Chapter 11 Raina
RAINA
The lullaby swells through the apartment like a rising tide, each note sharper than the last, each line scraping down my spine. For half a second, I freeze, mind blank, breath trapped. Then Nadia. Everything else drops away.
I sprint down the hall, feet silent on the wood, every sense tuned to the blackout—the vibration in the speakers, the subtle pressure shift when the auxiliary systems fail.
The apartment is swallowed in darkness, but I know the layout by heart.
Every room now becomes an escape route or a possible betrayal.
Her door glows faint blue from the emergency strip I activated earlier. My precaution, not Sergei’s. I slip inside and lean over her small form curled under the blanket. Vera, already up, reads the situation instantly.
“Game time,” I whisper.
Her eyes fly open instantly, storm-gray pupils huge. She knows this tone before I say another word.
She nods once. No questions. No sound. I scoop her into my arms. Her arms loop around my neck, light and warm, tense in that way children hold themselves when they understand everything without fully knowing why.
The lullaby grows louder. The faint tremor in the floorboards tells me the speakers in the walls are cycling volume. Someone’s in the system. They enjoy theatrics.
I cross the hall again, Nadia’s small breath warm against my collarbone.
Vera follows us. The living room is darker now, shadows layered thickly.
Sergei’s silhouette stands in the kitchen doorway, harsh and still, one hand pressed to Mikhail’s shoulder in a deceptively casual hold.
Even in a blackout, I can smell his predatory calm.
He’s waiting for Mikhail to make one wrong move.
“Take her to the safe room,” he says, and though his voice carries no strain, I see it in the way his lips are pulled too tight, the alertness in his eyes.
“Behind the shelves in the study. Left side. Second panel from the corner. Press at the baseboard, not the molding. It looks decorative, but it isn’t. ”
The directions hit me all at once.
“That opens it?” I ask.
“Yes,” he answers. “There’s a latch under the wood. The lights inside run on a separate line. Vera will go with you.”
The lullaby climbs another degree. Nadia buries her face in my neck.
I run, Vera trailing behind me. The study is lit only by the faint red strips along the floorboards. Bookshelves line the walls. I find the one Sergei described—left side, second panel. Nadia’s little fingers clutch the fabric at my collar while I crouch and feel along the baseboard.
There. A slight looseness. I press.
The wood clicks softly, and the shelf shifts forward.
Warm light spills out.
This safe room looks like a small second nursery crossed with a quiet den.
Soft rugs. A low couch with folded blankets.
A tiny table with picture books. A night-light shaped like a star.
Someone built this for comfort, not confinement.
Or Sergei knew what was coming and decided to set things up beforehand. I’m inclined to believe the latter.
Nadia lifts her head. “Mama?” she whispers.
I carry her inside. Vera follows and shuts the shelf behind us, the latch clicking back into place.
“It’s a drill,” I murmur, easing Nadia onto the couch. “Remember our rule?”
She nods, pressing her bear to her chest. “Be still. Be brave.”
“Exactly.” I kiss her forehead. “I’ll come back.”
Vera settles beside her, pulling a blanket over both of them. She gives me one firm nod—a promise. I kiss her forehead, brush her hair back, and let my hand rest there for one breath longer than I should. Then I step out and seal the door. The lock thumps into place, metal sinking into metal.
When I turn back, the hallway is pitch black except for the faint red wash from the emergency backup light at the far end. The lullaby thrums through the ceiling, vibrating faintly in my teeth.
I slip into the control alcove beside the panic room, pull up the safe room feeds. Nadia sits perfectly still on the floor, bear held tightly, back straight, chin lifted just like I taught her. My heart pulls, sharp and protective.
I cut elevator access, reroute all calls to the internal server, and sever external lines. Whoever is in the system will now feel the drop. I hope he panics. I hope he knows I’m not asleep anymore.
In the darkness, Sergei’s voice cuts through like a blade.
“Lights,” he orders in the kitchen.
Nothing changes. The Courier has full override.
“Mikhail,” he says, quieter now, dangerous in its restraint, “explain.”
“I—I don’t know what’s happening,” Mikhail stammers. I hear him bump into the counter. “Something tripped the breakers. Need to check the—” There’s a sharp intake of breath but it doesn’t muffle the sound of metal scraping. My blood runs cold.
