The weight of the cloudless night sky

The silence in the small, private cabin was heavy and it was nearly suffocating. Boris, Santi, and I sat on the narrow leather seats, the persistent hum of the jet engines the only thing filling the void between us. Everything had shifted. The air around Boris felt bruised; he was a man who moved with a certain gravity, and in that moment, the weight of his presence seemed to be pulling the very floor out from under us.

He was hurting, and I knew exactly why. It wasn’t merely the rejection; it was the wreckage of a broken promise. Only days ago, in the feverish heat of a very passionate fuck, he had asked me to marry him. Caught in the intensity of the moment, I had told him I would marry him. But as the adrenaline faded and I realized exactly who and what I wanted, that promise had become an unintended weapon. I had hurt him by telling him that I wasn’t ready to be tied down and the guilt sat like lead in my chest.

In the cold reality of a flight to Havana, those whispered words had been reduced to mere friction—meaningless to me now, but a vital lifeline to him.

Santi sat across from us, his gaze fixed on the invisible legalities of my empty vow. As a lawyer, he was already dissecting the validity of a verbal contract made mid-fuck, likely calculating how to navigate the fallout if it ever came to a dispute. But he knew Boris better than that. Boris wasn’t interested in a legalities but he was a man looking for an exit strategy. He wanted to leave the Russian shadows behind and cease being an agent of a government that offered him no loyalty in return.

"This room is getting too small," Boris said as he stood up. He was a large man who wasn’t built for the cramped confines of a fuselage. "I need to stretch."

He stood, his head nearly brushing the ceiling. He turned to me, offering a long, searching gaze that I found impossible to meet.

"Get some rest, Boris," I said softly.

"Rest," he repeated, his smile hollow and devoid of warmth. "Yes. The Cuban government will not be happy with us when we land as they are with the Federation. I should sleep while I am still a free man."

He stepped out, his massive frame disappearing into the main cabin. The moment the latch engaged, the atmosphere in the room transformed instantly. The grief evaporated, replaced by a sharp, electric hunger that had been simmering just beneath the surface.

I stood up and slid the deadbolt into place. When I turned back, Santi was watching me, his dark eyes hooded and expectant. Without a word, I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head. By the time I reached his seat, I had stripped completely, my skin humming in the cool air.

Santi stood, his movements efficient and urgent as he shed his own clothes. He sank back into the chair with his legs slightly spread, watching me with a gaze that stripped away whatever was left of my composure. I straddled him, the heat of his dick a welcome distraction as I slid down, taking him all at once. A low, guttural moan caught in my throat as we connected.

"You've been waiting for him to leave," Santi whispered, his voice thick as I bottomed out on him.

"Don't talk about him," I breathed, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders as I began to move. "Just fuck me. Right now."

"I'm here," he countered, his large hands finding my tits and squeezing one with a possessive, heavy grip while he suckled the nipple of the other, pulling hard. He pulled back for a moment, his eyes searching mine. "Is this what you want? No promises, no contracts?"

"Exactly this," I managed to say, my breath hitching as I ground my hips against him. "No strings, Santi. Just this."

"Then take it," he growled against my skin.

I rode him with a slow, deliberate rhythm that quickly turned frantic, the air in the utilitarian space growing thick with the scent of sex and sweat. He alternated his attention between my tits, his mouth and hands working in tandem, teeth grazing my nipples while he kept a bruising grip on my waist. Every time I felt myself peaking, he would whisper my name, urging me to take every inch of him. He came inside me repeatedly, the heat of it filling me and grounding me in the present.

Eventually, our adrenaline faded. I pulled away, my skin cooling rapidly in the dry, recycled air of the cabin. Santi leaned back against the leather, his chest still heaving from the exertion.

"You aren't on birth control," he reminded me, his voice returning to that pragmatic edge. "And given the recent abortion, this is incredibly risky."

"I’m aware," I said, reaching for my lace panties and dressing with practiced composure. "I have several types of emergency contraceptive pills in my bag. I’ll take them as soon as I’m back at my seat. I’ve already scheduled an appointment with a clinic in Cuba shortly after we land to get back on the pill."

Santi looked visibly relieved, the tension in his jaw finally dissipating. "I didn't want to make things even more complicated with Boris right now."

"It became complicated the moment I told you both that I refused to be tied down though I love the both you," I said, zipping my skirt and meeting his gaze with unflinching clarity. "I intend to enjoy my sexual freedom with whomever I choose, whenever I choose. That hasn't changed."

Santi offered a slow, silent nod of acknowledgment. I finished dressing, adjusted my hair, and left him alone in the dim light of that small room.

Returning to the main cabin, I requested a cup of ice from a flight attendant. At my seat, I laid out the snacks and bottled juices I’d purchased at the duty-free shop. When the attendant returned, I thanked them, poured the juice over the ice, and began to eat.

I was still somewhat full from the food court, but I understood the necessity of the snack. If I didn’t have something in my stomach before taking the emergency contraceptives, the resulting nausea would be debilitating, and I couldn't risk vomiting up the medication. I had to be certain. After finishing several snacks and two juices, I retrieved the pills from my bag and swallowed them, washing them down and settling in to wait for the descent into Havana. I knew that it would be a few more hours.

 

The glass cage of loyalty

The wheels touched down in Chile with a jarring thud that felt like a gavel striking a desk. When the plane stopped and was ready, we disembarked on the tarmac. I was grateful for fresh air.

We shuffled toward the Customs checkpoint. The air in the terminal felt thick, charged with a static that made the hair on my arms stand up. I could feel the tremors of nerves radiating off my brother, Bob. Beside him, Boris and Polina were walking with a stiff, military precision that screamed "guilty" to anyone looking closely enough.

"Relax your shoulders, Boris," I told him. "You look like you’re carrying a live shell."

"I feel like I’m being funneled and I hate the feeling," he stated.

I reached into my pocket in my vest to make sure that my passport was still there. Thankfully, it was. I slipped my hand into my bag to check on my Russian Federation passport. I sighed with relief. It was tucked into the hidden seam of my bag. My Russian Federation passport is  my final insurance policy. I prayed to every deity I could name in those ten minutes of getting through customs and off to where we needed to go that neiter Bob nor I would have to pull them out. Drawing that kind of attention was a last resort.

We approached the next Customs booth. I watched from the corner of my eye as Bob handed over his documents with a practiced, bored expression. Boris and Polina followed suit, their movements professional yet they were trying to minimize their presence.

The agent barely looked up at me. A few rhythmic stamps, a drone-like "Bienvenido," and I was through. In a matter of a few minutes, we were all through.

The relief was a physical wave, but we didn't congregate at the gate. Without discussing it much, each of us sought the anonymity of the terminal's far corners in the food court. I needed the distance. I found a small, quiet restaurant tucked away from the main food court. I ordered a massive Completo Italiano—a hot dog piled impossibly high with mashed avocado, chopped tomatoes, and a thick ribbon of mayonnaise—alongside a bowl of Cazuela, the rich beef and pumpkin stew warming me from the inside out. I ate in a solitary, methodical rhythm, my eyes fixed on the terminal windows.

Afterward, I moved through the duty-free shops picking up a heavy stash of snacks to sustain me through the final leg. I filled a bag with Súper 8 chocolate wafers, several packs of Ramitas—those salty, addictive evergreen-needle-shaped flour snacks—and a couple of bottles of Papaya nectar.

It wasn't until ten minutes before boarding started that we finally converged at the gate. We were all stuffed, the food coma hitting us simultaneously, creating a heavy, silent blanket over the group. We didn't speak as we waited, nor did we speak when the gate agent called us.

As we boarded the plane, we provided our tickets, shuffled down the jet bridge, and stepped out of the public eye for the last time for eight and a half or so hours. The jet bridge brought us out to the tarmac and closer to the plane

The Gulfstream sat on the tarmac, a sleek silver needle glinting against the sun. As we climbed the stairs, the transition was staggering. The bustling terminal vanished, replaced by a cavernous, plush void. Aside from the three pilots in the cockpit and a crew of six flight attendants standing at attention, the cabin was ours alone.

"We might as well spread out," Boris stated as he realized that we were the only passengers.

Polina and Bob immediately claimed a pair of seats near the galley, disappearing into their own whispered world. I felt a weight on the back of my neck and turned to find Boris watching me. He had that heavy, possessive gaze—the one he’d worn ever since that feverish night in Moscow when he declared he was going to marry me while we fucked.

