26. Ana
ANA
Saint Petersburg doesn’t welcome you back. It waits to see if you’ll make yourself known.
I step into it without hesitation, not out of courage, but because weakness costs more than caution, and I’ve paid that price before.
The city isn’t mine anymore, not in any sentimental way.
That helps. Familiar streets make people careless.
That distance keeps me from mistaking familiarity for safety.
After Mila and Irina leave, Dominik clears the table and spreads out a map of the city. He marks streets, access points, buildings that matter. I stand beside him and watch how he thinks through it.
He draws exits fast. When he circles a building, he slows down.
“That place will have private security,” I say. “Not uniforms. Guys who know the building. Same faces every day.”
He nods. “Two inside. One near the loading dock. One near the main door.”
“And outside,” I say. “Cars that sit too long at the curb. Boats that drift slower than they should. Delivery vans that don’t unload anything.”
He marks a few more spots. “We’ll watch the street before we go in.”
“They’ll try to rush you,” I say. “Call you in early. Say something changed.”
“I won’t move just because they say so.”
“They’ll try to make it feel urgent.”
He glances at me. “I won’t bite.”
“If that doesn’t work, they’ll send someone you know.”
“To push.”
“To get a reaction. From you or from me.”
His eyes settle on mine. “They won’t get one.”
“They don’t need much,” I say. “Just enough to throw off timing.”
He doesn’t argue. He adjusts a route and writes a time next to it. We go over it again. Entry, exit, backup car, who calls who if something shifts. By the time we finish, the sky is turning gray.
I look out the window at the street below. In a few hours, we walk into a room full of people who don’t want us there.
I’m not thinking about the meeting.
I’m thinking about Mila. We need to walk out of that building with nothing changed.
That’s what has to hold.
By nine, we’re in the car and heading toward the meeting.
I don’t bring up the cover story while we’re standing at the door. I wait until we’re driving and there’s no reason to turn around. He keeps his eyes on the road.
“What’s our cover?” I ask.
He lets a bus pull ahead of us, eases off the accelerator, then speaks like he’s stating a fact, not introducing a role.
“My name is Nikolai Sokolov,” he says. “I work in security. Hospitals, clinics, places that don’t shut down.”
I watch his hands on the wheel, steady, familiar because they don’t change when things tighten.
“What does that mean when someone asks?” I say.
“It means I look at who has access,” he says. “Where people slip. Which routines fall apart when pressure is applied, and how to keep them intact.”
“And why you?” I ask.
“The council can bring me back without admitting they need me,” he says. “That’s useful.”
I turn toward him. “With me beside you.”
“Yes. Married looks stable.”
“They’ll watch,” I say. “The council, the rival factions, and anyone who still feels tied to Markov.”
“They need to,” he says. “I want them looking.”
The car rolls forward with the traffic, and for the first time, I understand he's using marriage. I nod once.
“What am I?” I ask.
He glances at me. “My wife. Legally married six weeks. You handle private money tied to healthcare projects. Small foundations. Medical supply groups. Cultural funds. The kind of money that stays quiet and keeps things running.”
“So I’m the clean face,” I say.
“You’re the stable one,” he answers. “You look legitimate. No one has to question why you’re there.”
This isn’t about romance. It’s about position.
I sit back and think it through. If that’s the role, I’ll play it right. I straighten my shoulders and fold my hands in my lap. When we walk into that room, I won’t look unsure. If I’m standing beside him, I’ll stand like I belong there.
The building used to be an administrative block near the river. The stone looks new, like it was scrubbed clean. The old windows have been replaced with heavy glass.
There are three men at the entrance. Two stand outside in dark suits that cost more than most guards make in a year. Another stands just inside with a tablet in his hand. He barely looks at the screen. He watches the room.
Dominik hands over his credentials. I keep my eyes on the men. One of them pauses when he sees him. It lasts less than a second. Then his face smooths out.
“Mr. Sokolov,” he says, then turns. “Mrs. Sokolova.” He nods to me, like it’s settled.
I signed Markova. They prefer amendments.
