Chapter 3

Angela Collins

Jonathan's MOUTH IS agape as he stares through the two-way mirror. He eyes the young girl with so much curiosity that I can already hear the questions he's going to ask. It's inevitable. "H-he had a daughter?" Jonathan whispers seemingly to himself. "Yup." I say, popping the p. "How did you know? How did you find out?" He turns to me and questions. "I didn't." I respond. "We just found her when infiltrating their quarters." "Holy shit." Jonathan breaths. "This changes so much-" "Don't get too excited. You're on the sidelines." I warn with a pointed look. "Right. Of course." He quickly shuts up - probably grateful I'm even allowing him in here before I go out there and talk to Brianna. "So...what do we know about her?" "She's fifteen. A February baby," I note. "She's lived in her father's quarters her whole life and never left because he kept her undocumented and a secret from anyone in the outside world, including other mafias. Honestly, the girl was just born into the wrong family." "You're telling me that," Jonathan gestures to the window, "Is an innocent little puppy caught in between two worlds when her father is literally Alex Romanov." I don't like the accusation in his tone. Or the mocking. "Yes." I answer simply. "It's my theory currently." Jonathan gives me a doubtful look. I want to shove into the gutters and slam against the pavement several times before disposing of his body in a forest far, far away. But I ignore it. "Have you questioned her yet? Or did you just get that information from things you found back at Alex's base?" Jonathan asks, changing the subject—possibly after noticing the energy change on my end. "I haven't spoken to her yet actually, this is all information I've been given." I answer. "And you're already making assumptions? I don't think that's very smart." Jonathan says, and I suddenly have no idea why I even agreed to letting him come here in the first place. "Since I've actually caught Alex Romanov, I think I'll just stick to my roots as they've been working out pretty well so far." I answer with a hint of mocking smug. Jonathan takes obvious notice - I wasn't trying to hide my tone—but says nothing. I walk towards the two-way mirror myself and observe the fifteen-year-old in person for the first time. She looks nothing like Alex. She's got blonde hair that cascades down over her shoulders and back, wavy and ethereal—practically the opposite of my hair. You can tell from a mile away that her eyes are blue, maybe from the size of her eyes or the deep blue sea that they drown in, but in either case, they're blue. The girl looks...nothing. She looks nothing. I can't grasp any form of what her personality will be by what she gives me. For once, I can't observe. As if she knows I'm there, she looks up, stares directly through the window she shouldn't be able to see through, although it seems like she does, and gives a knowing sort of look. One that says, 'I know you're there'. I squint. Without any regard for Jonathan, I turn and walk out of the room, ready to see her. She makes me curious. More curious than usual. Because usually, I can at least get some definite answers from just looking at someone. None with her. All I know about her is that she's Alex Romanov's daughter. When I enter the room, Brianna immediately stares at me. Her eyes don't hold fear, nor do they hold surprise. They do seem to be observing like me though. "Hello." I speak first. She doesn't say anything. "If you don't speak English, I've already called a translator that's on their way. Otherwise, just tell me." I attempt. She says nothing. Instead, she continues to stare me down with her ocean eyes. "Right." I thin my lips, tapping my pen on the table. She's not cuffed, but she's not really granted access to leave either. I'm not sure if she's angry, terrified, confused, or anything. I can't tell anything. "I'll get a translator-" "You have pretty hair." She says suddenly. A very thick Russian accent peaks through her words as she does. "I - what?" I ask confused. "Your hair. Very pretty." She says, using a small gesture with her hand to point towards it. "Oh—uh—thanks. Thank you." I say before clearing my throat. "Is your English good? Can you understand everything I'm saying?" I ask. "Yes." She responds simply. "Okay," I give a soft smile. "Great, let's, uh, let's get started." "I have questions first." She says before I can continue. "You do?" I raise a brow. "That's what I said." She gives a confused look. "I know—just—never mind. What questions?" I ask. "Where is my father?" She asks. Her face and tone don't give anything away. I can't tell if she doesn't know what's going on, I can't tell if she's happy that he might be in jail or even if she's just upset and wanting to see him. "He's in custody right now. He has a court hearing coming up and will likely end up in jail. Money isn't enough for him this time." I answer. Brianna scoffs. The first time she's shown an ounce of emotion that can even help me depict her character or personality. And yet, nope. Still nothing. "Money is always enough," she says quietly to no one in particular, "if you have enough of it." "Except when you have the duo of two badass women, one a cop, and the other a lawyer on the case." I respond. It's not meant to be funny. It was just me speaking without thinking. But Brianna cracks a smile nonetheless. A beautiful smile. One that would have kids her age falling to her knees. One that makes me want to squish her cheeks at how young and adorable she suddenly appears. "Do you have any...other questions?" I ask. "Possibly. I'll ask after I hear you speak." She answers. "Great. I just need to go through some basic questions about your age and stuff, and then I'll get into the more deep ones. Does that sound good?" I ask to which she nods casually as if she isn't being held in custody right now because her father is a mass murderer. "First off, can you confirm these are your dates?" I ask, slipping over a piece of paper that holds her birthday information. Brianna takes a moment to look at them before returning the paper and nodding. "Good," I hum, "Now, do you have any schooling? How were you educated down there?" "I had tutors." She responds. "Did you ever learn anything that wasn't academic?" I ask. She tilts her head to the side, some locks falling behind her. "What do you mean?" "At your, home, were you taught anything other than educational matters?" "No. I was taught math, English, history, geography, science, and Russian." She answers. "Okay, that's also good." I say. "What do you know of your father?" I ask next, trying not to wince at how serious this conversation could go. "My father works with serious people and does serious things." She answers. "Do you know the severity of these things?" I ask.