He’d said it in the heat of a moment, his massive frame pushing me to my absolute limits. I loved him, but as I looked at him now, I wondered: was it devotion, or just the addictive high of how well we fit together? He wasn't the most skilled lover nor the worst lover that I’ve had, but he was undeniably the only man that had the largest dick I’ve seen and experienced.

"I need a minute to think and time to myself, Boris," I said, sidestepping his hand as he reached for me. "The flight is long and I don’t know if you meant what you asked the other day when we were fucking."

I caught the eye of a flight attendant near the mid-cabin partition. "Is there somewhere I can have absolute privacy?" I whispered. "Obviously, not the lavatory. Somewhere else that’s quiet."

He nodded discreetly, leading me toward the rear of the aircraft, past the main seating area to a secluded lounge near the auxiliary crew stairs. It was a soundproofed pocket of luxury with a velvet banquette and a small mahogany counter.

"This is as private as I can give you, Miss Smith. The door locks from the inside, but you’ll have to be in a passenger seat for takeoff in a few minutes."

"Thank you," I said, following him back to the main cabin.

I dropped into a seat, buckled in, and let the roar of the engines drown out my thoughts. I fell asleep before the nose lifted.

When I woke, the plane was level, cruising through a sea of stars. I unbuckled and made my way back to the private lounge the attendant had shown me. I sat in the dim amber light, the vibration of the engines thrumming through my bones. I needed to know the truth of my own heart. Did I love Boris for the man who saved my life, or was I just intoxicated by the sheer, overwhelming physical reality of him and his dick?

Twenty minutes later, a rhythmic knock sounded on the door.

I knew that rhythm. It was Santi. I slid the lock back and let him in. The air in the tiny room instantly turned electric.

"You’re hiding," Santi said softly. "Boris is pacing the aisle like a caged tiger. What’s going on?"

"I’m overthinking," I admitted, leaning back against the counter. "Boris wants to marry me. He asked mid fuck while I was in the hidden hospital in the basement of the Kremlin. I don’t know if he thinks because I’m his ticket out of hell, it translates to a lifetime. Does he even know me, Santi? Or am I just the woman who stayed and got him out of Russia and servitude?"

Santi stepped closer, his shadow swallowing me. "He’s seen you as a friend for years, but the dedication you showed, it changed him. He realized he loved you because you were the only one who didn't run when the world caught fire. He's serious."

I looked up at him, my heart hammering. "And what if I want someone else? What if I want more than just one version of love?"

Santi’s eyes darkened, a predatory edge surfacing. "Who do you want?"

"I want you," I breathed. "I’ve wanted you for a long time."

The silence lasted a heartbeat too long before Santi lunged. His mouth crashed against mine in a kiss that tasted of years of suppressed longing. We stripped with a frantic, silent efficiency. He turned me around, pressing my chest against the cool mahogany of the counter and bending me over. When he pushed into me from behind, a sharp, ragged moan escaped my throat.

He fucked me with a desperate, punishing rhythm, his hands bruising my hips as he claimed what he had clearly wanted for a lifetime.

"I’ve always loved you," he growled into my ear, his breath searing my skin. "Every time I watched others touch you, it felt like a blade in my gut. You have to choose, baby. You can't keep us both on a leash."

"What if I can't?" I gasped, my head falling back against his shoulder. "What if the choice is both or nothing?"

Santi gripped my hips even harder, his thrusts reaching a fever pitch. "I can live with that," he groaned, his voice breaking. "If it means I get to keep this, I can live with anything."

He came in me a second later, a shuddering release that left us both trembling. He pulled out slowly and dressed in a heavy silence, then leaned down to kiss the back of my neck.

"Stay right here. Don't move."

Four minutes passed and I started feeling cold so I got dressed. The door opened again. Santi returned, but he wasn't alone. Boris followed him in, his massive frame nearly taking up the entire doorway, his eyes burning with a dark, complicated understanding.

Santi closed the door and turned the lock.

The sound of the bolt sliding into place felt final, an echo of the plane's engines. Boris didn't move toward me at first. He stood with his back to the door, his chest rising and falling with a heavy, controlled effort. The scent of Santi was still thick in the air, a musk that Boris surely recognized.

"Santi told me what you said," Boris began. He didn't sound angry; he sounded exhausted. "About the versions of love. About the choice."

He finally looked at me, and I saw the vulnerability behind the dominance. This was the man who had asked me to be his wife while we fucked in the dark of a Kremlin basement, and yet here he was, sharing the smallest room on a private jet with the only other man who looked at me the way he did.

Santi moved to the side, leaning against the mahogany counter where he had just fucked me minutes before. He watched us both, a silent participant in a negotiation that had no rules.

"I am not a patient man," Boris said, finally taking a step toward me. His presence was overwhelming, a wall of heat and history. "But I know what I owe you. And I know what I feel for you. If you need him to be part of your version of us, then he stays."

He reached out, his large hand cupping my jaw, forcing me to look him in the eye.

"But make no mistake," he whispered, his thumb brushing over my lower lip. “I want you to be mine but if that means Santiago has to be part of us, so be it.”

I looked from Boris to Santi. Outside the tiny, soundproofed lounge, the world was miles below us, a dark expanse of ocean and uncertainty. In here, the gravity was different. It was heavy, intoxicating, and dangerous. I looked from Boris to Santi. Outside the tiny, soundproofed lounge, the world was miles below us, a dark expanse of ocean and uncertainty. In here, the gravity was different. It was heavy, intoxicating, and dangerous.

"There's eight hours left on this flight," Boris murmured, his hand sliding down to the back of my neck, pulling me closer until I could feel the heat of his body. "And we are the only ones who know what happens in this room."

"Boris," I whispered. "I don't know what I truly want when it comes to you. I don't know if I want to marry you, or even if I know how to just be with you as a partner  in a world that isn't falling apart but I do know that I need you in my life. I have always been grateful for you—for everything you've done, for staying when you could have run and saving me when you didn’t have to. I don't want to lose you, no matter what version of this we choose."

I pulled back just enough to look up at him, making sure he saw the sincerity in my eyes. He pulled me in close and sighed.

“For fifteen long years, woman, I have always been with you,” he said. “As long as you have been helping me, I have been protecting you. I don’t want to remember my life before meeting you and I don’t want to think about my life without you moving forward.”

“You can’t get rid of me at this point,” I said. “But, Boris, understand that I can’t be tied down right now. Maybe not ever.  I need to be me. Part of that means I get to be with who I want sexually.”

Boris just nodded. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the low hum of the jet. Boris’s hand remained on the back of my neck, his grip steady but no longer demanding. He looked past me toward Santi, then back to me, the internal war he was fighting playing out in the tightening of his jaw. He didn't like the terms, but he liked the alternative—life without me—even less. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against mine, a silent acknowledgment of the new, complicated territory we were entering.

The three of us stood in the amber light, the future as vast and terrifying as the sky outside, bound by a loyalty that was starting to look very much like a cage.

The emerald shield

The low hum of the engines had become a physical weight, pressing me into the cramped seat of the row. I was drifting in that gray space between sleep and exhaustion when a heavy hand landed on my shoulder.

I bolted upright, my heart hammering against my ribs. The captain, Ivan, stood over me. His face was a map of deep lines and silver stubble, illuminated only by the dim amber glow of the cabin’s floor lights.

"Wake up," he said, his voice low. "We touch down in forty-five minutes."

I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the fog of a shallow sleep. "Forty-five minutes? Thanks, Ivan."

He didn’t turn back to the cockpit immediately. He leaned in closer, his shadow stretching across the empty seats, lowering his voice. "Listen…..before we hit the tarmac, you and Bob need to bury those Russian Federation passports. Deep in your bags, or better yet, under the lining. Understood?"

I nodded slowly, the gravity of the transition settling in. "What’s the next leg of this great escape?"

"The next two flights—first to Chile, then to Cuba—you’re on the manifests," Ivan said.

"That’s a bit of a risk," I said. "A necessary risk, though."

"It’s a necessity," he said. "Naturally, you and Bob are flying as siblings. I know that Boris and Polina aren't siblings though they have been acting as if they are, but they are to continue to play the game that they are."

"I’ll tell them," I said.

Ivan gave a short, stiff nod and headed back to the cockpit without another word. I spent the next twenty minutes in the quiet, rhythmic shadows of the plane, methodically gathering my things and checking my gear. I felt for the hidden seam in my rucksack, sliding the dark red passport inside until it vanished.

