11. Ana
ANA
We’re at the small kitchen table. I keep moving food around my plate, pushing it from one side to the other, giving my hands something to do while I figure out how to start. I could tell him now. I could wait. Not about the baby. About the letter. I set my fork down.
Dominik cuts the loaf clean down the middle, then gathers the crumbs that scatter across the table, careful, methodical.
“You’re not eating?” he says.
That’s when I tell him.
He stops mid-motion. Not dramatic. Just still. He doesn’t ask what I mean or who contacted me. He takes one half of the loaf, sets it on his plate, and spreads butter over it with slow strokes, all his focus narrowed down to the knife and the bread.
“I’m going,” I say, because the silence is starting to press on my chest.
He still doesn’t answer. He adds a sausage, takes a big bite, and chews.
I count the seconds between his movements and wish he’d just snap at me. When he falls silent like this, it means he’s already seen where options end. He’s calculating how many bodies it costs to change the outcome.
“You don’t have anything to say?” I ask, making it a dare.
He finishes chewing, wipes his fingers once on the cloth, then looks at me.
“You shouldn’t go alone.”
“I’m not. You’re coming with me.”
Something shifts in his expression, briefly, like I’m not telling him anything new, just proving what he already guessed.
“They didn’t summon me.”
“They summoned me,” I say. “And I don’t belong to them unless you let me.”
That one stays with him. He holds my gaze a beat longer, then nods once.
“All right,” he says. “We go together.”
The letter leads us to a downtown cafe. When we walk in, the man behind the bar doesn’t ask questions. He gives us a look, a slight nod, then jerks his chin toward the back.
The door at the end of the narrow hallway carries just a number, crooked above the frame. Dominik pushes it open, allowing me to enter first. His hand stays on the handle while I step through and take in the room.
A long wooden table runs the length of it, ringed with mismatched chairs. From beneath the floorboards, the muffled clatter of plates and cutlery drifts up. The back stays unseen. The front stays clean. That’s the arrangement.
Dominik lets the handle go and steps in beside me, his fingers brushing the worn leather of the holster slung against his ribs.
The room’s empty, lit by a shaded lamp hanging over the table.
We look at each other, the pause stretching, when a side door swings open.
It’s built to blend into the wall. That’s how we missed it.
Two men in tailored council coats step through the gap. One grabs Dominik, presses a gun to his back, and they march us out without a word.
Outside, we’re shoved into a car where two more men wait, guns up, faces blank as plaster. The driver slaps a blue light onto the hood and punches the car into the city's traffic. He doesn’t ease off the gas, not once, and nobody speaks the entire ten-minute ride.
The building they take us to sits behind a gate that looks unwatched until the men by it come into focus, still as stone. The car rolls to a stop, there’s a short exchange I can’t hear, and the gate opens without a sound.
Inside, the hallways are wide and clean, too still, stripped of art or personal touches, everything arranged to leave no impression at all. I walk beside Dominik, close enough to feel his heat, far enough that no one can say we’re showing anything.
They take us into a room meant for meetings, built around a long table and soft chairs, water set out in identical glasses in front of each seat. Four men are already seated. I recognize them right away.
Viktor Andreyevich sits in the center. Beside him is Mikhail Petrovich Orlov, hands folded on the table, veins raised, nails clean. He watches me the way people watch a problem they expect to solve.
To his right sits his nephew, Sergei, in a Dolce & Gabbana suit that probably cost more than the man who stitched it earns in a year.
He doesn’t stand when I enter. He smiles just enough to pass for polite.
His eyes drag over my face, down my throat, and back up again like he’s assessing property. He doesn’t hurry. He’s never had to.
Vasiliev Morozov sits there too, and he doesn’t bother hiding what he thinks. His look mocks me before drifting to Dominik. He watches the space between us like it’s something he paid for.
A fifth man stands near the wall with his hands clasped behind his back.
Nikolai Petrov. He’s not council, but I’ve seen him at enough dinners before to know he matters.
He’s always listening, never speaking unless someone calls his name first. He listens more than he speaks, and when he does, men adjust.
“Ana Markova,” Viktor says, not Ana, not gently. “Thank you for honoring tradition.”
A flicker of approval passes among the men. I’ve given them what they wanted, for now.
“This isn’t an interrogation,” Viktor says, his finger tapping the notepad once. “It’s an accounting.”
Sergei leans forward just enough to make the point. “Continuity matters. Stability matters. When a man like Markov dies, there are obligations left behind.”
Vasiliev lets out a laugh. “‘Opportunities’ is the word that fits better in your case.”
Dominik’s jaw shifts. He doesn’t speak.
For a while, they repeat the same points about legacy, unity, and responsibility. About how a woman in my position shouldn’t be left unanchored. They say widow like it’s a clerical error. Marriage comes up, not with a name, just as something that needs to be arranged. I’ve heard all of it before.
Then the questions start. Where I stayed. Which neighborhoods I moved through. Who I spoke to. They click their tongues and tilt their heads, like I’d done something careless and predictable.
I keep my voice steady. I don’t argue. I answer what they ask and nothing else.
“You’ve been moving,” Nikolai says at last, his tone matter-of-fact, like he’s reading from a report. “Changing addresses. Cutting contact.”
“I was advised to keep a low profile,” I say.
“By whom?” Sergei asks.
I glance at Dominik before I remember not to.
Viktor watches the exchange without blinking. “Mr. Volkov,” he says finally, “you’ve taken a very active role.”
Dominik holds his gaze. “I was assigned to protect her.”
“And yet you continue to act beyond that assignment,” Viktor replies.
The silence that follows isn’t long, but it presses in tightly. I feel it settle deep in my chest.