I move fast toward the kitchen doorway just as Sergei catches Mikhail’s wrist. The sound is unmistakable, a muffled scream, bone shifting under pressure. A dull thud follows, then a clatter as the blade skitters across tile.
“You disappoint me,” Sergei says, his tone soft. Not loud. Soft—like a man about to break something fragile.
“Sergei, please—” Mikhail gasps.
“Talk,” Sergei commands.
“It’s not what you think,” Mikhail blurts. “The feed at the mansion glitched. It was corrupted. I cleaned it. That’s all.”
Liar.
I slide into the kitchen shadows, fingers grazing the wall to orient myself.
Sweat and the faint sweetness of yesterday’s pancakes linger in the air, a strange mix of fear and the life we almost had.
Sergei stands ahead of me, outlined faintly by the city glow through the balcony glass.
“He scrubbed the hour,” I say. “Not corrupted. Erased with his signature.”
Mikhail whips toward my voice, panic tightening his breath. “Raina—no, no, I would never—”
Sergei hits him back into the wall in one step, his grip closing under Mikhail’s jaw. “Don’t use her name,” he says.
Mikhail shuts up instantly.
I pull the decoy logs onto the kitchen screen. They glow dim blue in the darkness, casting a cold wash over all of us. The numbers line up perfectly.
I point. “These timestamps come from your machine. The way you code and the way you time your edits—it’s all here. You wiped the hour and let someone in.”
“I had no choice,” Mikhail whispers.
Sergei leans closer. “Explain.”
Mikhail swallows hard. “The Courier contacted me months ago. He said he knew things about the syndicate. He only asked for access. Nothing else. He would bury me with your enemies if I didn’t cooperate.”
“So you cooperate,” Sergei says.
“I thought I could give him fragments. Nothing that would touch you.”
“You thought wrong,” Sergei says quietly.
Mikhail breaks then—voice cracking, shoulders shaking. “He said he only wanted to test your walls.” His breath hitches. “I didn’t know about the girl.”
Sergei goes still. This stillness is always the worst kind. “Where is he now?” Sergei asks.
Mikhail’s voice lowers to a tremor. “He uses a bathhouse parking cellar near the Garden Ring. It’s where he meets handlers.”
Sergei cuffs him with a single smooth motion, pulling his arms behind his back. “For later,” he says.
Mikhail sobs into the tile.
Sergei steps toward me, voice quieter. “Is she safe?”
“She knows the game,” I say. “She’s silent.”
He breathes out once, controlled. I stand tall, every nerve still burning from the blackout, but clear-headed.
Now that the truth sits in the open—Mikhail’s betrayal, the Courier’s new pattern, the danger homing in—a strange steadiness drops through me.
Purpose. I walk back to where Nadia is, knowing full well I have to go with Sergei.
The Courier won’t stop, not unless we end him together.
“Mama?” she whispers.
“I’m here.” I kneel and press a kiss to her hair. “I’ll be back by morning. You stay with the bear, and Vera will stay with you. Papa comes with me.”
The word catches in my throat, but my voice holds steady when I look into her face. Nadia studies me the way only she can, searching for the tiny flicker she always finds. I keep it buried, smooth as glass. “Mama goes with Papa,” she whispers, eyes round in the dim light. “To… fix the bad man?”
I smooth her hair once. “Yes,” I say softly. “We’re going to fix a problem. Then we’ll come back to you.”
She nods, accepting it, her fist loosening against mine.
“Good,” I say, pressing my knuckles to her small hand.
She curls her fingers into a fist and bumps mine back, our gesture.
“Good,” she whispers.
Sergei follows and plants a kiss on Nadia’s forehead.
She holds him tightly for a second and then eases herself away and into Vera’s arms. Before my heart wins over my brain, I step outside, Sergei behind me.
He reaches into his inner coat pocket and draws out a small pistol, matte black and perfectly balanced.
He offers it to me grip-first. “Take it,” he says.
My throat tightens. He never armed me before my exile. This means something else now. A place closer to the fire. The lean team. The ones he trusts to step into the dark with him. I curl my fingers around the gun, the cold metal warming in my hand. Familiar weight. Familiar promise.
His eyes are unreadable in the low light, but his voice is steady when he speaks. “We go now to the bathhouse.”