He does not hesitate over the name. He does not question it.
We are expected.
Inside, the room hums with controlled conversation. Men stand in tight groups, bodies angled away from one another, and their voices blend into a muted din, each thread of speech swallowed by the next. The smell is leather, cologne, and money that hasn’t moved in a while.
People notice us, but not in a rush. It moves through the room in stages.
One head turns, then another. A conversation trails off.
Someone stops speaking altogether. Women like me don’t usually walk into rooms like this on their own.
When they do, they don’t stay long. Wives come in beside men who carry weight.
I stay close to Dominik and keep my pace even. I don’t slow, and I don’t look around for permission as I walk through the men.
I’m in a dark coat cut clean at the shoulders and flat boots, nothing that catches light or asks for comment.
My makeup is minimal and careful, skin evened out, eyes defined just enough to hold a gaze, mouth bare.
I meet the eyes that meet mine and hold them a second too long.
Then I look away first, not because I have to, but because I choose to.
Viktor is near the center, broad-shouldered, silver at his temples, his smile practiced and thin. He survives by never being the loudest voice.
When his eyes land on me, something flickers there before he masks it.
Mikhail Orlov stands a few feet away, speaking with two men in dark suits. His suit fits close through the shoulders, his hands loose at his sides. When he sees Dominik, he pauses mid-sentence, then keeps talking, his eyes still on him.
Sergei is there.
He leans back against a table near the windows.
There’s a cigar between his fingers even with the no-smoking signs posted on the walls.
Smoke drifts up toward the lights. His suit catches the light more than the others in the room.
His eyes move over me slowly, starting at my face and dropping lower before lifting again.
Then he looks at Dominik and smiles without showing teeth.
Vasiliev stands closer to the center of the room. He laughs louder than anyone else, head tipped back, one hand resting on the shoulder of the man beside him. While he laughs, his eyes shift in my direction and stay there. He doesn’t look away when I meet his gaze.
Nikolai Petrov stands near the wall with a drink in his hand. The glass stays full. He doesn’t join any group. He doesn’t speak. When Dominik steps farther into the room, Petrov turns his head slightly and watches him from where he stands.
There are other men in the room I don’t recognize.
One group stands near the windows in dark suits that don’t draw attention. They stand close, shoulders angled in, voices low enough that nothing carries past their circle.
Another group stands near the center. They’re younger. They keep adjusting their jackets and checking their phones. A few of them look toward Orlov and Viktor, then turn back to their circle.
One man steps away from that second group and walks toward us.
Roman Kadeev.
I haven’t met him before, but I know the name.
He showed up after Markov died. Companies tied to Markov were reviewed.
Assets were moved. Some firms closed and reopened under new names within weeks, and the handoff looked clean on paper.
Shipping contracts changed owners without interruption, and every review came back approved.
He stops a few feet from us.
His eyes drop briefly to Dominik’s hand at my back, then to the ring on my finger. He looks at me without speaking. He takes in my coat, my posture, the space between us. Then he looks back at Dominik.
There’s a small pause before he steps closer. He reaches out his hand. Dominik takes it without rushing.
I stay where I am, close enough that there’s no room to question where I stand.
The meeting starts without any formal signal. Chairs slide back. People take their seats. A long table fills in stages, and assistants move in to place nameplates, setting them down with steady hands and eyes fixed on the task.
Dominik and I sit side by side, and the room registers it.
Viktor opens with infrastructure and corridor reviews. His voice stays level, but no one in the room treats it like routine. When he mentions legacy oversight tied to prior leadership, a few men shift in their chairs.
Sergei cuts in before Viktor finishes.
“Some assets left behind after Markov’s death were never properly reconciled,” he says. “That kind of oversight creates exposure.”
He doesn’t raise his voice, but he makes sure everyone hears him.
Across the table, an older man with silver hair, Andrei Volkov, clears his throat. “Exposure for whom?” he asks. “The estate, or the council?”
A younger man near the far end speaks before Sergei can answer. “We’re talking about paperwork,” he says quickly. “Delayed filings. Nothing more.”