Nikolai shifts slightly where he stands. “There are concerns,” he says, choosing his words with care. “About influence.”
“Influence,” I repeat.
“Destabilizing,” he adds, still refusing to look at Dominik.
That word lands hard. My blood goes cold.
Sergei lets out a faint smile. “It’s not personal. But integrity matters. House matters. Honor matters.” Coming from him, it sounds as if a pair of teeth is clattering in a polished mouth.
“A man who doesn’t understand where his authority ends becomes a liability,” he continues in the same tone.
Vasiliev nods. “Especially when he forgets his place.”
Dominik keeps his voice even. “My place has always been clear.”
“Has it?” Viktor asks.
I watch Dominik closely. His posture hasn’t changed, his hands stay where they are, and his breathing stays level. But everything about him feels held in place.
Nikolai speaks again. “There’s talk. Nothing’s final. But the matter is still open.”
“Talk of what?” I ask.
“Removal,” he says, no frills. His mouth contracts into a thin line.
The room goes very still. I don’t look at Dominik. I don’t need to. I feel the shift in him. It's immediate.
Viktor clears his throat. “This is why arrangements must be made swiftly. To resolve uncertainty, and of course to protect assets.”
Assets. They’re using clean words to cover what they want. This isn’t about me choosing a husband. It’s deeper than that. They want me to stand alone. Out of the shade.
Sergei leans back, settled in his own certainty. “A marriage within the council would settle everything.” He says this like he’s been pushing it hard and just needs a signal from me. Even the smallest signal.
His eyes meet mine, expectant.
I gaze back, unblinking. Vasiliev’s smile widens.
I nod once. Slow, still holding Sergei with my eyes. “I’ll consider what you’ve said.” Then I look at Viktor and nod.
That’s enough for them.
The meeting ends the way they always do, with every move measured. Polite words, formal gestures, nothing loud, nothing direct. No one raises their voice. No threats are spoken aloud. The doors close behind us without hurry, without sound.
A man steps out as we reach the curb. No questions. Just walks up and opens the rear door of the same car that brought us. We get in without needing to speak. This isn’t a send-off. It’s a reminder. We’re being placed where they can still reach us.
The driver drops us off two blocks from our current residence. Dominik walks a half step ahead of me. He doesn’t speak until we’re inside the building.
“They’re moving faster,” he says, opening the door to our apartment.
“They’re moving to kill you,” I reply.
He turns to look at me. “Why would you say that?”
I keep my voice calm. “Nikolai said removal. That wasn’t leverage. That was a notice.”
His mouth tightens. “‘Removal’ is pressure. Not a verdict. The council postures.”
“No,” I say. “They’re preparing.”
Back at the apartment, Dominik starts planning without pause, routes, exits, safer locations. He talks about doubling security, pulling in favors that are already worn thin.
I let him talk. I don’t interrupt. I don’t tell him I’m not alone anymore. There’s a child inside me. His child. And now I see the board clearly. If I stay, they’ll kill him first.
When he finally stops, I meet his eyes. “If I stay, you die.”
He shakes his head. “I won’t let you disappear.”
That night, while he sleeps on the couch, I start building my exit. I wait until his breathing evens out, then move to the kitchen and call Irina. She picks up on the first ring.
“Madam?” she whispers.
“Don’t ask questions. Just answer. Understand?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Did anyone follow you to the hotel?”
“I didn’t,” she says firmly. I believe her.
I never thought she knew I’d be taken at gunpoint, hauled into a safehouse, locked down for breaking.
I’ve known Irina since she was a child. She’s family.
Poor, careful, and still tied to me by debt.
She contacted Dominik. She didn’t run. She stayed in the Markov mansion and didn’t flinch when they came looking.
“Are you still in the mansion?” I ask, reminding her to answer in yes or no.
“Yes.”
“I need cash and my jewelry. Can you arrange it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming in myself,” I say.
“Yes.”
“I need a time. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
I cut the phone.
Irina sends the message the next day just after dusk. One word. Now.
I don’t answer. I dress instead. A shawl hauled close, goggles that hide my eyes, clothes that belong to no one important. I text her five minutes before I reach the mansion.
She’s already waiting at the back exit, the one that opens into an alley that smells like damp stone and old trash.
She slips out and hugs the wall. I move fast, slide inside the perimeter.
We move fast, keeping to shadows, slipping past ground that’s changed hands since Markov died.
It skirts the edge of a temporary camp, fires burning banked, people busy enough not to look twice.
The crypt entrance waits just beyond, half collapsed and long ignored. It leads straight into the foundation of the house.
I reach my room without being seen. Nothing’s changed. I move fast. Documents folded flat. Cash counted once, then again. Jewelry chosen for weight, not memory. Clothes that won’t stand out. I open drawers I know exist, pull papers I’ve seen before, photograph what I can’t carry.
I don’t rush. I don’t stop. When I leave, the room looks untouched. Irina will see to the rest. Her face is pale, but she stands steady at the door.
“You’ll need papers,” she says. “Andrei can help.”
I nod. I’ve used him before. He fixed my laptop once when the screen went dark and I didn’t want anyone from the house asking why. His shop sits between a tailor and a key cutter, cash only, no questions unless you start them. He knows how to change a name without leaving fingerprints on it.
I leave the way I came. No one sees me. Before I go back to the apartment, I make one more stop at Ladozhsky Railway Station.
That night, I lie close to Dominik, my face against his chest, breathing him in like I need to remember it later. I don’t let my breathing change.
His arms stay around me, steady, certain. “I’ll protect you,” he says into my hair.
I believe him. But it’s not him I doubt. It’s the Bratva.
The next day, I leave.