I smiled when I had to. I stayed quiet when silence was required. I played the part of the obedient, subdued woman Dmitri had ‘rescued,’ careful never to overstep, never to provoke Seraphina’s suspicion more than necessary.
At night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between heartbeats, wondering if Dmitri was still alive—or if hope had already turned into something foolish and dangerous.
Then the message arrived.
Short. Encrypted. Delivered by one of Dmitri’s runners who didn’t meet my eyes.
Come to the border. Now.
My men will meet you.
Dress as instructed.
—D
That was it.
No reassurance. No explanation. No proof of life beyond the sharp, familiar economy of his words.
I didn’t hesitate.
I borrowed one of Dmitri’s black SUVs from the underground garage—keys left casually in the visor, as if the house itself understood this was necessary. No questions asked. No guards stopping me. Either Dmitri had planned this down to the smallest detail... or he was already dead, and this was the last echo of his will.
The drive north blurred into a tunnel of winding mountain roads and pine forests.
The SUV hugged the curves too tightly as I pushed the accelerator harder than I should have, tires screaming on switchbacks, gravel spraying into the ravines below.
My heart hammered against my ribs, adrenaline burning hot and sharp.
I prayed I wasn’t driving straight into a trap.
The border crossing appeared suddenly—an ugly, desolate stretch of two-lane asphalt boxed in by chain-link fence and concrete barriers.
Albanian flags snapped violently in the wind on one side, red fabric cracking like gunshots. Italian flags on the other side hung limp and tired, as if exhausted by pretending neutrality.
A handful of guards lounged near their booth, rifles slung casually over their shoulders. Too casual. The kind of men who’d seen enough violence that boredom was the only thing left.
I wore exactly what Dmitri had specified.
A full-length black abaya—modest, flowing, ankle-length. A matching niqab that covered everything except my eyes. The fabric was heavy, clinging to my skin, trapping heat and breath. Sweat gathered along my spine, but I welcomed the discomfort. It meant anonymity.
To the casual observer, I was nothing. Just another woman crossing from one side to the other. Unremarkable. Invisible.
I slowed the SUV and rolled past the guards. One of them glanced up, eyes skimming over me without interest, then returned to his cigarette. No questions. No documents checked.
My pulse thundered.
Fifty meters down the road, a man in dark tactical gear stepped out from behind a rusted shipping container. He raised one hand—two fingers extended—then lowered it quickly.
The signal.
I pulled over, killed the engine, and stepped out. My legs felt unsteady, like they might give way beneath me. The guards glanced once in my direction, then looked away again. Still no interest. Still nothing.
The man didn’t speak. He didn’t even acknowledge me beyond a sharp nod. He turned and walked toward a narrow dirt path barely visible between the trees.
I followed.
The moment I stepped off the road, the world changed. The sounds of the border faded behind us, swallowed by the forest. The air grew cooler, damp with moss and earth. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it.