In its place, I checked the weight of the emerald-green folder in my jacket. As distant relatives of Tsar Alexander II, Bob and I carried a status most would never see. Our passports weren't the standard red; they were green—diplomatic. It was the only reason we could even attempt to move through official gates without being hauled into an interrogation room.

When the internal clock in my head told me time was running out, I moved to the others. I shook my brother first, then Boris and Polina. They woke like soldiers—eyes open and alert in an instant, though the weariness followed a second later.

As they sat up, I explained the situation and the timeline. "We have twenty minutes before we land," I told them. "We’re going on the manifests for the flights to Chile and Cuba. The other thing is this… we’ll be flying as two sets of siblings. Naturally, Bob and I fit the bill, but you guys need to continue to play the game of siblings."

Boris’s jaw tightened. "The manifests? That leaves a footprint a mile wide. We might as well send a postcard to Moscow."

They weren’t happy to be on the manifests, and to be honest, neither was I. But there was no room for debate.

"It wasn't a suggestion, Boris," I said firmly. "Moscow doesn’t care where we are for the next fifteen years unless we’re in Russia during that time. Besides, Bob and I have the green passports. Our diplomatic status should be the shield for the four of us."

Polina looked out the dark porthole. "I don't like being on paper," she murmured. "Paper is how they find you later."

"I don't like it either," I admitted, "but we don't have a choice. Gather your things. We’re almost due to land. Bob, hide your Russian Federation passport."

Bob nodded, patting the pocket where he was going to put his passport. They spent the remaining time we had in the air gathering their belongings, the cabin filled with the metallic clicks of bags closing and the rustle of heavy jackets. Once they sat down, the head flight attendant told Ivan that we were all in our seats.

The landing was a jarring reminder of the world outside. Soon after landing and getting to the gate, Ivan came back from the cockpit, checking his watch.

"You have twenty-five minutes until the next flight," he said. "Disembark, shower, and get dressed in whatever clothes you have and then get on the next airplane."

"Where's the gate?" Bob asked, hoisting his pack.

"Fifteen yards from the lounge exit," Ivan replied. "There’s both a men’s and a women’s bathroom right there that contain showers."

The transition from the stale air of the plane to the terminal was a shock, but we didn't slow down. We knew we didn't have much time, but thankfully the facilities were exactly where he said they'd be.

"Ten minutes for the shower, five to dress," I said as we reached the doors. "Don't linger."

"See you on the other side," Bob muttered.

We split up at the entrance to the restrooms, Bob and Boris heading into the men’s side while Polina and I hurried into the women’s. Inside, the setup was surprisingly well-equipped. There were shower shoes provided for free at the counter, and stacks of brand-new towels still wrapped in their original clear packaging.

I claimed one of the shower stalls in the women's section. They were large and surprisingly clean, fully stocked with bottles of shampoo and conditioner. On a small ledge sat personal bars of soap—the small, rectangular ones you usually find in hotel rooms. I worked quickly, the hot water washing away the grime of the long flight. Once I was done, I didn't want to waste the soap; I slipped the bar I’d used into a plastic baggie and tucked it into my bag.

I dried off, dressed in fresh clothes, and moved to the mirrors to quickly brush my hair and teeth. I only had to wait for Polina for a minute or two before she emerged, looking just as refreshed and hurried as I felt.

"Ready?" I asked, checking my watch.

"Let's go," she replied, slinging her rucksack over her shoulder.

When we stepped back out into the terminal, the men were already waiting for us a few yards away, their bags slung over their shoulders and their faces set in determined lines.

"Everyone good?" I asked as we met them.

"Ready," Boris said with a short nod.

We immediately began the rush to the gate, but we had to stop at the counter first. We stood there, hearts racing as the desk agent looked up from her screen.

"Next in line, please," she said, her tone professional. The agent asked for our names in order to print the physical tickets, her eyes darting between her screen and our faces. "Names for the flight to Chile?"

"Deppgrl Smith," I said.

"Robert or Bob Smith,” my brother chuckled. “My sister booked the flight and I don’t know which one she put.”

She typed quickly, the rhythmic clicking of the keys sounding like a countdown. "And you two?"

“Polina Pretovna,” Polina said.

“Boris Petrov,” Boris said.

As soon as the paper was in our hands, we headed for the jet bridge.

"Let’s go," I said.

As we stepped onto the plane, I realized that not only were we the last ones to board, we were also in first class. A flight attendant greeted us with a polite smile, directing us toward the wide, plush seats.

"First class?" Bob muttered under his breath, a look of brief surprise crossing his face. "Ivan didn't mention this."

"Just find your seat, sit down and keep your head low," I told him.

I found my seat quickly. Polina and I were settled next to each other, with Bob and Boris a few rows in front of us. Almost as soon as we were airborne for the short flight to Chile, Bob, Boris, and Polina fell into a deep sleep, leaving me as the only one awake.

I stared out at the clouds, my mind already jumping ahead. I knew that when we eventually flew to Cuba, we would have to make a stop in Lima, Peru. For some asinine reason, flights leaving Chile that were heading to Cuba always made a stop elsewhere before officially landing in Cuba. I just hoped that I’d be able to find a moment to rest on either of the next two flights.

Ghosts over the Zambezi

The transition back into the sky was a violent relief. Once the landing gear retracted and the cabin pressure stabilized, the crew underwent a transformation. They moved with a mechanical efficiency, as if the silence of the desert had been replaced by a mandate for excess.

The scent of heating aluminum and savory oils filled the cabin as the attendants began preparing the meals—far more than the manifest would ever justify for a crew of their size. It was a silent acknowledgement of our presence, a way to provide for us without officially recording our existence.

"Eat everything," Boris muttered, staring at a tray of braised beef and root vegetables. "In my experience, the more they feed you on a flight like this, the longer the next stretch is."

"He's right," I added, popping the seal on a second bottle of water. "They're fattening us up for a long haul flight."

We ate until the hollow ache in our stomachs was replaced by a heavy, lethargic fullness. The adrenaline that had sustained us since Moscow was finally ebbing, replaced by the crushing weight of exhaustion. As the trays were cleared, we began to drift apart, claiming empty rows to stretch out and find whatever sleep the steady drone of the engines would allow.

I was settling into a seat near the bulkhead when I saw the cockpit door cycle open. The captain stepped out. He wasn't wearing a standard commercial uniform; he was in a dark, tactical flight suit that lacked insignia. As he scanned the cabin, his eyes met mine, then he jerked his head slightly toward the galley.

I stood up, my joints cracking from the lingering tension, and followed him into the narrow, stainless-steel space. He didn't wait for me to speak. He was already checking a tablet clipped to the galley wall, his movements clipped and professional. He wasn't a comrade; he was a transporter, and we were the liability he was paid to carry. The captain—a very attractive middle-aged man named Ivan—spoke in a voice that rivaled Henry Cavill’s.

"We’ve cleared the most contested airspaces," he said. "We’re over the ocean now, running dark on most transponders. We’ll be maintaining this heading for the duration."

"How long?" I asked.

"About ten hours from the moment we left the tarmac in Dubai," he replied, finally looking at me. "I'm giving you the heads up so when everyone wakes up, you can share this with them. It’ll be easier if they know what to expect when we land. It's going to be a long stretch before we're on the ground again."

I felt a clarity settle over me. Ten hours from Dubai, heading south-southwest at this velocity. Another ten hours of being ghosts, moving further away from the life we had left behind in Moscow. The math was simple, and the destination was unmistakable.

"Ten hours," I repeated. "That puts us deep into the interior. We're heading for Zimbabwe."

Ivan didn't confirm it with words. He just gave a slow, measured nod before turning back toward the cockpit door.

"Ivan," I called out. He stopped, his hand on the latch. "Once I’ve had three hours of sleep, come wake Boris and I. We’ll take over for a few hours so you and your co-pilot can get some rest as well."

Ivan turned back fully, raising an eyebrow in a look that bordered on derision. "Are you even licensed to fly a plane?"

I didn't blink. "I hold one hundred and eighty-nine pilot licenses from around the world. Boris holds one hundred and five."

The skepticism didn't leave his face, but his posture shifted slightly.

"Just so we’re clear," I added as I walked closer, "all of our licenses are active and in good standing. I also don’t appreciate the skepticism or your lack of belief in me and my licensures."

