Chapter 13 #3
I stood and moved the chair away from the wall beside the fireplace. It was a quiet wall. Cream paint. No shadowy corners. No locked doors. Nothing intended to frighten her.
Yelena stood slowly.
I pointed to the space.
“Face the wall, little one.”
She walked there.
Her shoulders were straight at first. Bratva-princess posture. Perfect. Untouchable.
“Hands relaxed at your sides,” I said.
She let them fall.
“Feet comfortable. You are not required to stand rigidly.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
I sat in the armchair behind her, close enough that she could hear the shift of my clothes and the turn of a page. I did not actually read.
The clock began. Yelena stared at the wall. After a minute, she said, “This is stupid.”
“Yep.”
“I could be helping.”
“You could. You are not.”
“That is the problem.”
“No,” I said softly. “The problem is that you believe helping only counts if it hurts you.”
Her shoulders tensed. I did not add more time.
At three minutes, she moved her hand behind her back. I spoke before her fingers could knot together.
“Hands at your sides.”
She obeyed.
At five minutes, her breathing changed.
Small. Uneven.
At seven, I heard her sniff once.
I kept my voice low.
“This is not abandonment.”
Her head lowered.
“You are here because Daddy asked for the truth, and you tried to disappear into usefulness instead.”
The first quiet sob moved through her shoulders. I did not go to her yet. The ten minutes belonged to the boundary. To the truth of it.
But I remained behind her the whole time.
Close.
When the clock reached ten minutes, I stood.
“Time.”
Yelena did not move.
Her head remained bowed. Her hands hung at her sides. The wall in front of her had become the only thing she could look at without letting me see her face.
I went to her. Not from across the room. Not with an order. I walked until I stood beside her, then lowered myself to my knees on the floor.
“Little one.”
Her mouth tightened.
“Turn around for me.”
She did.
Her face was wet. She had tried to wipe the tears away, but there were too many. Her eyes looked furious at herself for making them.
I took both her hands.
“Come here.”
She folded toward me before I could pull her. Her forehead hit my shoulder. Her arms closed around my neck. I held her on the floor.
No hurry. No lecture.
Just her shaking against me while I put one hand between her shoulder blades and the other at the back of her head. When her breathing had slowed enough for words, I leaned back.
“I need three truthful sentences,” I said.
She looked miserable.
“Only three?”
“Only three.”
Her fingers twisted in mine.
“I’m overwhelmed,” she said first.
“Good.”
“I feel responsible.”
“I know.”
Her breath broke.
“I want to go back because I’m afraid it would work.”
I held her gaze.
The honesty hurt. It was meant to. Not as punishment. As truth.
“You think Gianni would stop hurting people if he had you?”
“I think he would stop hurting your people,” she whispered. “For a while.”
“For a while,” I agreed.
She looked down.
“Thank you,” I said. “For telling me.”
Her eyes searched mine.
“You’re not angry?”
“No.”
“Not even a little?”
“I am angry at the men who taught you that love must be purchased with your disappearance.”
Her mouth trembled.
“But not at you,” I said. “Never for being afraid.”
I kissed her forehead.
Then I got her off the floor.
The soup had gone cold, so I took her to the kitchen. I warmed it myself. Added fresh bread. Cut it into pieces because she looked too tired to manage anything that required effort.
She sat on the counter in her pajamas while I stood between her knees.
“Open,” I said.
She gave me a glare with no force behind it.
“I can feed myself.”
“I know.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“Sometimes, Daddies are annoying.”
“Daddy!”
“Open.”
She opened her mouth.
I gave her a piece of bread first. Then a spoonful of soup. Warm tomato, beans, garlic, olive oil. Delicous food, but simple enough to settle her stomach.
She swallowed.
“Again,” I said.
By the fifth spoonful, some color had returned to her face.
By the tenth, she leaned against my shoulder between bites.
“Now,” I said, “we talk about what you can do tomorrow.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Is this a trap?”
“No. You asked to help. I said yes.”
I set the bowl down and opened the laptop at the kitchen table. Not the surrender document. That one remained closed in the office, waiting for her decision.
“Your shareholder authority gives you access to the clean fleet,” I said. “Gianni uses its reputation as cover. You can suspend his access to the fleet’s legitimate accounts.”
“He’ll fight it.”
“Good.”
“He’ll call Lev.”
“Also good. It makes them show their hands.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“We build a permanent employee relief fund,” I continued. “Independent trustees. Protected operating reserve. Mezza Notte workers receive payment now. Other workers hit by Gianni’s financial attacks receive support later.”
Yelena sat straighter.
“Through the fleet subsidiary.”
“Yes.”
“Not through Caruso accounts.”
“No.”
“Then Halberd cannot freeze it by targeting your family.”
“Correct.”
She looked at the screen. The exhaustion remained, but something else arrived beneath it.
Purpose.
Not guilt. Not payment.
Power.