Elena
His hand settles at my back as we leave the legal room, firm and guiding, and I don’t argue because I’m tired and his touch keeps me moving.
The corridor feels tighter now, with guards posted at new corners and fewer men moving without purpose. A few familiar guards are gone from their posts, and two new men stand where I’ve never seen them before, which means Dima has already cut into the rotation.
We pass the east stair, where a guard stands on the second landing. He nods at Maksim. Maksim keeps walking.
Neither of us speaks, and I enter his room first while he follows behind me and shuts the door, cutting off the corridor, the guards, and the house waiting outside.
We’re alone now, and he stays by the door with his hand still on the handle. His eyes stay on me, his coat open, his shirt pulled tight across his chest, and the smell of soap and cigarette smoke reaches me before he does.
He takes one step, then stops. I can see how much he wants to come closer, and I can see the effort it takes him not to.
The room is empty, no one close enough to hear us, and he stands there with the words sitting in his throat, held back.
His gaze meets mine for a second, then drops, and he turns away.
He crosses to the sideboard and pours water, the glass steady in his hand, then he stops halfway and looks at it like he doesn’t need it anymore. He sets it down untouched.
I step farther into the room.
The lamps sit low, and the bed is made tight, sheets smooth, pillows straight, every crease handled by some careful hands. Maksim’s jacket hangs over the chair, and for one stupid second I remember how good he looked wearing it. I stay where I am and wait for him to speak.
He turns back to me slowly, and we stand there without moving, close enough to touch, and neither of us reaches.
“You’re set on this,” he says, letting the breath go with it.
I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.”
He nods once. He knows, and he still wants a different answer anyway. His eyes drop to my stomach for a second before coming back to my face and holding there.
“Then we do it properly.”
I step closer. “We already are.”
“No,” he says and steps in until I have to lift my chin. His hand closes around my wrist, firm, holding me there while he looks at me. “Properly means you walk in knowing what breaks first.”
“I do.”
“Say it.”
I don’t pull away. “Sergei wants to use me to lock everything in place and tie it to the baby. Moretti will push in before we finish. Karpov only needs to move early, turn your men, and break the meeting.”
His eyes shift over my face slowly, like he’s checking whether it’s really that simple. One side of his nose catches the light as something sharp moves through his gaze.
“That easy, huh?” he says.
Then his voice drops, leaving no space to argue. “And if you’re taken?”
My throat tightens, but I keep my eyes on his. “Then everything becomes a negotiation.”
“No,” he says, his voice cutting clean. “If you’re taken, they lay anchor in my house.”
“And?” I know the answer before he says it.
“They prove they can reach me through you.”
The words land and stay. Then his hand slides to my arm, up to my shoulder, and stops there before he pulls it back.
“Two men,” he says, stepping back half a pace. “If everything breaks, you look for Dima and Ilya. No one else.”
I nod. “Dima holds the line. Ilya moves the exits.”
“Good.”
“And if I need time?”
His eyes stay on mine. “You stall.”
“How?”
“Ask for verification. Question the order. Make Sergei correct you.”
A small smile pulls at my mouth. “That won’t be difficult.”
His mouth almost answers, then he stops.
“And if they try to move me?” I ask, my eyes on the marks on my wrist.
He lifts my chin with one finger and looks straight at me. “They’ll push you toward the service corridor.”
“Left or right?” I say, keeping my breath even.
“Left is a trap,” he says, letting my face go as he turns and walks to the window. He pulls the curtain back, checks the dark, then looks at me. “Right takes you to the back stair.”
I nod once. “Right.”
I step closer, closing the space he made. “If I’m separated—”
“You won’t be,” he says, his hand catching my side.
“If I am,” I say, “listen.”
He stills and looks at me.
“The fallback runs through the warehouse chain, not fuel,” I say, my fingers brushing his coat. “Sergei guards what touches the child. If something breaks, you go through that.”
His eyes stay on mine. “And the registrar chain?”
“You know it,” I say, then I give it anyway. “Rykova proves it. Filatov records it. Semyonov confirms it. In that order.”
He nods once, tightly.
“And if Sergei holds something back?” I ask.
“He will.”
“I know,” I say. “So I’ll get it wrong on purpose and let him correct me.”
“He always does.”
“Yes.”
We hold there for a second.
He steps in without thinking, his hand still at my waist, keeping me close. I don’t move. His thumb shifts once against the fabric of my dress, slow enough to pull my breath short. His eyes drop to my mouth for a beat, then come back up.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?” His hand catches my jaw.
“Like I’m not about to walk into a meeting where men decide what I’m worth,” I say, pushing his fingers off.
His jaw sets. “You’re not.”
“That’s exactly what I am.”
“No.” His hand moves up my side and stops under my ribs. “You’re the one deciding what they lose.”
My hand comes up and catches his wrist. I hold it there. He goes still, fighting himself for one rough second. He leans in, then stops close enough that I feel his breath.
“After tomorrow,” he says, straightening, “this ends.”
“After tomorrow,” I say.
His mouth comes close to mine, then stops. He pulls back, turns, walks to the window and back again, not settling anywhere. I watch him, his shoulders tight. His hands flex once and go still.
“No one else decides what you are.” His voice turns firm, and he grips my chin, making me look at him. “They don’t get a say. We do.”
I don’t answer. I believe him. I move to the bed and sit at the edge, hands on my thighs, pulse still off.
“You need to sleep,” he says.
“So do you.”
“I will.”
We both know he won’t. I lie down on my side, facing him. He stays where he is, watching me.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow,” he repeats.
I close my eyes, then open them. He hasn’t moved.
“Come here.”
He pauses, then crosses the room and sits beside me. I reach for his hand and lace my fingers through his. He tightens his grip once. We stay like that. I close my eyes again.
Tomorrow decides it.
Either I walk out of that meeting on my feet, or I don’t walk out at all.