Elena
The door closes after Sergei, but the damage he came to collect stays behind around the table.
Blood drips under the table. Papers dry under my signature. Maksim turns to me with blood showing through his shirt, his face set against pain.
“You’re shaking,” he says, reaching for my elbow.
“So are you.”
He looks down at his hand and scowls.
Leonid coughs. “Doctors for both of you would be useful.”
Maksim ignores him. “Dima.”
“Here.”
“Moretti’s men stay contained. Mancini talks only with Leonid present. No one leaves until every copy is secured.”
Dima nods and moves.
Bodies are lifted. Phones are collected. Pages are dried, scanned, sealed. I look at the side door where Sergei disappeared. The machine he built is still standing.
Now it opens for me.
We leave through the freight elevator with Dima ahead and Ilya behind us. Maksim keeps one hand at my back, and I keep pretending I don’t need it. His shirt sticks, dark at his side. My forearm burns where glass cut me, and my lower back aches with every step.
In the car, Maksim calls Abramov.
“Estate,” he says. “Dr. Markova for Elena. Grachev for the men. Both waiting.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “She can come tomorrow.”
“No.”
His hand comes up behind my neck and pulls me toward him, my head settling against his shoulder, his arm holding me there.
“Rest,” he says.
The estate is awake when we arrive. Floodlights cover the drive. Men stand at the entrance in pairs, and no one looks at me the way they used to. They look, lower their eyes, and stand aside.
Abramov comes down first, coat open, radio in hand. “House is clean. Karpov’s men are locked down in the west wing.”
Petrov appears behind him. “Warehouse access is holding. Moretti’s men are backing off the northern line.”
Maksim nods. “Hold it. No new movement without my say. Flag anything that shifts.”
Leonid steps out of the second car with his laptop case clutched to his chest. One corner is nicked where a bullet glanced off. His glasses sit crookedly, his hair is wrecked, and he looks deeply offended by the praise coming from every direction.
“You held a laptop during a gunfight,” I say. “That’s very committed of you.”
He adjusts his glasses. “It was encrypted.”
Nina Voronina comes from the downstairs office with a registry folder tucked to her chest, pale but composed. She stayed here with the registry channel open while Leonid scanned from the meeting, pushing each page through before Sergei’s people could stall the chain.
“The confirmations held,” she says, looking at me first. “Your signatures are logged.”
I meet her eyes. “Thank you.”
She straightens. “It was my job.”
Maksim takes her hand and presses it once. “You did it well.”
Nina turns pink, and Leonid mutters, “Give it a minute. Praise makes registry people reckless.”
Mrs. Wentworth waits in the hall with Lidiya beside her, sleeves rolled, mouth set for war. Lidiya carries towels, a basin, and folded blankets. Her eyes go to the blood on my sleeve, then to my stomach.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“No, you’re excited and bleeding,” Mrs. Wentworth says. “Sit.”
Maksim obeys on my behalf. His hand settles at my back, and he guides me into the east sitting room, the plush one with heavy curtains, deep chairs, and a fire already built. Mrs. Wentworth sets the tray on the dark wood of the carved side table beside the sofa.
“Tea,” she says. “Chamomile. For the nerves.”
“My nerves are busy.”
“Then stop giving them management duties,” Mrs. Wentworth says, setting the cup closer. “Drink.”
Maksim exhales through his nose and glances at the cup like he has bigger problems than chamomile.
Abramov comes in with Yelena carrying a medical bag, gray hair pinned back, glasses on a chain. Abramov stops at the door. “Doctor is here. Outer hall sealed.”
“Good,” Maksim says. He turns to the doctor and says, “Check her.”
Yelena gives him one look. “You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
“Her first.”
She kneels beside me. Lidiya holds my sleeve while Yelena cleans the cut on my forearm, and my fingers curl into the blanket when it stings.
“Pulse is fast,” Yelena says.
I say nothing.
