27. Dominik
DOMINIK
Idon’t start by guessing where the ledger is.
I pull access logs.
I look at medical infrastructure archives that changed entry permissions in the last five years. Markov’s cleanest channel ran through medical procurement foundations. Hospitals move money fast, and no one questions urgency.
Most of them don’t matter, nothing tied to Markov’s network.
I focus on facilities that stayed open late, handled emergency procurement, and rotated inspectors without long-term staff oversight. Places where contractors moved in and out without much notice.
I cross-reference those with changes in archive protocol. Files that were reviewed, reclassified, or sealed before full digitization. Records that passed inspection once and were never flagged again.
Then I move to personnel.
I sort the staff lists by access level instead of title. Senior administrators drop out fast. They don’t touch raw files. I flag analysts with revision clearance and cross-department access. The ones who could open shipping records and compliance storage without triggering a supervisor review.
Then I narrow it again to anyone whose credentials expanded before being revoked.
Yelena Moris shows up twice in the logs tied to one procurement foundation. Her access expanded over eighteen months. Then it was revoked.
Her work number stopped responding the same week.
Someone noticed.
She had clearance to touch shipping records, vendor contracts, and compliance storage. She didn’t authorize transfers. She processed them.
That’s enough.
“I asked Yelena to run Andrei’s name,” I say. “The one you used on your papers.”
“And when she ran it, it didn’t stay local,” Ana says. “It moved through hospital records. Clinic logs. Registry links that usually sit in the background.”
I let her continue.
“They didn’t flag the name,” she says. “They flagged the path it took.”
“That’s when the clinic shut down,” I say. “Dr. M’s. And that’s when her number stopped working.”
I exhale. “She crossed something we didn’t see.”
Ana studies me. “The dead drop. The photo. The silence after. That wasn’t random.”
“No,” I say. “It wasn’t.”
She folds her arms. “How do you know it’s still there?”
“If they already had it,” I say, “that meeting would’ve gone differently.”
“How?”
“Sergei wouldn’t have pushed,” I say. “He would’ve closed the subject. Said the records were reviewed and settled. No debate.”
She thinks about that.
“They wouldn’t have asked who was exposed,” I continue. “They wouldn’t have talked about securing anything. The room wouldn’t have reacted.”
“And they did,” she says.
“Yes,” I say. “They’re still arguing about control. That means it hasn’t been pulled.”
“And once they stop arguing?”
“They won’t announce it,” I say. “They’ll send a team and take it in one night.”
She studies me.
“So we don’t have time.”
“No,” I say. “Which means it’s still inside something that looks legitimate. Too tied in to pull without drawing attention.”
Night settles over the apartment fast. The streetlight outside throws a strip of light across the floor. Every car that passes shifts it for a second and then it’s still again.
I check the locks.
Front door first. I press my palm against the handle and push into the frame. Then the back stairwell door. Then the windows, one at a time. Last is the fire escape latch. The metal is cold. I test it twice before stepping back.
Nothing’s changed.
Ana moves in the kitchen, rinsing cups and setting them upside down on a towel. She doesn’t say anything.
Mila’s door stays closed. I pause outside it, listening, then remember she isn’t here.
I stop near the window but don’t stand directly in front of it. The courtyard looks empty. Rain starts against the glass, light at first, then steady.
Ana comes to stand beside me. She doesn’t touch me. Her shoulder is close enough that I feel the heat through her sleeve.
“You think they followed us,” she says.
“I think they’re deciding,” I say. “Whether to move tonight or wait.”
She watches the courtyard.
“Or maybe no one’s out there,” she says.
“Maybe.”
“You’re not sleeping.”
“I will.”
“You’re pacing.”
I walk to the counter and pour a glass of water. I leave it there.
“We need to talk about tomorrow,” she says.
“We already did.”
“No,” she says. “You told me what you’re doing. That’s not the same thing.”
I lean back against the counter and fold my arms.
“You’re not coming.”
Her mouth tightens. She stands, slow and controlled, like she’s choosing her ground.
“That house was mine before it was yours,” she says. “Before it was anyone’s. I know where Markov kept things. I know which rooms he trusted and which ones he staged. You don’t.”
“I know the risks,” I say.
“So do I,” she answers. “That’s why I should be there.”
I step closer and lower my voice. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t.”
Her eyes flash. “You think I don’t understand danger?”
“I think,” I say carefully, “that if I lose you, I don’t get to pretend I can still do this.”
She absorbs it without blinking.
“And if something happens to you,” she says, “what do you think happens to Mila?”
That stops me.
“You disappear into that house alone, and you don’t come back,” she continues, “I don’t get a body. I don’t get answers. I get men circling again. I get her asking why her father isn’t home.”
I turn away before she can see my face tighten.
“I’m not sidelining you,” I say. “I’m protecting what we have left.”
Her hand hits my chest.
Not hard enough to hurt. Hard enough to mean something.
“I’m not what’s left,” she says. “I’m part of this.”
She shoves me again.