Several voices start at once.
“This is about stability,” Sergei says. “If certain documents are still unresolved, that creates exposure.”
“Then say what you mean,” Volkov says. “Stop dressing it up.”
The table goes still.
Pavel Sidorov clears his throat. “If there are records from Markov’s administration that haven’t been reviewed, they should go through proper channels.”
Roman looks across the table. “Proper channels only work if everyone agrees on what’s out there.”
A younger member near the end of the table lets out a short laugh. “Or maybe someone’s worried about what those records show.”
Sergei doesn’t look away. “No one's afraid here.”
Petrov sets his glass down. “That depends on what’s written.”
Chairs shift. A few men lean forward.
Viktor rests his hands on the table. “If there are materials tied to that period, they stay internal. We’re not reopening the past. We’re preventing disruption.”
“Disruption already started when Markov died,” Volkov says.
Sergei turns toward Dominik. “Anything from that time needs to be secured,” he says. “Before it ends up with people who don’t know how to handle it.”
Vasiliev makes a comment about widows and loose ends. He says it like a joke, but he looks at me when he does.
Dominik’s hand presses once against my knee under the table, then eases.
I don’t wait.
“Loose ends don’t stay loose on their own,” I say. My voice carries across the table without rising. “They stay that way because someone keeps them there.”
A few men shift in their seats.
Viktor turns toward me. “Mrs. Sokolova.”
I meet his eyes. “If it’s still hanging there,” I say, “it’s because someone wants it there.”
I hold the silence.
“That’s a choice,” I add.
My gaze moves across the table, one face at a time, before settling on Sergei.
Roman looks at me longer than before. He doesn’t smile this time. At the far end of the table, two of the younger members glance toward Orlov before looking back down at their notes.
Viktor clears his throat and moves the meeting forward. The agenda shifts to transport contracts and regional staffing, but the table doesn’t feel the same.
When it ends, no one announces a decision. Chairs scrape back. Men stand in small groups again. Nothing is settled out loud.
But no one looks at me the way they did when I walked in.
Outside, the air is colder. We get into the car. I wait until we’re several blocks away before I speak.
“They’re protecting the ledger like it’s personal,” I say. “Not like it’s just paperwork.”
Dominik keeps his eyes on the road. “That makes it harder to move.”
“It also means it’s not sitting in a bank vault,” I say. “It’s somewhere tied to habit. Somewhere that doesn’t change.”
He glances at me. “Go on.”
“Markov didn’t trust institutions,” I say. “He trusted what he could see every day. The same people. The same rooms. The same routines.”
I picture how his house used to run, how nothing moved without someone noticing.
“It won’t be locked away somewhere dramatic,” I say. “It’ll be in a place people walk through all the time. Somewhere normal enough that no one questions it.”
Dominik nods once. “There are a few options. A private property under another name. An archive linked to one of his medical foundations. Or his old house.”
“It won’t be the house,” I say. “That’s too obvious now. It’ll be an archive tied to a supply group or procurement office. Somewhere that calls itself compliance storage. Old contracts. Shipping records. Files that already passed review and never got checked again.”
Dominik exhales through his nose. “Places like that don’t get audited unless someone forces it.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Procurement paperwork, manifests, audit trails that look clean because no one expects them to matter anymore.”
“And what’s actually there?” he asks.
“Markov’s private register,” I say. “Enough to turn half that table against itself if it ever comes out.”
Dominik nods once. “That sounds like him.”
“He didn’t hide things,” I say. “He filed them where they looked legitimate.”
I watch the street ahead.
“He needed it to last,” I say. “Accessible to the right people. Deniable to everyone else.”
“And if something goes missing?” he asks.
“They call it a clerical error.”
“And if someone starts asking questions?”
“Then it becomes an audit.”
He looks at me. “An audit pulls threads.”
“And threads lead to people,” I say.
The car moves through traffic, steady.
“If we’re right,” he says, “then whoever controls that archive controls the room.”
“And if someone else gets there first,” I say, “we won’t get a warning.”
He doesn’t answer that. He’s already accelerating.