Chapter 4 - The Woman in His House
Anton’s house was not what Odessa expected.
She had imagined marble floors, gold fixtures, perhaps a dramatic portrait of an ancestor who had committed several felonies before breakfast.
Instead, the house felt almost austere.
Dark wood.
Old brick.
Books.
A kitchen that looked used.
And photographs.
Many photographs.
Anton’s mother.
Anton as a child.
Anton beside Luka at 17.
A little girl with dark curls appeared repeatedly.
Odessa picked up one frame.
“Your sister?”
Anton’s expression changed.
“Anahid.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“She was.”
Odessa slowly replaced the photograph.
“I’m sorry.”
“She died when she was 19.”
“How?”
Anton hesitated.
“Someone wanted leverage against my father.”
Odessa understood.
Not every story needed details.
“That’s why you’re like this.”
“Like what?”
“Controlling.”
He almost objected.
Then didn’t.
“When you learn someone can disappear because you looked away for 10 minutes, you stop looking away.”
Odessa met his eyes.
The sentence explained more than he probably intended.
A housekeeper named Sofia prepared the guest room.
Odessa showered, changed into sweatpants, then wandered downstairs after midnight because sleep refused to come.
Anton was in the kitchen.
Barefoot.
No jacket.
Sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He was making grilled cheese.
Odessa stopped.
Anton looked up.
“What?”
“You cook?”
“This barely qualifies.”
“I assumed you summoned someone.”
“For sandwiches?”
“For everything.”
He put another sandwich into the pan.
“Sit.”
Odessa did.
Anton placed a plate before her.
She took one bite.
“This is actually good.”
“I’m devastated by your surprise.”
They ate in silence.
It was the strangest evening of Odessa’s life.
She had been shot at.
Threatened.
Transported to a mafia boss’s estate.
And now she was eating grilled cheese with him at 1:13 in the morning.
Anton looked at her.
“Why did you stay?”
“At the company?”
“Yes.”
“Money.”
He waited.
Odessa sighed.
“And because I was good at it.”
“You are.”
“Three years late, but thank you.”
“I deserved that.”
She smiled.
Anton watched the smile linger.
“Why did you wear that dress?”
Odessa laughed.
“We’re back to this?”
“Yes.”
“My cousin chose it.”
“But you wore it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She considered the question.
“Because I was tired of dressing like an apology.”
Anton went still.
Odessa immediately regretted saying it.
Then he replied quietly.
“You have nothing to apologize for.”
Her throat tightened.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“Why?”
“Because men like you walk into rooms expecting them to rearrange themselves.”
“And women like you?”
She looked down.
“We learn how much space everyone will tolerate.”
Anton’s expression hardened.
“Who taught you that?”
“Everyone.”
His gaze moved over her—not critically, not hungrily, but with something almost painful.
“I wish I had seen you sooner.”
Odessa’s pulse stumbled.
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep meaning it.”
The room became too quiet.
Anton stood.
He walked around the island.
Odessa remained seated.
He stopped before her.
Close.
Too close.
“Tell me to move.”
She should have.
Instead she whispered, “Why?”
His hand lifted.
He touched one strand of hair near her cheek.
Nothing more.
Odessa forgot how to breathe.
Then Anton stepped backward.
“You’re frightened.”
“Not of you.”
His eyes darkened.
“That may be worse.”
Before she could answer, Luka entered.
His expression destroyed the moment.
“We found Graham.”
Anton turned.
“Where?”
“Dead.”
Odessa’s stomach dropped.
“How?”
“Car in the river.”
Anton’s face went cold.
“Then Graham wasn’t running.”
“No.”
“He was being cleaned up.”
Luka placed a folder on the counter.
“And there’s something else.”
Inside were bank records.
Payments.
Repeated transfers.
Odessa recognized one name.
Her breath stopped.
Grant Hollis.
“No.”
Anton looked at her.
“You know him.”
“My ex.”
Luka nodded grimly.
“He received $140,000 from a shell company connected to the missing container.”
Odessa felt suddenly sick.
Anton reached for her.
She stepped away.
“No.”
“Odessa—”
“Grant works in financial compliance.”
“That may be how they moved the money.”
She shook her head.
“He doesn’t know anything about my job.”
Anton and Luka exchanged a glance.
“What?”
Anton answered carefully.
“He may know more than you think.”
Odessa’s phone buzzed.
A text.
From Grant.
We need to talk. Don’t trust Kazarian.
She stared.
Another message appeared.
He isn’t protecting you, Odessa.
May you like
Then a third.
He’s protecting what you know.
