22. Alina
ALINA
Mikhail doesn’t tell me about the seventy-two hours right away, and I know he’s hiding something the way I used to know my father was hiding something. The house gets quieter, the guards rotate more often, and Sofia stops letting Oisin near windows without making it sound like a rule.
I don’t confront Mikhail in front of Oisin, and I don’t let myself spiral in front of staff. I wait until Oisin is distracted with trains and Sofia is supervising with a bowl of cut fruit like she’s running a small daycare with military posture.
Then I go to Mikhail’s office without knocking.
Enzo is outside again, and his mouth tightens when he sees me. “He’s in a meeting.”
“I’m not asking,” I say.
Enzo exhales, then opens the door.
Mikhail is standing over a map on the table, Luca at one side, Alexei at the other, and Yuri near the wall with his arms crossed. Their heads turn in unison when I enter, and the room goes still.
Mikhail doesn’t look surprised. He looks annoyed that I beat his timing.
“Out,” he says to them.
Luca hesitates. “Boss—”
“Out,” Mikhail repeats, and it lands like a final door closing.
They file out, and Yuri is last, his eyes lingering on me for a second like he’s measuring how dangerous I am to the plan. Then he leaves and shuts the door.
Mikhail waits until the lock clicks, then he looks at me. “What?”
“You’re tightening everything,” I say, and I walk closer, eyes flicking to the map. “So tell me why.”
His jaw flexes. “You need to get the reply done.”
“I will,” I answer. “Tell me why you’re acting like there’s a timer.”
He doesn’t deny it, and that alone confirms it.
He steps toward the desk and picks up a folder, then he sets it down in front of me without opening it. “Read.”
I open it, and I don’t flinch at the surveillance stills, the property documents, the vehicle photos, the timestamps. It’s clean, it’s organized, it’s rushed.
“Seventy-two,” I say quietly.
Mikhail’s gaze stays locked on mine. “That’s the estimate.”
“And you didn’t tell me,” I reply.
“I didn’t want you distracted,” he says.
I laugh once, sharply. “You think I can be distracted right now?”
His eyes narrow. “You think I can be calm right now?”
I close the folder and set it down. “This makes the meeting urgent.”
“Yes,” he says.
“And it makes it more dangerous,” I add.
“Yes,” he repeats, and his voice is tight.
I step closer, and I keep my voice controlled. “We don’t rush the meeting. We tighten the perimeter and we adjust the bait.”
Mikhail’s mouth tightens. “You’re the bait.”
“I’m the choice,” I correct. “He wants consent on record. He wants to hear me say it.”
“And he’ll try to use that to pull you,” Mikhail says.
“Not if I control the room,” I answer. “Not if I control the words.”
He watches me for a long beat. “You’re not afraid.”
“I’m afraid,” I say, and I don’t soften it. “I’m not panicking.”
His eyes flick down my face, then back up. “That’s new.”
“It’s not new,” I reply. “You just didn’t see it before.”
Mikhail exhales through his nose, then he nods once, curt. “Fine. We do it your way. You write the reply. We deliver it through a neutral hand. We set the meeting for tomorrow evening.”
“Tomorrow evening is too soon,” I say.
His gaze hardens. “The child.”
“I know,” I say, and I step even closer, close enough that I can see the small tension at his jaw. “We can still prepare without handing him the rhythm. We set it for the following day, and we spend tomorrow building the frame.”
His tone turns sharp. “Vladimir has seventy-two hours. You want to wait?”
“I want to control,” I say again, and I keep my voice steady. “Tomorrow, we make him think I’m hesitant. Tomorrow, we make him hungry for the meeting. Then when we give it, he walks in careless.”
Mikhail’s eyes narrow. “How?”
I lift my chin. “You let him hear I’m not running, and you let him hear I’m thinking. You leak it to the right person.”
His mouth tightens. “Leaking is dangerous.”
“So is letting him choose the schedule,” I reply.
Silence hangs between us, and it’s thick with everything we did not say last night, and everything we did say in that office. Then he steps forward and his hand lands at my waist, not gentle, not rough, just firm, like his body decided something before his mouth did.
“I don’t like waiting,” he says.
“I don’t like being owned,” I answer.
His grip tightens slightly. “You’re not owned.”
I hold his gaze. “Then trust me.”
He stares at me for a long second, then his hand slides up my side, slow, and he cups the back of my neck like he’s trying not to pull.
“Write the reply,” he says, voice low. “Then we go.”
I blink. “Go where?”
His mouth curves, small and controlled. “A date.”
I stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “You said you need control. You said you need a frame. So we build it, and we do it in public, and we look normal.”
“We don’t look normal,” I say flatly.
