I clenched my teeth, anger twisting in my chest, and forced out another low growl.
"Severin… answer me."
Frustrated, I rubbed the back of my neck. I could feel a strip of my lower back damp with sweat.
Suddenly, the hall door eased open. I spun towards it, shocked, my hand curling into a fist at my side.
As the door swung wider, the woman in gold I'd guessed was the Russians' contact stepped into the room.
The same suited men who'd been around her downstairs followed in behind her.
My chest tightened. I could hear the quiet crack of my teeth grinding together.
I was trapped, and Severin still wasn't answering.
What if all of this was his trap?
What if Severin had left the Rose and was working for the Triangle Union now?
Maybe he'd brought me here himself just to hand me over.
"What are you waiting for?"
Her hard voice rang out across the hall. I fixed my gaze on her as she lifted a hand and slipped the mask from her face.
She had a slightly sharp nose and narrow, icy blue eyes. Her skin was pale, almost colourless, and the cut of her jaw made her face look harsh.
She took a step towards me, her tone calm, almost bored.
"Waiting for your people to come and save you?"
That thick Moscow accent of hers left no doubt – this was the Russians' main contact herself.
I let out a crooked smirk and tried to analyse my situation. All three men were armed, their faces set, dangerous.
I met their eyes. Hollow pits, empty of light and full of cold.
I knew eyes like that. These men weren't regular bodyguards; they were seasoned operatives who'd survived years of hard conditions.
I looked back at the woman, wondering if I'd really been played this easily.
Had this all been a setup?
Had Severin sold me out?
Had he been leading me straight into a trap the whole time?
She held my gaze and smirked.
"You're looking for the painting, aren't you? Thought it would be that easy?"
I ran my tongue over my lipstick and gave her a cold little smile. Locking on to those blue eyes, I switched to Russian.
"You're going to need more than three people if you want to stop me."
Hatred sparked in her eyes. She let out a sharp, angry breath, then stepped closer, her voice low.
"Maybe you think we're only here for that painting. But you're wrong, viuna."
I blinked, stunned. My mouth went dry.
I'd been right. They knew who I was.
Which meant Severin had played me.
I felt my heart twist in my chest. Why had I ever thought he was different?
Why had I let myself believe he was actually going to help me get free?
My bones were shaking with rage and my breathing was turning ragged. Heat crawled under my skin, burning from the inside out.
She took another step, closing the distance between us until she was standing on the golden velvet carpet, barely a pace away.
Her eyes, full of hatred, locked straight into mine as she growled through her teeth:
"Maybe you don't remember. But on one of your missions in Russia, you killed a twenty-year-old boy… and back then, my mission was to protect him."
Her eyes widened, fury burning bright.
"You fucking bastard. You shot him right in front of me."
I just stared at her, shock numbing me.
My first mission came back in a rush. My first mission in Russia.
The first time I pulled a trigger.
The first time someone died because the organisation wanted it.
She used my distraction. Her fingers suddenly tangled in my hair, and she slammed me back into the glass display case behind me. The impact of my spine against the glass knocked the breath from my lungs.
With a hiss of pain, I clutched my lower back, pushing away from the case, trying to stand upright. My head throbbed like my brain was bleeding inside my skull.
I saw the boy's face again. The Tailor had said he was the new head of a big gang in Russia, that I had to kill him –
because if I didn't, he'd kill hundreds of "us".
The more I think about it now… who exactly is "us"?
Was there ever really a "we"?
The Rose has only ever cared about itself and its filthy goals, not about us.
And me? For the first time in my life, I'd taken the life of a young man because that cursed organisation ordered it.
She kept coming towards me, spitting the words like poison:
"And guess what happened after that? I was imprisoned and tortured for two years because I failed my mission."
She lunged. Her hand shot out, grabbing my hair again, and she dragged my head up before slamming her fist into my cheek.
Then she drove her boot into my stomach. I collapsed back down before I could get fully upright, crashing to the floor, my hands clawing at my abdomen as pain ripped through me.
She bent over me, breathing hard, gripping my hair as she lifted my head and punched me across the face again.
I could only stare up at her, stunned.
What if that boy really had been innocent?
What if I'd been nothing but a tool for the organisation?
What if I had taken the life of someone who'd done nothing wrong?
Gasping, I managed to choke out:
"H-he… he was the new head of a gun trafficking gang. I had a mission to kill him because—"
Her hand froze in the air. She was panting too. For a brief second I saw something raw in her eyes – grief, loss.
When she spoke, her voice was rough and shaking, thick with pain and hatred.
"He hadn't hurt anyone. His father was the boss, Roman Voyich – not him. Your cursed organisation killed an innocent boy just to hurt his father."
She smiled then – a twisted, broken thing – and snarled into my eyes:
"And you're the one who pulled the trigger."
I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. I stared at her, speechless.
She leaned closer, her glossy blue eyes pinning my shocked ones.
"What's wrong? Hard to believe?"