Mikhail
Instead of going to the penthouse, Dmitri drove to the safehouse on the outskirt of the city. The safe house smelled like antiseptic. I watched the medic stitch up Anastasia's shoulder wound while she gritted her teeth and refused to make a sound. Blood had soaked through her shirt, turning the white fabric dark red, but she was alive. That was what mattered.
"You should have told me the truth from the beginning," I said, my voice harder than I intended.
She looked up at me with tired eyes. "Would you have believed me? Would you have trusted me enough to work together?"
I didn't answer because we both knew the truth. I wouldn't have. The evidence against her had been too convincing, too perfectly arranged. Someone had played us all like pieces on a chess board.
"The phone," I
