24. Dominik
DOMINIK
The house is quiet when I wake, the kind that means everyone’s still asleep and will stay that way if I don’t make noise.
I make coffee and drink it at the counter, watching the yard get brighter bit by bit.
Even before the sun comes up over the ridge, the wind carries salt and wet stone from the coast.
I go back to what I left unfinished.
I start with routes that close the loop instead of widening it.
If this ends, it ends where the claim started.
I map the roads the way I always do. Ways in that look casual.
Ways out that cut through places nobody remembers.
Three ways into Saint Petersburg, five ways out, none of them direct.
Fuel stops where nobody looks twice. Turnoffs where you can slow down without making it obvious.
I write it all down, then go over it again, changing the order until the movement makes sense, not just the map.
By the time the cup is empty, the plan feels workable. I wash the mug, dry it, and put it back in the rack, then change my mind and pour a second cup.
I take out the pen and paper again and write down names, streets, houses, addresses. We need a second place now, something in place before the marriage starts drawing more eyes.
I pick a place that already exists and already runs on its own. It isn’t safe because no one knows it. It’s safe because no one pays attention to it. People go in and out all day and forget it the minute they leave.
I settle on one address, mark the entry points, and write the rules I’ll use for it. No one goes there without my word. No phones inside. No one uses names at the door.
I keep it tight. The only person who knows the place is the one who keeps it running, and he doesn’t get the full picture. He gets cash and a simple story when we arrive.
I walk out to the veranda. The small backyard is starting to fill with sunlight, and the birds are already calling. Ana will be up any minute, and I need a cover story ready.
Marriage isn’t a disguise. It gives us a place to stand.
I can’t act like we’re trying to disappear, since that only makes people look harder.
I have to act like we made a choice and expect people to accept it.
That means moving normally, not in a rush.
Eating where people can see us. Going to meetings and leaving without drama.
Moving through places like we belong there.
It puts eyes on us, but it also makes it harder for people to come at us openly.
I plan for the eyes. I write my name once on the paper. Nikolai Sokolov.
I write it down again in the notebook, then underline it once. Changing it now would be stupid. That name is already everywhere it needs to be, on the marriage record, work papers, residency, clinic forms, and Mila’s file. If I change it again, it breaks the line and makes people look closer.
I set the pen aside and look toward the hallway. The house is still quiet. I walk to Mila’s room and check in. She’s still asleep, one arm over the blanket, breathing deep and even.
When I come back, I stop at the bedroom door.
Ana is asleep on her side, one hand tucked under the pillow, hair across her cheek, the sheet twisted around her legs. There’s a faint mark at her shoulder where I kissed her last night. She doesn’t stir when I stand there.
I go back to the table and sit down.
When I go back to Saint Petersburg, I won’t go in like a man trying to slip through cracks. I’ll go as Nikolai Sokolov, married, employed, easy to place, and not alone.
I stare at the wall for a second, then pull the notebook closer and start writing again.
I’m not trying to outrun the system now. I’m making it deal with me. At this point, there are only two ways this works. You’re invisible and people leave you alone, or you’re visible and too expensive to touch.
Ana and Mila took the first option off the table, so I’m choosing the second, and once I do that, visibility starts working for us.
I plan for the attention without making a show of it. I let the right people notice on their own while I register temporary residency, show up at one meeting for a normal security job, and let my name come up once in a way that says I’m here, I’m legitimate, and I’m settled.
I assume betrayal from the start, because anything else gets people killed. This isn’t carelessness. It’s the move. I’m not protecting an asset anymore. I’m protecting my family, and that means I leave a trail on purpose.
I know Ana may look at the clinic and the paperwork and see exposure. I get it. Once we were there, I made sure our names, signatures, and records were in the room too. Now the record says I’m Mila’s father. Good.
The council isn’t looking for one fast move. It’s watching, waiting, and building something it can use later. That’s why I leaned into paperwork, witnesses, and time.
Ana sees the risk in being visible. I see what they’re doing with it, and that gives me room to move first.
I used to stay alive by disappearing. That’s over. Now I stay ahead by making their choices smaller.
By the time Ana comes into the kitchen, I’ve already closed the notebook and put it away. I hear her before I look up. She fills the kettle, sets it on the stove, and waits. Then she comes to the table with a cup of tea and sits across from me.
“Tell me,” she says.
No lead-in. No soft approach.
I don’t soften it either. I give it to her straight.
“Markov kept a private register,” I say. “The kind of thing he never let out of his hands.”
She doesn’t interrupt, so I keep going.
“It had names, dates, and deals that were never meant to be on paper. Weapons moved under fake shipment labels. Containers marked as grain that carried parts. Offshore accounts tied to escort businesses that were really washing trafficking money. Hotel projects paid for by rival groups who needed favors wiped clean. Contracts used to hide kickbacks and transport routes.”
She says nothing, but I see it land.
“I knew some of the names,” I say. “Men who smiled in meetings and paid on time. Men who crossed him and didn’t know he was keeping score. He tracked all of it. Who owed him. Who lied to him. Who needed him quiet.”