Something in me snaps. I catch her wrists and push her back until she hits the wall. She doesn’t pull away. She lifts her chin instead, drawing a quick breath through her nose, eyes dark.
“You don’t get to cage me,” she says.
“I’m not trying to,” I say. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“Then stop acting like I’m already gone.”
I let go of her wrists but stay close. My hands move to her waist. She pushes at my shoulders. I don’t move. She pushes again. I lift her and set her on the edge of the table. I step between her knees without asking.
Her hands come to my face, not tender, not angry, claiming. Mine follow hers, mapping the shape of her like I’m memorizing it under pressure.
She presses her forehead to mine, breathing uneven. “If you don’t come back,” she says, “I’ll dismantle everything you touched.”
I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You’d do it cleanly.”
“I’d do it thoroughly.”
I kiss her hard, and she takes it harder.
Her hands pull at my shirt, yanking the hem up, desperate and angry and turned on in a way that feels like combat.
Like surrender with teeth. I rip the fabric over my head and throw it somewhere behind me.
She drags her nails down my chest, not gentle, and I groan at the sting.
Her thighs tighten around my hips, and I grab her ass and pull her closer on the table.
The sound she makes hits deep in my gut.
I cup the back of her neck with one hand, the other sliding up her shirt, over her ribs, until I feel the soft weight of her breast. No bra.
My thumb brushes her nipple and she gasps into my mouth.
“You want to talk about danger,” I mutter, dragging my mouth along her jaw, “but you kiss me like you want to start a war.”
She bites my shoulder in answer, and I press her back flat onto the table, standing over her, eyes locked on hers.
“You know what happens now,” I say.
She nods once. “So fucking do it.”
I grip her waistband and yank her pants down. She lifts her hips and kicks them off without ceremony. She’s already wet, already pulsing heat against my fingers, and when I push two inside her, her back arches off the table.
“Liar,” I say. “You were ready the second you shoved me.”
“Shut up,” she gasps, rolling her hips toward my hand.
“Say please.”
“Go to hell.”
I curl my fingers and hit the spot that makes her cry out.
She claws at the table, head tipping back, thighs shaking.
I watch her fall apart on my hand, slick and perfect and mine.
When I pull my fingers out, she groans at the loss.
I reach for my belt and drop my jeans to the floor, condom already in my hand.
She watches me roll it on like she’s starving for it, her chest rising and falling fast.
I grab her thighs and yank her back to the edge.
“Ready?” I ask, voice rougher than it’s ever been.
She doesn’t answer. She hooks her legs around me and pulls me in.
I thrust into her in one long, slow stroke, and her eyes slam shut as her body goes taut.
“Open your eyes,” I say.
She does. Her mouth drops open and I start to move, slow at first, then faster when she starts to meet every thrust with one of her own. I brace one hand on the table, the other gripping her hip so tight she’ll feel it tomorrow. Her hands drag down my arms, her nails scraping over old scars.
“You’re still angry,” I say.
“Furious.”
I thrust harder.
She moans, loud and broken.
“Good,” I growl. “Use it. Fuck me like you mean it.”
She does.
She leans up and pulls me down, nails in my back, teeth on my throat. I feel her walls start to flutter again and press my thumb to her clit.
“Come again,” I say. “Now.”
She chokes on a scream, legs locking tight, her whole body pulsing around me. I don’t stop. I lift her off the table and carry her to the wall, her legs still around me, and I fuck her standing, pressed between plaster and skin.
“Again,” I murmur. “I want to feel you come while I’m still deep inside.”
She’s trembling, barely coherent, her voice ragged. “Dominik, I—”
“Do it.”
I slam into her again, again, until she bites my shoulder and comes with a sob. I feel it hit me—wave after wave—and it’s everything I’ve been holding back. Her cunt clenches hard and won’t let go. Her hands grip my face and she says my name like a plea and a threat at once.
I give in.
My hips jerk, and I spill into the condom with a guttural groan, body shuddering under hers. I bury my face in her neck and ride out the last pulse, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapped around her back like I could keep her here forever.
Neither of us moves right away.
She’s breathing hard against my chest. Her nails leave marks on my back. My legs feel like they’ve forgotten how to hold us both up, but I don’t let her go.
When I finally set her down, she leans into me instead of stepping away.
I brush the sweat-matted hair from her face and kiss her forehead.
“You’re mine,” I whisper, voice hoarse.
“I am, aren’t I?” She smiles softly. “I always have been.”
Afterward, Ana’s hand rests on my chest. I brush her hair out of her eyes and tell her she’s beautiful. She is. Knowing that doesn’t make this easier.
Outside, the rain has stopped. The street is quiet.
She has a right to be part of tomorrow. I don’t argue with that anymore. What I say instead is what I’ve been holding back.
“We may not be able to move the ledger,” I tell her. “Even if we find it.”
She shifts slightly, watching me.
“There might be a way to copy it without removing it,” I say. “Something that leaves it in place.”
She smiles once and reaches for her clothes. “I carry the copier,” she says.
“If something happens to you,” I say, “the plan still goes forward.”
She holds my gaze.
“It does,” she says.