Ivan stared at me for a long beat, calculating the weight of those numbers against the exhaustion pulling at his own eyes. "Get your three hours," he said finally. "Then we'll see."

He stepped into the cockpit and closed the door.

I walked back to the bulkhead row, my legs feeling like lead. I didn't bother with a blanket or a pillow; I simply stretched across the three empty seats, adjusted my jacket under my head, and let the white noise of the engines pull me under. I fell asleep before I could even process the vibration of the floorboards.

Three and a half hours later, a firm hand shook my shoulder. I was awake instantly, my hand reaching for a weapon that wasn't there before my eyes even focused. It was Ivan. He stood over me, his expression unreadable in the dim cabin lighting.

"It's your turn," he said shortly. "I had my people run a background check on you while you were out. I had to be sure about those licensures. They came back clean. Every single one of them."

The sleep-haze evaporated, replaced by a searing, cold anger. I sat up, staring him down.

"You had me investigated?" I snapped. "I offer to do you a favor—to keep this plane in the air so you don't drop out of the sky from fatigue—and your first instinct is to run a check on me? I told you that my licenses were in good standing. My word should have been enough, especially considering I'm the reason you have a paycheck for this flight. My safety and my life – as well as my brother’s - are at constant risk as a direct but distant descendant of Tsar Alexander III. If it gets out that my real identity is found out and the fact that by my brother and I are on this flight, there could be threats against our lives."

I stood up, moving as close to him as the cabin allowed. "If I wanted to sabotage this flight, Ivan, I wouldn't need a pilot's license to do it. Next time I tell you I'm qualified, you believe me. I don't care how many people you that you trust on the other end of a sat-link but know that I care about keeping my brother and I alive. Don't ever waste my time or your resources doubting me again."

Ivan was too stunned to apologize, but he didn't argue either. He just stepped back, gesturing toward Boris. I didn’t bother to wake Boris and headed to the cockpit to fly the plane myself.

The cockpit was bathed in the dim, rhythmic glow of the avionics suite. The co-pilot looked up, his face gaunt with fatigue, and glanced at Ivan for confirmation. Ivan gave a short, stiff nod. As they vacated their seats, I slid into the left chair, feeling the weight of the aircraft settle into my hands.

I flew solo for the next four hours. The stars were vibrant above the Indian Ocean, a dusting of diamonds over a void of black water. The steady thrum of the engines was hypnotic, but the anger from the encounter with Ivan kept me sharp. Around the fourth hour, the cockpit door hissed open. Boris stepped in, looking slightly more human after his rest. He slid into the right-hand seat without a word, checking the gauges before settling in to assist.

"I heard what you said to him," Boris said after a long silence, his voice barely audible over the cockpit hum. "I am very proud of you for standing up for yourself. And for our brother. You handled that well."

"Thank you, Boris," I replied, my eyes fixed on the horizon. I felt the tension in my shoulders ease slightly, but another thought had been gnawing at me since the desert. I turned my head just enough to give him a sharp side-eye. "Boris? Did you really mean it? What you said about marrying me once we get situated in my home country?"

Boris didn't hesitate. He looked straight ahead at the navigation display. "I meant it."

I leaned in closer, my voice dropping to a whisper that even the flight recorder might struggle to catch. "I don't believe you."

He finally turned to look at me, his expression earnest. "I will prove it to you when we get there. When we are finally safe, you will see."

I let out a slow, cold breath. "I know that Polina isn't truly your sister, Boris. She's your former lover and you guys almost married several years ago."

The cockpit went silent, the only sound the rushing air against the glass. Boris didn't look away, but the muscle in his jaw tightened. For ninety more minutes, we flew that plane together in a shared, heavy atmosphere before Ivan and his co-pilot returned to take the controls for the final few hours.

When Boris and I exited the cockpit, I moved ahead of him, my pace quick and my gaze fixed on the floorboards.

"Wait," Boris said, reaching for my arm as we entered the galley. "We need to talk about what you said. About Polina."

I pulled my arm away, not looking back. "There is nothing to talk about. The truth is out. Save your breath for the landing."

I moved past the galley and dropped into a jump seat near the exit. Boris started to follow, his face shadowed with a mixture of frustration and something I couldn't quite name. A flight attendant caught my eye as she was securing a galley latch. She noticed Boris trailing me, then looked at my face—tight and pale. She gave a small, understanding nod, stepping slightly into Boris’s path as if to check a supply bin, effectively giving me a second of cover. She glanced back at me, signaling she was okay with me sitting there.

"I need time, Boris," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the cabin. "Go back to the row where your stuff is."

He hesitated, then turned and walked back into the dim cabin.

I needed to be alone, and this was as alone as I could be right now. The vibrating wall of the aircraft was the only thing supporting me. I had to come up with a game plan on how to tell Bob and Polina that we were going to land in Zimbabwe. I knew in the past Polina had struggles in Zimbabwe before moving to Moscow so I had to get us out of there fast.

The strategic ascent

The only thing I really appreciated about Popov was his terrifying but efficient driving. He didn't just get us to the airfield; he delivered us to the tarmac with the surgical precision of a man who measured survival in less than ninety seconds.

He didn't look at me nor the others. He kept his eyes on the terminal's perimeter, his hands steady on the wheel. "You have ninety seconds to clear this vehicle, grab your belongings, board that aircraft, and get airborne. If you are still on the ground when the clock runs out, the flight is gone, and you are on your own."

The urgency hit us like a physical weight. We weren't just boarding a plane; we were racing against a closing window of state-sanctioned protection.

"Go! Out, now!" I barked, the freezing Moscow air tearing at my lungs the moment I shoved open the door.

The transition was a blur of frantic, desperate motion. We scrambled out of the vehicle, our breath blooming in thick white plumes against the dark. I grabbed my bag, the leather stiff against my fingers, while Boris, Bob, Polina and Santiago hauled the rest of our gear toward the waiting air-stair. There was no time for grace or the lingering formalities of our station—there was only the necessity of speed.

A flight attendant stood at the top of the stairs, her silhouette sharp against the interior light of the cabin. She didn't ask for identification nor for our passports. She simply stepped aside, ushering us into the shadows of the plane as if we were nothing more than cargo. We were ghosts on this flight, and the lack of a paper trail was our only real protection.

"Hurry!" she hissed, her eyes scanning the dark tarmac behind us.

"Coming up!" Boris grunted, his boots thudding heavily against the metal steps as he practically threw the gear into the entryway.

I tumbled into the cabin, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I turned back, watching Bob and Polina scramble up behind me, followed closely by Santiago.

"Is that everyone? Are we clear?" I panted, looking toward the cockpit.

"Everyone is in. Seal the door!" Santiago huffed, his face flushed from the exertion and cold air.

Through the small window, I saw Popov. He remained a static, dark pillar beside his car, watching us with an expressionless gaze that offered neither comfort nor farewell. He had fulfilled his end of the bargain.

I wasn't entirely sure we would be able to do it—the timing felt impossibly tight, the margin for error non-existent. I sat in a seat next to the aisle, gripping the back of the seat in front of me until my knuckles turned white, silently pleading with the machine to move. Then, the engines roared into a deafening crescendo, the G-force pinned us back before we could even put on our seatbelts, and the cabin tilted sharply upward. As the wheels left the tarmac, my hope shifted into a vibrating reality.

For the first few hours, we were left entirely to our own devices. The flight staff was a ghost crew; they moved with a practiced silence, avoiding eye contact and offering no introductions. There were no safety briefings, no welcome drinks—just the steady, low hum of the engines and the oppressive weight of our collective silence. We didn't even know where we were heading but we knew that we were moving far away from Moscow, which was enough for the moment.

Halfway through the flight, the flight attendant who had ushered us aboard finally emerged from the galley. She stood at the front of the cabin, her expression unreadable.

"We will be stopping in Dubai to refuel," she said. "The stop will take approximately two and a half hours. During this time, you are prohibited from leaving the aircraft."

"Two and a half hours on the tarmac?" Boris asked as he stood. "Can't we stretch our legs in the terminal?"

The woman's gaze snapped to him. "No. Customs is always on the tarmac when passengers disembark. Since none of you are on the manifest, that would cause havoc and likely end in your detention as you are all ghosts on this flight. For your safety, you stay inside with the shades drawn. Understood?"

I looked at the others. The reality of our situation was settling in—we were safe from the Kremlin and Dubai customs for now, but we were prisoners of our own anonymity.

