10. Luka #2
Luka: Do not push your luck.
Nina: Goodnight, Luka. And come back soon.
I sit back, still holding the phone.
Luka: Goodnight, Nina.
It’s like something in her words set off something in me. I need to see her again, soon. So I heal. Poorly. Impatiently. Surrounded by reports and security briefings and men who don’t meet my eyes when they tell me what they still have not found.
The attack remains ugly in its simplicity.
A breach in the private garage. Cameras down for ninety-seven seconds. Two dead attackers. One escaped vehicle.
Karpov’s name appears in too many conversations and never with enough evidence attached.
A burglary gone wrong.
That’s the version we give the staff.
An attempted theft by outside criminals who accessed the building through a service entrance and panicked when confronted by security. Regrettable. Contained. Under investigation.
A lie made of polished legal language. Necessary, but still a lie.
I don’t like lies that make my people nervous.
And when I return to Kazan Tower for the first time after two weeks, I feel the nerves before anyone speaks.
The lobby is quieter than usual.
Not empty. Never empty. My companies run too hot for that.
But the air has changed. Conversations die too quickly when I pass.
Receptionists stand straighter. Two junior analysts step aside so abruptly that one nearly backs into a marble column.
Security is doubled at the elevators, discreetly enough for civilians.
Everyone knows something happened.
Everyone knows the official explanation is not the whole truth.
And everyone knows better than to ask.
I step out of the private elevator onto the executive floor with Pavel behind me and Meredith waiting near the glass doors with a tablet held against her chest.
“Good morning, Mr. Kazan,” she says.
“Good morning.”
Her gaze flicks briefly to my shoulder.
It’s in a sling only because Mirov threatened to sedate me if I came to the office without it.
Beneath the jacket, the bandage pulls every time I breathe too deeply.
The wound has settled into a dull, constant pain, less dramatic than the first week but more irritating because there is no dignity in being sore.
“I’ve moved the staff address to nine-fifteen,” Meredith says. “Legal approved the wording.”
“Did they.”
Her mouth tightens. “They made suggestions.”
I nod. Then, despite myself, I look past her.
Nina’s desk is empty.
I dislike the speed with which I notice.
Meredith notices me noticing, because she is unfortunately competent.
“Miss Hale is already in the conference hall,” she says.
I return my gaze to her.
She looks back as if she has said nothing unusual.
“Good,” I say.
It’s not good. It’ s ridiculous that my pulse changes at the confirmation that she is in the building.
Ridiculous that I’ve stood across from guns, prosecutors, politicians, traitors, men begging for their lives, and not once felt this particular tightening in my chest until a secretary who sends me absurd videos of dogs in boots is somewhere nearby but not yet visible.
I walk to my office first. Because if I go directly to the hall, it will feel too much like eagerness, and I’m not a man who performs eagerness in front of staff.
My office is exactly as it should be.
Desk clear. Files aligned. Coffee prepared but untouched. City bright beyond the windows. For two weeks, I’ve worked from the estate and hated every report that arrived without the sound of Nina arguing with someone outside my door.
I stand in the center of the office and look at the empty space near the glass wall.
She should be there. Annoying me about calls. Mocking my handwriting. Threatening to destroy my calendar if I approve another private dinner after nine.
The drawer at my desk remains locked. The thought of what is inside it comes without invitation. A scrap of delicate fabric. Her scent, probably gone by now.
Not the memory. Never the memory.
I turn away from the desk before I do something foolish and open it.
At nine-thirteen, Meredith appears again. “They’re ready.”
I nod and follow her out.
The conference hall is on the twenty-sixth floor, larger than the boardroom and designed for internal addresses, press rehearsals, shareholder briefings, anything that requires controlled optics and many witnesses. Today, it is full of employees pretending not to be afraid.
They stand in clusters beneath the soft lighting, managers in front, assistants and analysts toward the back, security at every door. The glass behind the stage has been dimmed so the city appears as a muted silver blur. Corporate calm over fear.
The murmuring quiets when I enter.
I take the stage without looking for her.
That is what I tell myself.
I don’t look. I simply see.
Faces turn toward me. Familiar ones. Unfamiliar ones. Finance. Legal. Acquisitions. Operations. Men and women who work for the company my name built cleanly enough to survive scrutiny, if not honestly enough to survive God.
