17. Dominik
DOMINIK
I’m in the kitchen pouring hot water into the percolator when I hear her steps on the parquet.
Slow and careful, the kind that means she heard the clink of the spoon and the scent of coffee pulled her from sleep.
She stops at the doorway, barefoot, wearing one of my shirts like it’s always been hers.
“Coffee?” I ask.
She nods, the tension in her face softening as she steps in, and she fits into me without asking.
Her body is still warm from sleep, and I let my hand slide through her hair and hold her there a while.
The first light comes in through the window and streaks her curls golden.
She makes a sound and rests her forehead against my chest, and I don’t rush her because there isn’t anything to rush right now.
I finish what I started at the counter, then I pour coffee into a mug and put it in her hands.
She takes the first sip, and I can feel how alert she is under the calm because she’s still tracking the house, the doors, and Mila is in the next room, still sleeping.
I keep my eyes on her anyway, because when she’s this close and not fighting me, it hits differently.
She climbs onto the counter like she belongs there, and her legs swing slowly while she cups the mug with both hands. When she looks at me, her eyes narrow. “What are you going to do?” she asks.
I pause, because I want another minute before I step back into the part of the day that bites. “I need to get a few things,” I tell her. “Food, medicine, and what Mila needs.” She nods like she already knew that was coming.
I tell her I’ve been working security at a hospital under the Nikolai name for years. It was a favor paid and closed. That’s where I was when the alert went off.
She meets my eyes and says, “You always meant to leave.”
I say I’ll handle the paperwork and the arrangements for the marriage, and she doesn’t argue this time.
Before I leave, I hold my hand out for her passport.
“I’ll need it to file the marriage,” I say.
She doesn’t move.
“Your real one,” I add.
Her eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Because changing your name right now looks like you’re hiding,” I say. “That’s what gets people flagged. I want it on record that Ana Markova married Dominik Volkov. I want it clean, and I want it public enough that they can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
“That puts me back in front of them,” she says.
“It changes what you are to them,” I reply. “You stop being Markov’s widow on paper. You become my wife. If they try to grab you after that, they have to admit they’re breaking their own rules, and they don’t like doing that where it can be traced.”
She doesn’t talk for a second, and I can see the calculation on her face.
“They won’t like it,” she says.
“I’m not doing this to make them comfortable,” I say.
She turns and goes back inside. When she returns, the passport is in her hand. She gives it to me like she’s handing over a weapon, not a booklet.
I take it and head for the door.
She follows me. “When will you be back?”
“By afternoon. You keep yourself and Mila safe,” I say. “Stay inside. Don’t open the door for anyone. If you need something, call me first.”
“You said afternoon,” she replies.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” I say.
She looks up at me, searches my face, then kisses me once, slow, like she’s choosing it. I kiss her back, just as simply, and then I take my jacket and leave.
I hail a taxi from the curb and give my old address, the one I’m still using on paper.
I sit in the back and watch the reflections in the glass instead of the street, and I keep track of turns and stops while I check whether anyone stays with us longer than they should.
No one does. The driver drops me two blocks short and pulls away without looking back.
The apartment door gives under my hand without resistance. No blinds are drawn, but I leave them untouched. A single bulb clicks on—just enough light to work without making the windows glow from the street.
Nothing looks disturbed. I don’t trust that.
I move through it piece by piece. The pistol waits behind the false panel, exactly where it should be.
I take it first, then peel the spare magazine from behind the radiator.
The passports follow—mine and the second with the Nikolai name—slipped into the inner lining of my coat.
Under the sink, the tin lifts free with a clean snap, and the cash inside is still dry and stacked right.
I take the external drive from the drawer. The burner phone stays powered off, but it goes in the pocket regardless. Every item is muscle memory.
Windows closed. Locks untouched. Stairwell clear. One last look out front, no watchers, no cars within sight. Nothing out of place.
I don’t risk the elevator. The stairwell gives me fewer eyes. Nothing in the garage screams of any obvious threat. The car is there, just as I left it.
Still, I walk the full circle. Mirror edges, undercarriage, wheel wells, back bumper—nothing's moved, nothing’s marked. The pillars don’t hide movement. The dust hasn’t shifted.
