice is low, her tone measured. “Yes, Papa. I’m safe.”

She paces as she speaks, her words soft but strained, like each one is carefully chosen to hide what’s really going on. I watch her out of the corner of my eye, the way her free hand curls into a fist and releases with each step.

---