I rest my good hand on the lectern. My injured shoulder protests the stillness.
The room waits.
“Two weeks ago,” I begin, “there was an incident in the private garage beneath this building.”
The word incident moves through the hall like smoke.
I pause.
“Some of you were here that evening. Many of you have heard speculation. I’m addressing it now because uncertainty creates distraction, and distraction makes people careless.”
A few gazes drop.
“Unauthorized individuals entered through a service level during a shift change. Security confronted them. The situation escalated. Several people were injured.”
Almost true.
“The matter is being handled by security and the relevant authorities.”
Also almost true, depending on which authorities one means.
“There’s no evidence of an ongoing threat to employees on the legitimate floors of Kazan Group.”
That one tastes worst. Because there’s evidence of threat everywhere.
It’s simply not the kind that belongs in an employee briefing.
I continue, voice even. “Access protocols have changed. Security has been expanded. Some of you will find the new measures inconvenient. You will follow them anyway.”
A nervous flicker of laughter moves through part of the room.
“The attack was attempted theft and intimidation by outside criminals. It failed. It will not affect operations. It will not affect the acquisition timeline. You are expected to return to work with discipline and professionalism.”
Now, I tell myself, this is necessary. A speaker should know his audience. A commander reads fear. A CEO finds doubt and crushes it before it spreads.
I’m not looking for Nina. Then I find her.
And for one moment, the room leaves me.
She stands near the left wall, halfway behind a row of senior coordinators, as if she deliberately chose a place where she could see without being seen too easily.
Typical. Dark hair loose today instead of pinned, falling over the shoulders of a cream blouse tucked into a charcoal skirt.
No navy dress. No glass-wall boardroom. No blood on her hands.
She looks ordinary.
No. That is the lie.
She looks like herself.
Quietly furious with something, perhaps me, perhaps the world, perhaps both.
Her mouth is set in a straight line, her arms folded, one hip leaned lightly against the wall as if she is impatient for the speech to end.
There is no visible sign of the garage on her, no wound, no bruise, no proof that two weeks ago she was on the concrete beneath me while bullets cut through the dark.
But I see it anyway.
I see the way her fingers press into her own sleeve. I see the way her gaze keeps tracking the security near the doors. I see the way she is pretending not to scan for exits.
And still, the sight of her takes the breath out of me.
Her eyes meet mine across a room full of employees, and something in her face changes.
There and gone so quickly no one else would catch it.
But I do. I catch it and hold it like a fool.
My fingers tighten around the lectern.
I finish the address without remembering half of what I say.
Something about resilience. Protocol. Continuing work. Directing questions to department heads. Not engaging with media. Reporting suspicious activity. Legal phrases dressed in my voice, leaving my mouth on command because I have done harder things than speak while distracted.
When it ends, no one applauds.
They’re too unsure if they should.
People begin to disperse slowly, quietly, with the nervous relief of those who have been told to go back to normal and know normal no longer exists. Meredith approaches with follow-up notes. Pavel leans in to mention a security briefing. A board member tries to catch my eye from the aisle.
I ignore all of them for one second too long.
Because Nina is leaving.
She slips away from the wall, turning toward the side exit with her phone in one hand and her bag over her shoulder. She does not look back.
Something ugly and impatient moves through me.
“Nina,” I say.
She stops. Slowly, she turns.
The room continues moving around us, people pretending not to notice the exact thing they are noticing.
Her expression is polite when she faces me. Polite. “Yes, Mr. Kazan?” she says.
The title is a slap delivered in silk.
My shoulder throbs.
My temper, which has survived worse than bullets, nearly does not survive that.
I step down from the stage and walk toward her, aware of every pair of eyes pretending to look elsewhere. She watches me approach, chin lifted, mouth calm, but I can see the pulse at her throat.
When I stop in front of her, she looks first at the sling, then at my face.
“How is your shoulder?” she asks.
“Manageable.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you will get in this hallway.”
Her gaze narrow. “Then perhaps you should not have asked for me in this hallway.”
“Come with me,” I say.
Her brows lift. “Where?”
“Somewhere quieter.”
“I have work.”
“You have five minutes.”
Her mouth tightens. “Do I?”
I hold her gaze.