"Yes," I said for everyone.

She gave a nod and disappeared back into the galley, leaving us to contemplate the hot hours ahead in the Dubai desert heat, trapped inside a plane where we didn't exist. I hoped that the air con would be on as it would be sweltering without it.

When we finally touched down on the shimmering tarmac of Dubai International, the engines powered down, but to our collective relief, the air conditioning held. The hum of the auxiliary power unit kept the cabin at a clinical, artificial cool that stood in stark contrast to the brutal white light visible at the edges of the window shades. Outside, the desert sun was hammering against the fuselage, radiating enough heat to melt the very air, but inside, we were insulated.

Despite the comfort of the air conditioning, these were still the hot hours—a grueling stretch of time that seemed to liquefy as we waited in the dark. We sat in near-total silence, the only light coming from the faint glow of the floor-level emergency strips. Every few minutes, a heavy thrum vibrated through the floorboards as the fuel trucks connected to the wings.

"It’s like a tomb in here," Polina whispered. She sat with her eyes fixed on the drawn shades, her light silk blouse barely shielding her from the psychological weight of the desert outside. Even with the cool air circulating, the atmosphere was stifling.

Santiago sat across from me, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked less like a man escaping and more like a man awaiting sentencing. "The price of being a ghost is higher than I anticipated," he muttered, checking his watch with a grimace. "Especially during these hot hours."

"How much longer?" Bob asked from the back.

"Refueling takes as long as it takes," Santiago replied without looking back. "Just stay still. Moving around only makes the air feel thinner."

"They're right outside," Boris added, gesturing toward the window shades. "I can hear them talking. Ground crew, fuelers - if one of them decides to look through a gap in the seal, we're done."

"They won't," I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "This plane has the right clearances. As long as we don't give them a reason to board, we're just another transit stop on a busy morning."

"Unless the manifest gets checked against the headcount," Boris countered, his voice low. He was staring at his hands, his knuckles still scarred from his time in the cell. "If they count six heads and see zero names, we aren't just in trouble. We're an international incident."

The hunger hit me before the fear did. It had been hours since Moscow, and the adrenaline was finally wearing off, leaving a hollow ache in its place. I stood up and navigated the darkened aisle toward the galley. The flight crew was nowhere to be seen, likely in the cockpit or tucked away in their own quarters. I began to raid the galley, pulling open drawers and sliding back metal shutters.

"Find anything?" Polina asked from the cabin, her voice cutting through the hum of the power unit.

"Not much," I called back as my hands shifting through plastic trays. "Just the extras of whatever the last passengers didn't want like snacks."

There wasn't much left after the long trek from Russia. I found a few stray packets of pretzels, some crackers, and several cans of soda. I gathered what I could find and brought it back to the others.

"Pretzels and warm cola," I said, handing a packet to Santiago. "It's the feast of the anonymous."

"I'll take the crackers," Boris muttered, reaching out. "Better than the gruel they served in Lefortovo years ago."

We ate in a somber silence, the sound of crinkling plastic and popping tabs amplified by the quiet cabin. It wasn't a meal, but it was enough to stop the lightheadedness.

Shortly after we finished the last of the snacks, the main cabin door hissed open. The crew disembarked, leaving us alone in the pressurized silence for twenty-five minutes. Through the thin gap in the shades, I could see them standing on the tarmac, talking to ground handlers in the blistering heat before they reboarded.

"They're coming back," Santiago noted, leaning toward the window gap. "And they've got carts."

When they returned, they weren't empty-handed. They brought with them the scent of fresh catering and the metallic rattle of restocked carts. They were prepping for the next leg of the trip, and this time, the haul was significant. They loaded in fresh snacks, tons of beverages, and actual meals packaged in heat-sealed trays.

"Are those real coffee beans?" Bob asked, sitting up straighter as a familiar aroma filled the cabin.

The flight attendant began to move through the cabin again, her expression still neutral as she began distributing the new supplies. "Meals will be served once we are at cruise altitude," she said, setting a tray of cold bottled water down near us. "Help yourselves to the beverages for now. Hopefully the snacks will hold you over until then."

"Actual food," Santiago whispered, looking at a sealed tray. "I think I’m starting to believe we might actually make it."

I looked at Boris. He was still staring at his hands, but he reached out for one of the new beverages the attendant offered. "To the next leg," he said quietly, cracking the seal on a cold bottle.

We were still halfway across the world, and the shadow of the Kremlin was still there, but as the engines began to whine back to life, the hot hours were finally drawing to a close.

The threshold of exile

The alleyway behind the Metropol was a throat of shadows, smelling of damp stone and the sharp, metallic tang of an idling engine. There, leaning against the flank of a nondescript black sedan, stood Colonel Popov. He looked less like a man and more like a permanent fixture of the Russian state—immovable, cold, and devoid of emotion.

As we approached, his gaze swept over us with the practiced efficiency of a man who evaluated human beings as either assets or liabilities. "Imperial Highness," he said, his voice a low rasp. He turned his head a fraction toward my brother. "Grand Duke Artem."

He offered a curt, almost imperceptible nod to Boris and Polina, though his eyes lingered on Boris for a heartbeat too long—a silent reminder of the cell he had occupied only hours before.

I stopped short, the folder of passports clutched against my chest like a shield. "What are you doing here, Popov?" I demanded, my voice tight. "You made the terms clear at the Kremlin. Thirty-six hours to clear the border. You didn't mention an escort, nor did you mention anything about you blocking our exit."

"Plans have a way of evolving when the stakes are this high," Popov replied, his expression as unreadable as a slab of granite. "I’m your contact for the duration of the transit."

"The contact?" I felt a surge of cold fury. The man who had overseen the violation of my privacy, who had treated my lineage like a laboratory specimen, was now ostensibly our lifeline.

I stepped away from the group, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I reached into my pocket, my fingers fumbling with my phone. I needed to discuss this with Kay. I needed an anchor, someone to assure me this wasn't an elaborate trap designed to lead us back into a windowless room or a permanent cell. But before I could even thumb the screen, the phone came to life, vibrating with an urgency that mirrored my own.

It was Kay.

"Popov is standing in front of me," I said the moment I answered. "He says he's the one taking us out by plane."

"He is," Kay’s voice was calm, but there was an edge of steel in it. "You can trust him, Marie."

"Trust him?" I hissed, looking back at the Colonel, who stood perfectly still, watching the mouth of the alley. "Kay, this is the man who held Boris unnecessarily. This is the FSB agent who oversaw the DNA extraction and connected the dots between my brother and me. My brother, of all people. Popov represents the very country I am trying to leave."

"He’s been our primary channel inside the Kremlin for years. He played the part of the inquisitor because he had to maintain his standing. He is the reason those passports exist, and he’s the reason you aren't currently in a subterranean cell. He’s a double agent just like you."

I let out a harsh, cynical breath. "A double agent? That makes me more suspicious, not less. A man who can deceive his own nation for years can betray us in a heartbeat. I don't trust a man with two faces. By the way, Kay? I prefer the term ‘quadruple agent’."

"Yet Bob and I trust you. And you don't have to like the man to utilize him," Kay countered. "The regular border patrols have orders to flag anyone fitting your description. Popov is the only person with the clearance to override those protocols. Put your pride aside for once and get in the car. The Kremlin is a shark—if you stop moving, it will eat you."

We hung up; the conversation had reached its natural but bitter end. I stared at the phone for a long second after the line went dead. I looked at Boris, who was watching me with a quiet, watchful intensity, then back at Popov. He was now holding the rear door open, his silhouette framed by the dim glow of the car’s interior. I rejoined my brother, Boris, and Polina by the vehicle.

I tucked the phone away, my jaw set so tight it ached. I didn't trust him—I doubted I ever would—but as the Moscow wind bit into my skin, I realized that my survival was currently tethered to a man I despised.

"The window of opportunity is narrowing," Popov said, checking his watch with clinical detachment. “I’m doing what is necessary to get you out before the window closes.”

I joined the others outside the unmarked vehicle. The large sliding door was open; the leather seats were cold and smelled of industrial cleaner. No one spoke as we climbed inside. The doors thudded shut, sealing us in a heavy silence. Popov took the wheel, navigating the labyrinthine backstreets of Moscow with a phantom-like grace, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the state’s eyes were most numerous.

"Where are we going?" my brother asked.