Only then do I reach for the door.
I drive out, pick up speed once I hit the main road, and run a quick loop through a side street to make sure I’m alone before I commit to the route.
The hospital rises ahead, wide and gray, already busy when I pull in.
I badge through the staff entrance under the name Nikolai Sokolov, the one I took when I stepped out of my old life.
Sergei is at the desk with coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other.
Mikhail is arguing with a delivery driver about parking.
Yaroslav lifts a hand from the monitor wall without taking his eyes off the screens.
I stay visible enough that no one questions why I’m here.
To the council, I was the problem, not her. They shut me out and waited for me to slip. So I put myself somewhere steady, somewhere official, where I couldn’t be brushed aside.
It’s the same every day, and I keep it that way. Visitors get lost. A drunk relative raises his voice. An alarm goes off and turns into nothing. I walk the floors, check the doors, and sign the reports.
Between rounds, my mind keeps moving. I count dates. I line up paperwork. I decide who needs to know and who doesn’t. If this is going to happen, it happens clean and fast.
I finish my shift, sign out, and walk to the car like it’s just another day. I already know I’m not coming back.
I know how the Bratva reacts when something goes wrong in public and leaves bodies behind. I’ve been on the side that cleaned it up. I won’t give them a clean place to pin me. And I won’t leave a trail that leads back to Ana and the kid.
Before the night’s over, my badge won’t work, my name won’t be on the rotation, and the number this hospital has for me won’t reach anyone.
Ana vanished in daylight off a flagged account after a recovery order went out. That doesn’t sit cleanly. They won’t shout about it. They’ll tighten around it.
They’ll know it wasn’t random. They’ll know it was someone who understood their structure. It won’t take long before they land on me. After that, it stops being about the men who died. It becomes about where I stand.
If I’m still inside their rules, I get corrected. If I’m outside them, I get removed.
The only thing that slows that process is paperwork.
Marriage changes classification. It forces them to decide in the open. It makes any move against her a move against me on record, not in shadow.
If I wait, they control the pace. If I move first, I set it.
So it happens fast.
The ZAGS office I use sits behind a bakery and a phone repair stall, an older building that smells faintly of paper and floor cleaner. People come here for births and deaths and marriages, and no one looks closely at faces because everyone is thinking about their own.
Galina is at the second desk from the window. She looks up when she hears my steps. Her mouth lifts before she checks herself.
“Nikolai,” she says, pen already in her hand. “You look like trouble.”
“I’m getting married,” I tell her.
She blinks once, then laughs under her breath. “That’s worse than trouble.”
“Soon,” I add.
Her focus shifts, all habit and triage, the way it does when urgency becomes procedure.
“How soon?”
“Days.”
She exhales, pushes her chair back, and motions for me to sit. “You bring me miracles, always at the end of the day. Documents?”
I slide the folder across the desk. Inside are two passports and a thin stack of papers, all of it prepared to pass a lazy check and survive a careful one.
My passport is under Nikolai Sokolov. Ana’s is under Ana Markova.
Under that are clean copies of birth records and a few stamped identifiers, nothing flashy, nothing that invites a second look.
She opens the folder and flips through it fast, her fingers practiced, her face unreadable.
“No prior registrations,” she says. “That helps.”
“There’s a child,” I say. “So we need her on my coverage the same day, and I need the paperwork to hold if anyone tries to pull it apart later.”
She nods and starts writing without looking up. “It always does.” She doesn’t ask anything that isn’t already on the page.
“No witnesses,” I say. “Just signatures.”
“That’s fine,” she replies. “Paper doesn’t need applause.”
She stamps the application and slides it back to me. “Three days. Expedited,” she says. “Officially for health reasons.” Then she adds, “Don’t be late.”
“I won’t be,” I say.
She hesitates, then smiles, softer this time. “Congratulations, Nikolai.”
I leave before she can say anything else and walk two blocks to a small grocery near the tram stop.
I buy a bag of chocolates shaped like animals for Mila because she likes things she can line up on the table.
I add a scarf for Ana, dark blue wool, plain enough to disappear into a coat, warm enough to matter.
I pay in cash and take the long way home.