“That’s why he died,” she says.
“Yes,” I say. “He used it to control people, and he pushed too far.”
She gets up, brings over the teapot and a small plate of cookies, then pours the tea and passes me a cup. Her hands stay steady.
“And nobody knows where it is,” she says.
“No,” I say. “If they did, this would already be moving faster.”
She pours herself some tea and sits back down, holding the cup in both hands.
“Where do I come in?”
I wait a second, then answer.
“Markov stacked up debts before he died,” I say. “Not cash but favors and promises. Things he said he’d deliver and didn’t. He wrote terms into that register. If he failed, repayment came from whatever he still had control over.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“Me.”
“Yes,” I say. “And any child tied to him. He listed you on paper as collateral. Not ownership. A claim.”
She goes very still.
“That’s why the register matters,” I say. “As long as it exists, they can use it as a reason to come after you. The marriage slows them down. Being visible slows them down. But the register gives them cover.”
“I was never his wife,” she says, and her voice doesn’t shake. “Not really. Not a widow. Not a partner. Just collateral he parked under his own name.”
She looks at me. “If that’s what I am on paper, then the only way out is to tear the paper apart.”
“The faction breaks.” I nod. “The council drops whatever it needs to drop to protect itself. Claims disappear. Orders get walked back. Everyone rewrites their memory and moves on.”
She takes that in, then asks what matters.
“Mila?” she asks. “What if her paperwork leads back to Markov?”
“She’s ours on paper and in life,” I say. “That’s the point. Anyone who checks sees a married couple and a child who belongs to them. There’s no loose claim left to follow.”
Ana’s face lifts for the first time.
“If anything shifts,” I say, “I hear about it before anyone finishes deciding what to do.”
“And if you don’t?” she asks. “If they get to you first?”
“Then the plan continues without me,” I say. “Mila is moved first. That isn’t negotiable.”
Ana searches my face. Then she says, “Okay.”
She gets up and wakes Mila gently, a hand on her back, her voice soft so it doesn’t startle her.
“Get up, baby. We’re going to the city.”
Mila blinks, still caught between sleep and morning. “All of us, Papa too?”
She answers without hesitation. “Yes.”
Mila sits up without complaint. She drinks her milk at the table, eats her cereal slowly, eyes still heavy. Ana packs something simple for the road, fruit and biscuits and chocolate. I don’t rush them.
Mila hums to herself while she lines her things along the edge of the bed, arranging them the way she likes.
Books go first, stacked by size. Then the crayons, held tight with a rubber band.
Her fox stays under her arm the whole time, pressed to her side like it belongs there.
She adds the tin sword last, checks it twice, and slides it into the bag with care.
I check the car once, then again. Tires, brakes, oil, mirrors, the space behind the seats. It’s habit, not nerves.
We pull out just after midmorning. I take the coastal road first so it looks like a normal choice. Mila presses her face to the window when the water comes into view, and I stay on it a little longer for her.
I slow down instead of passing the spot. I don’t park right away. I check the pull-offs, count who’s there, and look at the angles. When I stop, I pick a place where the sand meets a low wall and I can still see both directions.
We don’t go far. Mila walks a short stretch with Ana, shoes in her hands, stopping every few steps to point at something in the water. I stay close enough that I don’t need to raise my voice. I keep my eyes on the road and the space around us.
The sea keeps Mila busy. The wind tangles her hair. She laughs once, quick and surprised, when a wave reaches farther up the sand and wets her feet. It’s enough. I don’t need more than that.
We’re back in the car within minutes. I pull out easy and keep going.
The road curves ahead of us, then turns inland where traffic thins and the color drains out of things.
Ana sits in the front this time, watching the road without saying anything.
Mila rides behind us, curled against the window, looking out until a yawn pulls her eyes half shut.
The road stretches. I let the car settle into its pace.
I watch the mirrors the way I always have, quick looks that don’t linger.
I note the space between intersections, the way cars stack or fall back.
Three drivers want to push past me. I let them.
The fourth car hangs back longer than it should, so I change lanes and force the decision.
He takes it, pulls past, and taps the horn once like he’s thanking me.
I keep driving after the coast road turns inland, just long enough for the road to get narrower and the trees to close in on both sides. The shoulder drops off after a bend, and that’s when a car appears behind us.
It’s a dark sedan, one I don’t recognize right away. Clean shape. Tinted windows that don’t give much back. Then I place it. Same car I let pass earlier, the one that tapped the horn.
Now it stays behind us.
I don’t change speed, and I don’t signal.
The road curves left, and I take it clean. The sedan follows. Another turn comes, tighter this time, and it stays at the same distance. Same gap. Same patience.
Ana keeps looking ahead. She doesn’t turn to check the mirror. She knows not to.
She twists just enough to reach back.
“Stay awake,” she says. Her voice is steady, like she’s said this before. “Hold on till I tell you.”
Mila sits up right away and grabs the seat belt strap with both hands. She gets it.
I take the next turn faster than I need to. The car behind us follows without trouble. No sudden brake. No hesitation. Like it knew the turn before I took it.