Chapter 22 Dimitri #2
"You can't burn down everything for a woman, Dimitri. If we go to her cousin and he refuses her, we could have a war on our hands. So you have to think long and hard about that. If they don't want her influence they could try to kill her and I won't let you throw your life away on some woman."
The accusation stings because there's truth in it.
I've known Katya for a handful of weeks, and yet I've already risked my life and my position for her.
I've made decisions based on emotion rather than strategy.
I've been acting foolish.
"She's not just some woman," I say quietly.
"She's the one thing in my life that feels real. Everything else is politics and violence and maintaining power. But when I'm with her, I remember what it feels like to be human."
Rolan's expression softens slightly.
"Batya said something similar about Mamochka once. He told me that loving her made him weak and strong at the same time. Weak because she became a target for his enemies. Strong because she gave him something worth protecting beyond his own survival."
I've never heard this story before.
My mother died when I was young, and Batya rarely spoke about her after she was gone.
Batya raised me to survive in a world that shows no mercy, and now I'm trying to protect someone who represents everything he taught me to avoid.
Attachment.
Vulnerability.
Love.
"I'm not giving her up," I say.
"I'm not asking you to."
Rolan picks up his glass again and drains it.
"I'm telling you to be smart about how you protect her. Don't let your feelings make you sloppy. Don't let the Radiches or anyone else see how much she means to you. Because the moment they know she's your weakness, they'll use it to destroy you."
"I understand."
"Good."
He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob.
"For what it's worth, I hope she's worth it. I hope she gives you what Mamochka gave Batya."
He leaves me alone in the study with my thoughts.
I stand there for a long moment, processing everything that was said in the command room and in this private conversation.
We're honoring the pact with the Morozov family, which means accepting Katya as an allied asset under our protection.
We're taking a financial hit to maintain our reputation.
We're searching for her family to understand the full scope of what we're dealing with.
And I'm standing in the middle of it all, trying to protect a woman who has become the center of my entire world in a matter of weeks.
I head outside to where my car waits.
Gavriil stands by the driver's door, and two other men wait in a second vehicle behind us.
The security detail Rolan insisted on.
I'm about to climb into the back seat when movement across the street catches my eye.
A black sedan sits at the curb with its engine idling and its windows tinted.
It's positioned with a clear view of the Vetrov compound's main entrance, and something about the way it sits there feels wrong.
"Gavriil," I say quietly, "the sedan across the street."
He follows my gaze and his hand moves toward the gun holstered under his jacket.
"I see it."
"Take two men and pull the driver. I want to know who sent him and what he's seen."
He nods and signals the other soldiers.
They fan out to approach the sedan from multiple angles.
The driver sees them coming and tries to pull away, but Gavriil is faster.
He yanks the door open and drags the man out onto the street before the car can gain speed, while one of his men dives inside to stop the car.
I walk across to where they've got him pinned against the hood.
He's young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of nervous energy that screams amateur.
Blood runs from his nose where Gavriil hit him, and his eyes dart between the three men holding him down.
I instantly recognize Timofey Denisov, a Radich enforcer.
"Who sent you?" I ask.
He doesn't answer, just tries to twist away from the hands holding him.
Gavriil hits him again, harder this time, and the man's head snaps back against the metal hood with a sound that makes me wince internally.
"I don't think I need to ask, but I'll be polite," I say.
"Who sent you to watch us?"
"Nobody," he gasps.
"I'm just parked here. I didn't do anything."
"You're watching the Vetrov compound with a telephoto lens in your passenger seat."
I nod to where one of my men has retrieved the camera from the car.
"Don't insult my intelligence."
The snow starts falling harder, fat flakes that stick to Timofey's bloody face and melt into pink trails.
He's shaking now, either from cold or fear or both.
I feel nothing watching him suffer.
This is what happens to people who spy on us, who think they can gather information without consequences.
"Look, I'm Radich," he finally says.
"Okay? They sent me to watch the compound and report on who comes and goes."
"Oleg is dead," Gavrill points out.
"I saw Dimitri kill him myself."
"His brother, then. Whoever's running things now." The man spits blood onto the snow. "They just want to know your movements. They didn't tell me why."
I exchange a glance with Gavriil.
The Radiches already know we're protecting Katya, which means they'll be planning their next move.
They're watching us to figure out our security protocols, to find weaknesses they can exploit.
This spy is just the opening move in a larger game.
"Take him inside," I tell Gavriil.
"Get everything he knows about who hired him and what he's reported so far. Then make sure he can't report anything else."
Timofey starts struggling again, pleading in Russian too rapid for me to catch every word.
But I'm already walking back to my car.
I've seen this scene play out dozens of times.
The spy will tell Gavriil everything he knows, and then he'll disappear.
That's how this world works.
That's how we maintain control.
I pull out my phone and call the apartment.
Katya answers on the third ring, her voice still tinged with sleep.
"Dimitri?"
"I'm doubling your security detail," I tell her gruffly.
"Things aren't good, okay? Remember what I said about staying inside and away from windows."
"What happened?"
"The Radiches are watching us. They know where you are, and they're planning something."
I climb into the back seat and signal the driver to drive.
"I'm on my way back now. Just stay inside and stay away from the windows."
"Okay."
She sounds scared, and I hate that I can't reach through the phone and pull her close.
"Be careful."
"I will." I end the call and stare out at the snow-covered streets as we drive.
My mind is already working through scenarios, planning for every possible move the Radiches might make.
We're running out of time, and the walls are closing in from every direction.
But I'll burn this entire city down before I let anyone take her from me.