Chapter Four - Markian
The car is quiet except for the city, all sirens and horns beyond the tinted glass. I watch it slide past, indifferent and relentless.
Midtown crowds ebb and flow on the sidewalks—people too busy to look up, too focused on their own problems to know they’re inches from danger. Lui drives the way he does everything, smooth and controlled. A professional.
My phone buzzes with new documents from the lawyers, contract drafts and background files, and I scroll through them, searching for gaps, for problems waiting to surface.
I glance up from the screen, breaking the silence. “Anything on the girl?”
Lui snorts, tapping his own phone against the wheel. He doesn’t look over. “Yeah. You’re up for a surprise.” He smirks, as if he’s seen something I haven’t, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask.
I narrow my eyes, but I don’t press. If there was trouble, he’d say. If there’s a mess, I’ll clean it. We slip underground, the car rolling to a stop in the private garage beneath the office building. Security waits by the elevator, just like always. Nothing gets missed, not in my world.
The ride up is fast. I check my tie in the mirrored doors, flatten a crease in my jacket, settle my mind into the calm that’s always come easy to me before these meetings.
Upstairs, the air is cold and clean, the kind of expensive chill you only find in rooms meant for men who sign other people’s fates.
I walk through the glass doors, Alexei just ahead of me, and immediately feel it. A crackle, a warning, the shift of something out of place. The Americans rise to greet us, eager, insistent, but my attention is already somewhere else.
She’s there. Tucked into the corner of the conference table, hair scraped into a neat bun, hands folded primly atop a notepad. She’s dressed in gray and navy, understated and precise, every line of her body meant to blend in, to disappear.
I know that face. I know the tension in her shoulders, the way her eyes flick up and dart away. I know the instinct to vanish. I’ve seen it before once, in the garden of a house full of wolves.
Jessa Whitaker. Or whatever name she gave that night.
The girl who heard too much and left too quietly.
The girl who tried not to run. My jaw tightens.
Across the table, Alexei notices her too, his eyebrow arching in silent question.
He knows what I’m thinking because he’s thinking it himself. This isn’t luck. This is a problem.
She doesn’t look at me. She keeps her head down, pretending to take notes, eyes fixed on her hands. Professional. Unremarkable. She does a good job, because she almost fools me, but not quite.
I take my seat at the head of the table, barely hearing the introductions. The Americans start the meeting, voices taut and polite. The Russians, my men, fall in behind me, letting me set the tone.
My focus keeps drifting. I watch her from the corner of my eye, every movement, every flicker of hesitation. Her hand trembles once before she stills it.
She’s trying too hard not to be noticed. That’s the giveaway.
Alexei leans in, murmuring in Russian, “That’s her?”
I don’t answer, not directly. My gaze flickers to Jessa, then back to the documents on the table. “Keep your eyes open,” I reply, voice low enough that only he can hear.
I read her name on the legal pad beside her elbow.
Ms. Whitaker, the badge clipped to her sweater says.
Contract translator. Hired help. No history with us until the party.
Until that night. I wonder if she recognizes me, if she’s sweating under the collar, wondering if I’ll say something, if I’ll call her out.
Her poker face is better than most, but she’s not quite perfect.
I turn my attention to the paperwork, asking for a summary from the lead American.
Chris Jenkins, their representative, starts running through the details: investment, supply chain, the usual smoke and mirrors.
He doesn’t know what’s shifted in the room, what threat has quietly arrived.
I let him talk, but I’m not listening to the numbers. I’m watching the girl.
A moment later, I speak. “Ms. Whitaker, translate.” My voice is calm, just a shade too cold.
She lifts her head, finally forced to look at me. Her eyes are clear and wide, searching mine for any sign of recognition, any hint of threat. She translates, voice steady, accent crisp. Not a stutter, not a pause. If she’s scared, she hides it well.
I see her swallow, see the way her fingers tighten on the pen, knuckles pale. She knows. She remembers.
The Americans thank her, return to the business at hand. She ducks her head again, shrinking into her seat.
Alexei leans closer, his tone light but edged. “Should I dig deeper on her?”
I don’t answer immediately. I study the room. The way Jenkins keeps glancing at his phone, the way the other Russians are watching me, waiting for a signal. All the while, Jessa’s presence itches at the back of my mind. There’s no such thing as coincidence, not in my world.
