Page 19 of His Hold

I stormed out, the echo of her words chasing me down the stairs

I couldn’t know then how final those words would feel. Or that they’d be the last real conversation we’d have. I told myself, after leaving, that it was Irina’s fault. That her recklessness had ruined everything. I’d let that inflate my ego into something ugly. I wanted to be the good daughter. The hero. And Irina saw through all of it.

But I was still so convinced I was right. She was selfish and reckless, dragging herself into something dangerous just for the thrill. I didn’t realize then that her desperation for more was rooted in pain. That she was already tangled in something shady.

And maybe that’s why, when she stopped responding to my texts a few months later, I didn’t push harder. I assumed she was ignoring me out of spite. That she was too stubborn to admit she’d fucked everything up. It was easier to believe that than to consider something worse. To face the possibility that my anger had blinded me to the danger she was really in.

I wanted to believe she was just being difficult. That she was punishing me for not letting her wreck her life. Because if I acknowledged something worse... it would mean I’d failed her completely.

I spent that year with Mom, caring for her while she slowly withered away. But my silence with Irina had nothing to do with Mom’s illness. It was pride. Stubbornness. The certainty that I’d been right and she’d been wrong. And maybe I was, about some things.

But Emily’s words kept spinning in my head. Irina was seeing someone new. Someone dangerous.

I should have seen it. I should have put the pieces together. But I’d been too consumed by my own bitterness. Too blind to see, she was just lost in something bigger than herself. When I returned a year later with shame and regret crushing my chest, her apartment was empty. No note. No forwarding address. Just murmurs about her involvement in Bratva.

Either way, I failed her. And I’m going to make Nikolai pay for it.

The memory releases me as I round the corner to my apartment building. Sweat drips down my back despite the cool weather. Time to get ready for work – my perfectly crafted cover as a lifestyle magazine writer. If only my editor knew how I really spent my free time, digging through the city's underbelly for any trace of Irina.

I shower and dress for work; my routine is automatic. Black jeans, a gray blouse, boots. I pack my laptop, check the time. Still too early. Maybe if I head in now, I can finish that article before lunch.

Settled in at work thirty minutes later, I shake it off and type, my fingers moving without much thought. This particular article’s on the city’s homeless crisis, and I’ve got interviews lined up for later.

Around noon, the editor-in-chief, and my horrible boss, Meredith, drops a stack of papers on my desk without looking up from her phone. “Edit these before you leave. We’re on a deadline.”

I nod, even though everything in me wants to yell out that this isn’t my job, but I keep my face neutral. And she doesn’t notice. She never does.

The hours go by in a blur. I type, edit, and send emails. When I finally clock out, it’s dark. I tug my jacket tighter and head for the subway. The platform’s half-empty, and a tingling sensation crawls up my spine. I glance around. Nothing. Just a couple of guys in suits, a teenager with headphones, a woman in scrubs.

I shake my head and board the train.

When I get off at my stop, I pick up the pace. The hairs on my neck prickle as I walk home. I check over my shoulder – nothing. Another block, I spot a glimpse of movement in my peripheral vision. But nothing concrete. I play it off as nothing and continue.

The parking garage looms ahead, but tonight it seems menacing. I take the long way around instead.

Three blocks from home, I hear footsteps echo behind me. I spin around. The street stretches empty in both directions, but the feeling of being watched intensifies. Survival instincts kick in, the ones I've honed investigating the Bratva. And I break into a run.

Thankfully, my building comes into view. I fumble with my keys, hands shaking as I unlock the front door. Rushing inside, I decide that the elevator would make me too vulnerable. I take the stairs two at a time to the fourth floor.

The moment I see my apartment door hanging open, my stomach drops.

"No, no, no." The words slip out as I push inside.

Destruction greets me. Cushions slashed. Papers scattered. Photos torn. My laptop lies shattered on the kitchen floor. But it's the message carved into my wooden table that stops my breath:

We’re watching you.

I grab my phone, fingers trembling as I dial 911. While waiting for the police, I scan the wreckage methodically, looking for anything missing. My research files that were hidden in the false bottom of my desk drawer remain untouched. Whoever did this wanted to scare me, not steal from me. My first thought is Nikolai, maybe this is some sick power play. But it doesn’t feel like him. It feels reckless, desperate.

Also why? After warning me to stay away from him the last time.

The cops arrive within minutes. Two officers – one older with graying temples, the other fresh-faced and eager.

"Ms. Yasenev?" The older officer steps forward. "I'm Officer Miller. Can you walk us through what happened?"

I describe finding the apartment in this state, being careful to sound appropriately rattled while keeping my voice stable. "I felt like someone followed me home, but I never saw them clearly."

"Any enemies? Someone who might want to hurt you?" The younger officer scribbles in his notepad.

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