Page 8 of The Pakhan's Dangerous Secret
"Stop," I say, catching her wrists and pinning them against the brick wall behind her. "You're only going to hurt yourself."
"Let me go!" She struggles against my grip, her eyes wild with fear and fury. "I don't know what you want, but I haven't done anything wrong!"
"Haven't done anything wrong?" I lean in closer, close enough that I can smell her shampoo, something floral and clean. "Your father is a traitor. He stole from my family. And you're going to tell me where he is and where he's hidden what he took."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" She tries to knee me, but I shift my weight, blocking the attack. "I don't know where my father is. I haven't seen him in years!"
"Liar." I tighten my grip on her wrists, not enough to hurt but enough to make my point. "You expect me to believe you've had no contact with him? That he just sent you to America and forgot about you?"
"Believe whatever you want." Her voice is shaking now, but there's defiance in her eyes. "It doesn't change the truth. I don't know where he is."
I study her face, looking for signs of deception. But all I see are fear and anger and something else. Desperation. The kind of desperation that comes from years of running, of looking over your shoulder, and of never feeling safe.
Maybe she is telling the truth. Maybe Pushkin really did abandon her, leaving her to fend for herself while he disappeared into whatever hole he's been hiding in.
Or maybe she's just a very good liar.
"We're going to have a long conversation," I tell her. "You're going to tell me everything you know about your father, the heirlooms he stole, and where he might be hiding. And if youcooperate, if you give me what I need, maybe I'll let you walk away from this."
"And if I don't orcan'tcooperate?" She lifts her chin, meeting my gaze with a courage I didn't expect.
"Then things get unpleasant."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I can see her mind working, calculating her options. Then, without warning, she goes limp in my arms, her full weight dropping suddenly.
It's a smart move, one I wasn't expecting. My grip loosens instinctively, and she takes advantage of it, twisting free and stumbling backward.
But she doesn't run. Instead, her hand darts to her pocket, and when it comes back out, there's something small and silver clutched in her fingers.
A knife.
I barely have time to register what I'm seeing before she lunges forward, the blade flashing in the dim light of the alley.
I feel a sharp sting in my side.
When I look down, I'm astonished to see a small knife sticking out of my side.
5
MARIYA
Ifeel sick to my stomach.
The knife is sticking out of his side, the small silver blade buried in his flesh, and I can't look away. Blood seeps around the wound, staining his expensive shirt, and all I can think is,I did that. I stabbed him.
My hands are shaking. Mywholebody is shaking. I've never hurt anyone before. Not like this. Not with a weapon. Not with the intent to cause real damage.
My father trained me to fight. He made sure I knew how to defend myself, how to use my body as a weapon, and how to handle a knife if I needed to. But training and reality are two completely different things. In training, you pull your punches. You stop before you actually hurt someone. You know it's not real.
Thisis real.
The man I stabbed is staring at the knife too, his blue eyes wide with what looks like astonishment. Like he can't quite believe what just happened. Like he didn't think I had it in me.
I didn't think I had it in me, either.
For a long moment, we both just stand there, frozen in this terrible tableau. Him with a knife sticking out of his side. Me with my hand still raised, fingers curled as if I'm still holding the weapon. The alley is silent except for the distant sound of traffic and the harsh rasp of my breathing.
Then survival instincts kick in. I turn and run.