His eyes flick over my face. “We can.”
I swallow, then I nod once. “Fine. I’ll write it first.”
He releases me, and I hate that part of me wants him to pull me back.
Sofia takes Oisin for an “inside picnic” in the sitting room, complete with a blanket and cut fruit and a tiny cup of juice that makes him feel grown, and I take an unmarked car with a driver Mikhail trusts and a phone that isn’t mine.
I sit in a small café across town, one with tourists and students and noise, and I write Vladimir a reply in clean handwriting on plain paper.
I keep it short, calm, like a woman who chooses.
I’ll meet you on Tuesday evening.
Then I add a line that I know will hook his pride.
If you want honor, show up alone enough to speak.
I fold it, I seal it, I hand it off through a contact Mikhail arranged, and I don’t let my hand shake while I do it.
When I return, Mikhail is waiting in the hall outside my room, jacket on, hair neat, posture sharp. He looks like a man walking into a boardroom, then his eyes meet mine and they change in a way that hits me low in the stomach.
“You ready?” he asks.
“For a date,” I say, still wrapping my head around it.
“For playing normal,” he replies.
I glance down at myself. “I’m in jeans.”
His eyes flick over me, slow and direct, and I feel heat rise under my skin. “You’re fine,” he says, and his voice goes slightly rough on the last word.
Oisin barrels out of the sitting room with a train in his hand. “Where are you going?”
Mikhail crouches. “Adult dinner.”
Oisin frowns. “Without me?”
“Without you,” Mikhail confirms.
Oisin looks at me, betrayed. “Mama.”
I crouch too, and I smooth his hair back. “It’s just for a little while. Sofia’s here, and Enzo’s here, and you’ll do two stories.”
Oisin brightens at “two”, then he narrows his eyes at Mikhail. “You’ll come back?”
Mikhail holds his gaze. “Yes.”
Oisin nods once like he accepts the contract, then he points his train at Mikhail’s chest. “No loud.”
Mikhail’s mouth tightens, then he nods. “No loud.”
Oisin looks satisfied and runs back to Sofia, already shouting about trains and snacks, which is loud, yet he’s allowed it. I watch him go, then I look up at Mikhail.
He holds out his hand. “Come on.”
I hesitate, then I place my hand in his, and his fingers close around mine like he’s done waiting for permission in small ways.
We walk through the house with eyes on us, staff pretending not to stare, guards pretending not to listen, and Mikhail doesn’t rush.
He sets the pace like the whole place belongs to him.
It does.
The car ride is quiet for the first ten minutes, and I spend those minutes trying not to stare at the way his sleeves hug his forearms and the way the gray at his temples makes him look even more dangerous. Then he breaks the silence like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“You’re watching me,” he says.
“I’m checking your mood,” I answer.
He glances at me. “Lie better.”
I huff out a laugh, and he turns his eyes forward again like that’s all he wanted.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer right away. He lets the car take a few turns, he lets me watch familiar streets start to appear, then he says, “You’ll know.”
My stomach tightens as recognition hits, and it hits hard enough that I sit straighter.
“No,” I say quietly.
Mikhail’s gaze flicks to mine. “Yes.”
“This is—” I start, then I stop.
He nods once. “It’s still here.”
The car pulls up to a small place tucked between two buildings, warm light in the windows, a sign that hasn’t changed much. I haven’t seen it in years. I haven’t let myself think about it in years.
I stare like my brain is refusing to accept it.
Mikhail gets out first, then he comes around and opens my door. He holds out his hand again, patient and firm, and I take it without thinking.
The smell hits me the moment we step inside, baked dough, warm sugar, coffee, toasted nuts. My throat tightens.
It’s a pastry shop, the kind of place where a child can press her face to the glass and point at what she wants, and a woman at the counter will smile and pretend she doesn’t see bruises on a father’s wrist.
I haven’t been in here since I was twelve.
The owner is older now, hair gray, eyes still sharp. She looks up, she takes in Mikhail, then she takes in me, and her expression shifts like she recognizes something she doesn’t want to name.
“Closed,” she says automatically, then she looks at Mikhail again and recalculates. “We’re closed.”
Mikhail’s tone stays polite. “I booked it.”
The woman blinks. “You did?”
“I did,” he confirms, then he glances at me. “You used to come here.”
My lips part. “How do you know?”
He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small slip of paper. “Sofia told me. You mentioned it to her when Oisin said he wanted strudel.”
I stare at him. “You planned a date off a comment.”
“Yes,” he says, and he doesn’t apologize. “You don’t get many good memories. I wanted one in front of you, not behind you.”
My chest tightens. The owner clears her throat. “You want the back table?”
Mikhail nods once. “Yes.”