Page 66 of Savage Lies
“No. Just... recognition without context.”
“Memory fragments. Dr. Sokolova says that’s normal with traumatic amnesia.”
“Does she? Or does she say what you want to hear?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean that maybe everyone’s a little too eager to explain away the things that don’t fit the story you’ve told me about who I am.”
Dmitri moves away from the window, creating distance between us. “What story is that?”
“Art curator. Accident victim. Devoted wife recovering from memory loss.” I turn to face him. “What if none of that is true?”
“Then what would be true?”
“I don’t know. But watching Pavel work down there, seeing how he moves and thinks... feels familiar. Not like watching a stranger, like watching someone whose methods I understand.”
Dmitri runs his hand through his hair, a gesture I’ve learned means he’s thinking hard about something he doesn’t want to discuss, before he turns and walks out of the kitchen.
As he disappears into his office, I touch my lips where I can still feel the phantom pressure of his mouth. I’m falling for him harder each day, and I don’t know if that makes me smart or the biggest fool in Moscow. What I do know is that I'm in too deep to care.
Outside, Pavel has completed his initial sweep and is heading back toward the building. At the end of the day, he’ll return with observations and recommendations that might alter how we live here.
But something tells me the real changes are just beginning.
18
Dmitri
Pavel’s security assessment revealed enough vulnerabilities to make me wonder how we survived this long.
More concerning is how exposed Katya has been. The thought of rival families watching her and studying her routines makes something primal and violent stir in my chest.
“Seventeen access points that could be exploited by a trained surveillance team,” he reports as we sit in my office.
His folder is thick with photographs and diagrams. “Camera blind spots that create thirty-second windows for approach. Guard rotations that follow patterns visible from multiple vantage points.”
I eye the photographs he’s spread across my desk. Each one shows a different weakness in our defenses, marked with red circles and detailed annotations.
“How bad is it?”
Pavel points to a surveillance photo taken from across the street. “This position offers clear sight lines to your main entrance, service areas, and residential floors.”
“And you think the men who abducted my wife used it.”
“Iknowthey used it. I found cigarette butts, food wrappers, and tripod impressions that indicate long-term observation.” He slides another photograph toward me. “Professional surveillance. Military-grade equipment.”
My stomach lurches with something that feels uncomfortably like fear. Not for myself, but for Katya. The idea of these bastards watching her, photographing her daily routines, makes my blood burn with the need to hunt them down and tear them apart.
“Military-grade? From where?”
“Black market, most likely. Former military contractors sell equipment to whoever pays best. The Borisenko family has recently expanded their technical capabilities.”
“You know about the Borisenkos?”
“I know about most major families in the region. Part of the job.” Pavel pulls out another set of photographs. “Their surveillance patterns show they’re more interested in your personal vulnerabilities than your business operations.”
“Meaning?”
