Liliana
Mikhail tore his shirt and tied it around my arm to stop the bleeding. The tension between Mikhail and Anastasia was thick enough to cut with a knife.
We were back in our motel room, all of us exhausted and on edge. The attack at the factory had been a disaster. We'd barely escaped, and we still didn't know who the real enemy was.
"Start talking," Mikhail said. "Everything."
Anastasia sat on the edge of the bed, looking older than I'd ever seen her. Her perfect composure was cracking.
"I don't know where you're getting your information from," she said, her voice shaking. "But I am not Anastasia Romanova. I never was."
"Don't lie to me," Mikhail snapped. "We know the truth."
"What truth?" She reached into her purse with trembling hands. "This truth?"
She pulled out a worn do