"To a point of exit," Popov replied without looking back. "The flight is already fueled."

"And the guards on the road? The airport security?" Polina asked. "Sera said the FSB agreed to our release, but the city is crawling with patrols tonight."

Popov’s eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, meeting mine for a brief, icy second. "The FSB is not a monolith. There are those who want you dead, and there’s factions that want your dead bodies as trophies. They are the ones patrolling the roads, regardless of what the Kremlin has officially decreed."

The city blurred past in a smear of grey slush and yellow streetlights. Eventually, the urban sprawl gave way to the industrialized perimeter of the airport—the same one I had used only days ago to reach Santiago. I braced myself for the familiar sights of the terminal, but Popov bypassed the main security gates entirely. We headed instead toward the far edge of the tarmac, approaching a different hangar. I felt a flicker of genuine relief; the change in location suggested a level of tactical caution that even I couldn't find fault with.

As the vehicle came to a halt in the deep shadows of the hangar's eaves, Popov put the vehicle in park. "Wait inside," he commanded, his eyes already scanning the perimeter. "I need to ensure the handoff is secure.”

"Wait," I said, leaning forward before he could open his door. "Crack the windows and leave the keys."

Popov paused, his hand on the latch, and looked back at me with a look of weary recognition. The silence in the car deepened, expectant and heavy.

"Why?" he asked.

"I don't trust you not to leave us in here without fresh air," I said, my voice cold and unwavering. "And the keys will be my collateral. If this is a trap, I’d prefer to have a way out of the box."

"You think I would suffocate the last of the direct descendants of the Romanovs in the back of my personal vehicle?" Popov’s voice held a trace of something—perhaps amusement, perhaps exhaustion. Perhaps both.

"I think you would do whatever the highest bidder asked," I countered. "Leave the keys."

He stared at me for a long beat, weighing the insult against the reality of my dislike of him. Finally, he gave a sharp, singular nod. He tapped the controls to crack the windows just enough for the freezing night air to hiss into the cabin, then left the keys in the ignition and powered off the engine.

Without another word, he stepped out and moved toward a figure emerging from the hangar's side door.

The moment he was out of earshot, I reached into my bag. My fingers brushed past the passports and found the cold, familiar weight of my dagger. I pulled it out, the steel glinting in the dim exterior lights.

"Boris," I said softly.

I tossed the blade in his direction. I didn't need to look to know he had caught it; the faint, solid thwack of steel meeting a calloused palm echoed in the backseat.

"Marie..." Bob started to protest, his eyes wide.

"Not now, Bob," I said, my voice low and dangerous. As I began digging deeper into my bag for the small pistol I had tucked away, the sound of Boris shifting his grip on the dagger confirmed he was ready. We were in a hangar in the middle of the night with an agent of the state, and I wasn't about to be taken quietly twice in less than twenty-four hours.

I moved to the front passenger seat and Boris moved to the seat I had just vacated. I kept an eye on Popov and the stranger through the cracked glass. I could hear most of their subdued conversation in Czech; I was far from fluent, but I understood enough to follow the thread.

"Their names are cleared from the manifest?" I heard Popov ask, his voice tight.

"Everything is logged in the airport and the manifest is essentially blank. It leaves only the pilots, a skeleton crew and a few passengers," the other man replied. "The flight schedule is a mess. Half the runway is locked down for two different government transits—yours being one of them."

"I don't care about the other transit," Popov snapped. "I care about the window I gave you. Is the route to the cargo strip open?"

"It’s open for now," the employee said. There was a pause, a rustle of paper. "But you aren't the only one pushing for a fast exit. There’s a Brazilian named Santiago also requested it. He's here expecting you, and he wants to leave with whoever you’re moving. He’s booked the cargo strip, but I have you elsewhere... where there are fewer eyes."

"Is he alone?" Popov demanded.

"He arrived with two guards and he's making a scene about the delay," the employee muttered. "He doesn't like being told to wait in the shadow of a fuel truck."

Popov didn't hesitate. "He will be joining us. But listen carefully: his information does not get added to the manifest. He is a ghost. If anyone asks, the plane departed with the registered crew and the few passengers on the flight only. Clear?"

"And his guards?" the employee asked.

"They stay behind," Popov replied coldly. "Santiago travels with the people I have. No one else. Tell him to meet us at the secondary access point in five minutes. If he's a second late, he's staying in Moscow."

I went perfectly still. The news that Santiago was already at the hangar was one thing—but Popov’s insistence on keeping him off the record and the demand that he abandon his security added a dangerous new variable. I leaned closer to the gap in the window, straining to hear any final instructions. The men just nodded at each other and went their separate ways.

When Popov rejoined us, he climbed into the driver's seat and immediately turned to address the group in the back before meeting my gaze.

"We move now," he said, his voice dropping to a low, authoritative rumble. "The hangar is clear, but we have a limited time frame before the next patrol cycle. We are picking up one more passenger before we reach the strip. Santiago will be joining you. He won’t be on the manifest. If we get stopped with him, we have to deny that he’s part of your party. Do you understand?"

I looked back at the others. Boris gave a sharp, decisive nod, his hand still on the handle of the dagger I'd given him, though it was too dark to be certain. Bob and Polina murmured their assent, their faces set with a shared understanding of the risk.

"Yeah," I said, turning back to Popov. "Where are we meeting him?"

“At a private hangar twenty-five kilometers away,” Popov said.

The engine turned over with a low, predatory growl. Popov didn't use the headlights until we were clear of the airport’s immediate perimeter, weaving through a service road that felt more like a scar across the frozen earth than a path. Every few minutes, I saw the sweeping blue and red beams of patrol cars on the main highway, a few kilometers to our left—the "monolith" Popov had warned us about. They were looking for us, hunting for the very lineage Popov was currently smuggling out of the capital.

"They’re close," Boris whispered from the back, his eyes glued to the window. "Closer than they were at the Metropol."

"They're searching every exit corridor," Popov said, his voice level but tight. "If they see these plates, my clearance buys us exactly sixty seconds of confusion. Make sure your weapons are hidden, but within reach."

The twenty-five kilometers passed in a blur of hyper-vigilance. I sat in the front passenger seat, the pistol heavy against my thigh, watching the road through the side mirror for any tail that might have broken off from the main patrols. Popov drove with a silence that was almost deafening, his eyes fixed on the darkness ahead.

We eventually turned into a secondary airfield, smaller and even more desolate than the first. A single hangar stood at the end of a cracked runway, its corrugated metal walls shivering in the biting wind. As the car slowed, a figure detached itself from the gloom.

It was Santiago. He stood alone, a dark overcoat pulled tight against the cold, his posture vibrating with an impatient, nervous energy. As our vehicle came to a halt, he looked toward the car, his eyes searching the tinted glass for a sign of us.

"Stay in the car," Popov ordered as he put the sedan in park. "I'll bring him in."

"I'm not waiting in the dark like a piece of luggage, Popov," I snapped, stepping out into the freezing night. The air hit my lungs like a physical blow. I watched as Popov approached Santiago, the two men exchanging a few sharp words before Santiago gestured toward the hangar behind him.

"The guards?" I asked as they approached the car.

Santiago’s eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw the true weight of the situation reflected in them. "They’re gone, Marie. Popov was very clear. I travel as a ghost, or I don't travel at all."

"I told you the cost of your exit was total compliance," Popov added, his gaze flicking between us. "The plane is waiting. If you're quite finished with the reunion, we have a runway to catch."

"Where are my men, Popov?" Santiago demanded, his voice dropping an octave. "You said they would be relocated safely."

"They are being handled," Popov replied with clinical indifference. "But they’re no longer your concern. Your concern is getting through that door and staying silent."

“I’ll connect with my friend when it’s save to do so, Santi,”  I said as we headed back to Popov’s vehicle.

Santiago climbed into the back with Boris, Bob, and Polina, while I sat up front with the bastard Popov. The space suddenly cramped and charged with a new, frantic electricity. "Are you alright?" he asked, looking at me as I slid back into the front passenger seat.

"I'll be alright when we're at thirty thousand feet," I replied, my hand still resting on the bag containing the pistol.

Popov returned to the driver’s seat, his face as grim as ever. "The runway is clear," he said, his voice dropping. "But we have three minutes before the radar sweep resets. If you aren't airborne by then, the FSB factions will have enough time to realize we’ve bypassed the manifest. If they ground us, I can't protect you."

"Then stop talking and drive," I said.