“After the meeting,” I murmur. “Quietly.”
Alexei nods, sliding a folder in front of me.
The meeting starts in earnest, formal greetings turning to negotiation, each side falling into familiar roles. I listen with half an ear, my attention divided.
Chris Jenkins lays out the agenda, rattling off figures and timelines as if sheer volume could overwhelm the Russians into agreement. My men nod, impassive, offering nothing in return.
The rhythm is predictable, almost tedious, but I maintain the mask, offering small corrections, asking for clarifications, guiding the discussion without ever appearing to lead.
Every so often, I glance down the table.
She sits at the end, almost invisible in her neutral clothes, hair pulled tight.
Ms. Whitaker, her badge says. But I remember how her mouth trembled around my name, the way her fingers fumbled with a glass on that marble balcony.
Now, she is composed, translating legalese into flawless Russian and back again, voice steady and clear.
I know the language well enough to hear her skill. No mistakes. Not yet.
I notice the small things. Like the way she doesn’t meet my eyes when I speak, the way she keeps her posture painfully straight, as if she could disappear into the leather of her chair if she tried hard enough.
At one point, her hand hesitates on her notepad, a faint tremor running through her fingers before she clamps her palm over the page. She tries to recover, flipping quickly to a new sheet, but the motion is too quick, too practiced. She knows I’m watching.
The Americans notice nothing. They’re too wrapped in their own anxieties, afraid of offending the Russians, afraid of missing a clause that could cost them millions. Jenkins grows impatient as the Russians push for tighter guarantees, his voice tightening with every new demand.
“We’ll need that in writing,” he says, forcing a smile. “Non-negotiable.”
I watch her then, waiting to see how she will deliver the words in Russian.
Her voice doesn’t crack. She translates “non-negotiable” with the correct edge, but her eyes dart up—quick, uncertain—before falling away again.
For just a moment, I see it: a shadow of fear blooming behind her careful professionalism.
She knows it’s me. She remembers.
Alexei sends me a look across the table, silent and sharp.
He’s noticed too, but I keep my expression neutral, neither friendly nor hostile.
Let the others think I am just another suit, another executive, bored by the endless details.
Let them think she is just another contractor, as easily forgotten as any other hired help.
Inside, I am already deciding.
There is no room for luck in our business, no patience for coincidence.
A girl who overhears names and secrets at a private party, who then turns up at a negotiation less than a week later?
Either someone sent her, or she is reckless in a way that will get people killed.
It does not matter which. The outcome will be the same.
My mind works as the meeting grinds on, tracking possibilities, preparing for every path. If she runs, we follow. If she stays quiet, we watch her. If she makes a mistake—any mistake—I end it quickly. Cleanly.
I direct the conversation, asking Ms. Whitaker to clarify a clause in the Russian contract, my voice even and polite. She looks up, her face composed, and answers in perfect Russian, referencing the correct line, the correct term.
Her professionalism is impressive. Under different circumstances, I might even respect her for it.
Only I see the way her knuckles whiten as she clutches her pen. The way her throat bobs when she swallows. She feels the danger. She knows it’s real now.
Jenkins interrupts with another demand, forcing a break in the flow. The Americans whisper together, huddled at their end of the table. The Russians lean back, inscrutable. I let them talk, using the lull to study her again.
She’s writing furiously, head down, trying to keep her hands from shaking. I wonder what she thinks will happen next. If she believes in the safety of daylight, of public spaces, of security guards posted in the lobby.
I shift in my chair, the smallest movement. She glances up, catches my eye for the first time, and freezes. The fear is plain now, blooming in her irises, widening her pupils. She’s breathing too shallow. I give her nothing—no recognition, no comfort. Just the cool, steady weight of my attention.
Alexei leans forward, speaking in Russian, “Shall we move to finalize the agreement?”
I nod, keeping my eyes on Jenkins as the American rattles off the final numbers. My mind never leaves her. There is no way she leaves this room unchanged. Her world is already shrinking, options closing one by one.
The documents move down the table, signatures gathering like falling dominoes.
I reach for the pen, sign smoothly, then pass it on, my mind already moving ahead.
Lui is waiting. He’ll have her details, her history, her habits.
He’ll know who she talks to and where she goes. I trust him to find what matters.