She checks my eyes, my wrist, then rests her hand over my lower stomach with care. Her face softens.
“The baby held,” she says. “Strong-willed, this one.”
“Like her mother?” Mrs. Wentworth asks.
Yelena smiles, her eyes crinkling. “Exactly.”
I look down before anyone sees my face break.
Grachev arrives next, bald, wide, and already annoyed. He cuts Maksim’s shirt open without asking. Maksim looks offended enough to start another war.
“Shallow,” Grachev says after cleaning the wound. “Messy, but shallow.”
“I know.”
“Then stop bleeding on good furniture.”
Lidiya presses her lips together. I almost laugh.
Mrs. Wentworth returns with broth, soft bread, butter, weak tea, and boiled potatoes with salt. She sets it before me. “Eat.”
I manage three spoonfuls before my stomach turns.
“I want bed,” I say.
Maksim stands at once. “Then bed.”
He walks me upstairs himself. I don’t argue when his arm comes around my waist. The hallway feels longer than usual, and every lamp looks too bright. In the bedroom, he helps me out of the ruined coat and waits while Lidiya brings me a clean nightdress. He turns his back, but he doesn’t leave.
When I’m under the covers, he sits on the edge of the bed.
“You need to sleep.” He adjusts the blanket over my feet.
“So do you.”
“I will.”
“No, you’ll go downstairs and start threatening people.”
“That is also useful.” He looks at me, then away.
I stare at him. “What is it?”
His face changes by a fraction.
“On paper, the Blacklist is dead. Men won’t stop using the word because we filed the right documents. Some will test it. Others will say Sergei’s old papers still leave questions. Council men can try to reopen your status.”
“Can they?”
“They can talk.” He moves his hand away.
“And you’re going to stop them.” My eyes move from his hand to his face. A frown sits there.
“Yes,” he says.
“How?”
His hand closes around mine, careful around the bandage. “They’re going to see you.”
My chest closes.
“Not tonight,” he says. “Rest. Tomorrow, I’ll take care of the rest.”
I want to ask what that means, but Maksim will say no more. I lie back against the pillow. The sheets are clean and warm, and his hand stays wrapped around mine until my eyes close.
When I wake, morning sits pale across the floor.
Beyond the windows, the sky looks washed out, and the trees bend hard in the wind. I lie still for a few seconds, listening to branches scrape faintly against the glass.
Then the door opens.
Maksim comes in with a tray balanced in one hand. His shirt is open at the throat, a fresh bandage pulls under the fabric at his side, and his gun sits where his hand can reach it.
“You brought breakfast?”
“I was told you eat more when you are annoyed.”
“That sounds like Mrs. Wentworth.”
“It was Lidiya.”
Loud mouth.
He sets the tray across my lap. Toast, eggs, fruit, tea, and a small bowl of porridge with cinnamon.
I pick up the spoon. “Are you watching me eat?”
“Yes.”
“Creepy.”
“And useful.” He leans down and pinches my nose.
I eat because he stands there, and because the low, firm pull in my body reminds me that I need to. When it comes again, my hand goes to my stomach and stays there.
Maksim sees it.
I look up. “I’m fine.”
“I know.”
He sits beside me. “By evening, the men who matter will be here.”
The spoon goes still in my hand. “Why?”
“Because they need to hear it from me and see you beside me. You’re not listed collateral, open leverage, or a question for council.
You hold the legal body, I hold the operational grant, and our child holds the future line.
No ally, council man, or enemy gets to interpret that differently after tonight. ”
My throat goes dry. “So this is a meeting.”
“No.” His eyes stay on mine. “It’s a public claim.”
I set the spoon down.
He reaches out and touches my bandaged forearm with two fingers, careful around the gauze. “You won’t be decorative. You won’t stand behind me. You’ll stand where they can see you.”
“And what am I to you?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then comes back to my eyes.
“Be ready by evening,” he says. “You’re going to hear my answer in front of everyone.”