He didn't wait for a further response. He floored the accelerator, and the vehicle surged toward the waiting plane—a sleek, unmarked Gulfstream that looked like it had been plucked from a dream of escape.

Shadows of the Kremlin

The sterile scent of the infirmary had begun to feel like a shroud. It was hours later when the heavy oak door groaned open, and Dr. Arisov stepped in, his face a mask of professional indifference. He clutched a stack of discharge papers like a deck of cards he was reluctant to play.

"You are stable enough to move," Arisov said, his voice clipping the ends of his words. "But you are not 'well.' Do not mistake the two."

Boris didn’t wait for the doctor to finish. He was already at my side, his large hands steadying me as I struggled to pull on my clothes. My fingers felt like lead, fumbling with buttons. "Easy," Boris whispered, his shadow looming protective and dark against the white walls. "We are almost out of this cage."

We weren't truly out, though. We were merely moved to a different part of the labyrinth. Two FSB officers, their suits so sharp they looked lethal, escorted us down to a windowless private office on the first floor of the Kremlin. The air here felt different—thick with the weight of state secrets and old blood.

Three more officers entered. They didn't offer handshakes.

"I am Colonel Popov," the eldest said, his eyes scanning me with the precision of a thermal scope. "To ensure the integrity of the record and the security of the Federation, we require a full biological profile. Hair, blood, and a buccal swab."

I looked at the silver tray of medical instruments they had brought in. Beside the FSB team stood a woman in a charcoal suit I recognized—a representative from my own embassy. She looked pale, but she nodded once. "I am here to oversee the chain of custody," she assured me, though her voice lacked conviction.

"I consent," I said, the words feeling dry in my throat.

The process was invasive and silent. The prick of the needle, the tug of the hair follicle, the scrape of the swab against my cheek. It was a ritual of ownership.

Thirty minutes later, the door was opened again. "You are free to leave the grounds," Popov announced.

I turned to Boris, expecting him to follow, but an officer stepped between us, a hand flat against Boris’s chest.

"Wait," I snapped, my heart hammering. "He's with me."

"Mr. Petrov is staying for further debriefing," the FSB colonel said.

"I'm not leaving without him," I argued, looking to my country's representative for help. She simply looked at the floor.

"He'll be fine," she whispered, her cowardice palpable as she refused to meet my eyes.

"You are leaving now," the officer said, his tone final. Boris caught my eye, a subtle shake of his head warning me not to fight.

"Go," Boris mouthed. "I'll find you."

I was shoved—politely, but firmly—out of the Kremlin's reinforced gates. The Moscow winter hit me like a physical blow. The freezing cold bit into my lungs, and the adrenaline that had sustained me began to evaporate, leaving only a hollow, bone-deep ache.

I stood on the sidewalk, my breath blooming in white clouds. I was on thin ice. I knew that calling Sera was a gamble—especially with Elena’s icy disdain looming in the background—but I was drowning.

I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. It rang three times.

"Hello?" Sera’s voice was sharp, alert.

"Sera, it’s me," I choked out. "I’m outside of the Kremlin, but everything has gone wrong."

"Deep breaths," she commanded, her tone immediately shifting into the iron-clad resolve that made her who she was. "Tell me everything. Now."

"I was almost killed, Sera. A gunman," I stammered, the words tumbling out in a jagged, dark rush. "Boris arrived days ago to help a friend and I move a couple out of Russia, but he stayed behind to get me where I needed to go. It happened so fast—a gunman with a gun similar to the one used to execute my family. He tried to finish the job, but Boris saved me. I’ve been held in a secured wing of the Kremlin hospital, but then the FSB moved in. They treated me like a specimen, Sera. They took blood, hair, swabs... they treated me like a criminal while my own embassy representative stood by in silence. And now they’ve kept him. They won't let Boris leave. He’s still in there, behind those red walls, and I'm just standing here in the street. I can't get back in, Sera. They won't let me."

There was a pause on the line, the kind of silence that usually preceded a storm. "Listen to me," Sera said. "I have more pull in that city than the FSB likes to admit. I’m going to make some calls. I’ll get a rush on those DNA results so they have no excuse to keep questioning your identity, and I will get Boris released before the sun goes down."

"Thank you," I breathed, tears finally stinging my eyes. "And Sera? There’s one more thing. I can’t do this anymore. I wanted out from all governments, but now... it's the Russians specifically. I want nothing more to do with them. I want the paperwork finished. I'm done being their asset."

"Consider it done," she said, her voice softening just a fraction. "And I’m not just getting Boris out. I’ll start the process for Bob and Polina as well. Once they realize who you are, they’ll realize who Bob is. We’re getting all of you out of Russia. Just stay somewhere safe and keep your phone on. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Good. I have a Minister to threaten."

The line went dead. I stood there in the cold, the wind howling around the spires of St. Basil’s, and for the first time since the gun had been pulled, I felt like I might actually survive.

I started walking, my boots crunching on the packed snow. I couldn't go back to the Metropol to wait. The thought of the luxury there felt suffocating, especially knowing my brother was inside with his new girlfriend, oblivious to the frost settling in my bones. Instead, I sought out the familiar, grimy facade of the hostel I’d used before the hotel had become my sanctuary.

When I stepped through the door, the heavy air smelled of damp wool and floor wax. I kept my head down, bracing for a question or a look of recognition, but not a single employee or volunteer behind the desk looked up with more than a passing glance. They didn't know me. To them, I was just another drifter looking for a place to hide from the wind. I was deeply, profoundly grateful for that anonymity.

The hostel wasn't safe—not in the way a fortress like the Metropol was—but it was safer than the exposed streets, and infinitely better than the complicated, gilded life waiting for me at the hotel.

I was assigned a private room, small and cramped, but it had an attached bathroom. The space had recently been scrubbed with bleach; the sharp, chemical tang hit me as soon as I crossed the threshold. I was able to open the window a few inches to help clear the air. Even the bedding smelled faintly of it, a scent that felt more like a sanctuary than the hospital’s sterile shroud.

I secured my things, then went back to the communal kitchen and grabbed several bottles of water from the fridge. Walking back to the front desk, I caught the eye of the clerk.

"I don't want to be bothered for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours," I said flatly. "I’ll be sleeping."

They nodded with the indifference of people used to the exhausted and the broken. I left it at that and returned to my room. Once the door was locked and the bolt thrown, I stripped, went into the small bathroom to wash the day away, and went straight to bed. In the shadows of that small, bleached room, I finally let the world fade to black.

Hours past as I slept, the deep, dreamless exhaustion of the hunted. The sharp trill of my phone eventually pierced the silence, vibrating against the nightstand. I fumbled for it, my eyes burning. It was Sera.

"It's confirmed," she said, her voice carrying a gravity that fully woke me. "The Kremlin’s DNA testing matches the results from Doc’s mechanic. There is no more room for doubt. You are Marie Alexandrovna Romanov."

I sat up, the bleach-scented sheets tangling around me. The weight of the name felt like lead.

"The Kremlin has been busy," Sera continued. "They’ve been putting the pieces together between you and Bob. They know who he is now but I’ve held them to the fire. The FSB has agreed to release both you and Boris from any further service or obligation. You’re done, Marie. Boris and his sister Polina will be permitted to leave within the next thirty-six hours."

I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since I entered that windowless office. "And the cost?"

"Exile," Sera said flatly. "The four of you—you, Boris, Polina, and Bob—are officially banned from the Russian Federation for the next fifteen years. Boris and Polina are essentially being stripped of everything. They will no longer be considered Russian citizens or residents. Their citizenship is to be revoked the moment they cross the border. However, I’ve secured the necessary paperwork for them; they will be entering the next country as individuals seeking political asylum. They'll be safe, but they can't look back for the next fifteen years."

I gripped the phone, looking at the cracked ceiling of the hostel room. We were being erased, cast out of the land that had tried to claim our lives. But we were alive, and for the first time in a generation, we were free.

"Thank you, Sera," I said, my voice finally steady. "One more thing before I go. Tell Elena she should be looking for a special delivery soon."

I didn't wait for her reply. I hung up the phone.

A new energy took hold of me, overriding the ache in my limbs. I showered quickly, the hot water scrubbing away the last of the Kremlin’s clinical grime. I dressed, packed my meager belongings, and checked out of the hostel without a word to the clerk.

I navigated the Moscow streets with a purpose I hadn't felt in years. I found a mid-grade local store, the kind that dealt in traditional staples but kept the high-end stock for those who knew to ask. I scanned the shelves until I found what I needed: a particular brand of caviar and a bottle of vodka that had once been the standard of the old elite. I picked the most expensive of both. The caviar and vodka set me back eleven thousand rubles.

I approached the counter and set the items down. The clerk began to ring them up with a bored, mechanical rhythm, but when I spoke, the air in the shop seemed to freeze. I gave him a specific address for delivery—the private residence of Elena—and as the words left my mouth, the man’s eyes went wide. His jaw practically hit the counter. He looked at me, really looked at me, his gaze traveling from my eyes to the bridge of my nose, as if seeing through the layers of the drifter and the victim to the ancient, royal blood underneath.

"The address," I repeated, my voice cool and unmistakable. "It needs to arrive within the hour."

He clicked his heels together, standing up perfectly straight with a sharp, military snap. He bowed his head in a gesture of profound, ancient respect, a ghost of a world that had been buried for a century.

"Forgive me, I did not realize," he whispered, his hands trembling as he took the payment. "Everything is exactly as it should be for the delivery."

I raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"It will be delivered in two hours, Imperial Highness," he said, his voice hushed and reverent.

"Thank you," I replied.

I walked out of the store, leaving him standing there in stunned silence. I didn't slow down. I began to run, my heart racing, heading back toward the red walls of the Kremlin.

I stormed inside the Kremlin, bypassing the outer layers of bureaucracy with a fury that no one dared to challenge. Security details reached for their radios, but something in my posture made them hesitate, a command in my stride that silenced the halls. I was met immediately by the same FSB agents who had taken my DNA samples—the ones who had treated me like a laboratory animal only hours before. Now, their eyes held a different light. They weren't looking at a specimen; they were looking at a legacy they could no longer contain.

"The paperwork," I demanded, stopping inches from Colonel Popov.

He didn't flinch, but he didn't sneer either. He signaled to an aide who produced a leather folder. "Everything is prepared," Popov said, his voice a low rasp. "The release forms for Boris Petrov and Polina Petrovna. The exit permits for yourself and your party. The paperwork for Petrov and Petrovna includes that they are seeking political asylum."

I snatched the folder, then looked at the two blue booklets he offered next, embossed with the double-headed eagle.

Two Russian Federation passports.

I flipped one open. There it was, printed in the clinical, official typeface of the state: Marie Alexandrovna Romanov. Beside it sat another: Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. My heart hammered against my ribs as I saw the names—names that had been whispers of ghosts, now stamped in ink by the very government that had tried to bury them.

"You are giving us these just to cast us out?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mixture of rage and triumph.

Popov stood at attention, his eyes fixed on a point just above my head. "Though you are banned from the Federation for fifteen years, Your Imperial Highness," he said, the title tasting like ash and iron in his mouth, "you should know that these passports never expire. The State recognizes the lineage. You will always be who you are, wherever you are."

I nodded my head slowly, snapping the passports shut and clutching the documents to my chest. The cold weight of the past was finally meeting the heat of the future. We had been cast out, but we had been reclaimed.

He stepped back and gave a stiff, formal nod. "Thirty-six hours. If you are still on Russian soil after that, the protocols change. Do not make us find you."

"You won't have to," I said but I didn't move. "And Boris? I want him. Now."

Popov looked at me for a long, silent beat, perhaps measuring the resolve in my eyes. Then, he turned to the aide. "Bring him."

The aide hurried away. I stood my ground, my heart a frantic drum against the leather folder. Moments later, the heavy door at the end of the corridor opened, and Boris stepped through. He looked tired, his face marked with the strain of the interrogation, but when he saw me, his eyes cleared instantly.

"Marie," he breathed.

I didn't wait for permission nor did I seek it. I closed the distance between us in a heartbeat, throwing my arms around him. He caught me, his large, familiar hands gripping the back of my coat, pulling me in so tight I could barely breathe. We hugged, and we couldn't stop hugging—it was the only thing that felt real in that cold, stone fortress.

"You're okay," he whispered into my hair, his voice thick. "You're okay."

"We're going home," I said against his chest, refusing to let go.

I turned on my heel, pulling Boris with me, and walked out of the heart of the machine. We didn't stop until we reached the Metropol Hotel.

We headed straight to the secure suite of the Metropol. The tension didn't break until we stepped through the door and saw them. Bob and Polina were there, waiting with an anxious energy that filled the room. The moment the door clicked shut, the room erupted into motion. We all moved at once, a tangle of siblings reunited under the most impossible of circumstances. We hugged each other, a frantic, silent confirmation that we were all still here, all still breathing.

After a long moment, I pulled Bob to the side. The suite was quiet now, the adrenaline of the reunion settling into something more profound. I reached into my folder and handed him his Federation passport.

He took it with a look of confusion that quickly turned to awe. He opened it, his thumb tracing the gold-embossed double-headed eagle, then the name printed inside: Artem Alexandrovich Romanov. He looked at me, impressed, the weight of the document apparent in the way his hands shook.

"They gave us these?" he whispered.

"They did," I said, my voice firm with a newfound certainty. "And they banned us for fifteen years. But look at that ink, Artem. It's a permanent record. Once our ban is over, we will be welcomed back whenever we want. They can't hide from the truth anymore."

I looked around the room. The air was thick with relief, but also a growing urgency. "We need to leave," I said, my voice dropping. “We have thirty six hours but we should leave sooner. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can move on with our lives.”

Santiago was compromised as

the act of helping a married couple escape had placed a target on his back, and by extension, ours. I stepped into the bedroom, closing the door to find a moment of privacy. I pulled out my phone and dialed Kay.

"We need out, Kay," I said the second she picked up. "We need out now."

"I know," Kay replied, her voice steady but clipped. "I've been monitoring everything with Sera. I'll reach out to my contact in the FSB to help facilitate your exit. They'll ensure the border protocols don't 'glitch' on your way out."

"Who is this contact, Kay?" I asked, a sliver of suspicion coloring my voice.

"You know who it is," she said simply.

The realization settled in my gut, but there was no time for questions. "We need to get out soon as possible."

"I'll arrange it," Kay promised. "But you need to be ready to move. Meet my contact at the back entrance of the Metropol in an hour and a half. Be ready for anything."

I hung up and walked back into the main room. Boris and Polina were already hovering near each other, talking in Russian. My brother was gathering his stuff.

"Do either of you want or need anything from town or your residences before we go?" I asked, looking from Boris to Polina. "We have a very small window of time before we leave."

They both shook their heads. "No, we both grabbed what we wanted while you were in the hospital," Polina said. "We just need the border."

I turned toward my brother, raising an eyebrow. "Artem, do you need anything?"

He looked at me, his expression softer than I’d seen it in years. He looked at the passport in his hand, then back at Polina. "No, I don't," Artem said. "I have my sister  mostly in one piece, my things are packed and I have my beautiful girlfriend."

I gathered the last of my belongings, my hands moving with a mechanical precision. We had little time, but the hunger that had been suppressed by adrenaline suddenly clawed at my stomach. We gathered in the small kitchenette area, consuming the food and water Fritz had meticulously stocked in the fridge. We ate in a heavy, shared silence—a last meal in a city that had tried to swallow us whole.

As the others finished their preparations, I pulled a piece of hotel stationery and a pen from the desk. I knew Fritz wouldn't be working when we slipped away, and the thought of leaving without a word felt like a betrayal of the one person who had made this gilded cage feel like a home.

I wrote the note quickly, the ink stark against the lavender and cream-colored paper:

Fritz,

By the time you read this, we will be gone. I cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for me during all of my stays over the years. Your kindness and your discretion were the only things that kept me sane in a world that felt like it was falling apart. You looked after me when you didn't have to, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Please know that your efforts did not go unnoticed. I wish you nothing but the best. Reach out to Sera to let her know if you need anything from me.

Sincerely,

Marie Alexandrovna Romanov

I left the note on the center of the dining table, weighted down by a ring that he had complimented me on many times – if he sold it, he would get more money than his total earnings for the last twenty-five years at the hotel. I took one last look around the suite—the luxury, the shadows, the echoes of a life I was finally leaving behind.

"Let's go," I whispered.

We turned toward the door, leaving the comfort of the Metropol for the uncertainty of the back entrance, and the long, cold road to the border. When we stepped outside, we were greeted by Colonel Popov.