6. Ana #2
He talks about family and keeping things steady. About how the council needs everything in its place. He says trouble draws the wrong kind of attention, and that women like me become pieces on the board whether we want to or not.
“You would be protected,” he says. “Placed well and respected.”
“Owned,” I reply.
He doesn’t deny it. “Marriage resolves many things.”
He pauses long enough to let it hang.
“My grandnephew, Sergei Orlov,” he continues, voice smooth, as if I don’t already know.
“He’s just the sort of man you deserve. Rich beyond measure.
Handsome in a way that turns heads without effort.
A man of accomplishment with business interests across Europe and Asia, in real estate, logistics, and shipping. He has taste. Taste and power.”
He unfolds the picture he’s painting slowly, one stroke at a time. He taps the spoon on the table.
“That’s rare,” I observe.
“Isn’t it,” he says, leaning forward slightly.
“Sergei’s one of the younger councilmen. He’s interested in you. Not just in your name, but in you—your grace, your wit.” He takes a sip of tea. “Last week, he told me he’s done chasing fortunes. Said he wants something real now.”
“Like marriage,” I note.
“He would keep you safe,” Mikhail says, the words coming faster now. “He’ll be a husband who adores you. A home of your own. A proper life fit for a lady.”
“I’m not sure,” I say, my voice trailing off as I look down at my teacup and pretend to cool it with a slow stir.
My blouse sticks to my back. Sweat beads under my arms. My hands burn inside my gloves. I press one palm hard into my thigh, just enough to keep steady and hold his gaze.
Why is Dominik so late?
I can’t pull out my phone. Not here, not now. I sit still and watch the door. We set the time and the place three days ago. He has never missed one.
“Not sure, why?” the man asks, his brows lifting.
“You see,” I say flatly, “I don’t like being told what to do. Especially not now.”
It doesn’t put him off.
“I’m not telling you to rush. There’s no need,” he says, leaning back in his chair with a laugh as if I’ve just delivered the funniest line he’s heard all day.
“All I’m saying, Mrs. Markova, Ana,” he corrects himself with a casual wave, “is meet Sergei. Get to know him. How about the Derby at Central Hippodrome next week? Or a visit to the flower festival? Both are excellent opportunities. You can enjoy good company, a fine atmosphere, no pressure.”
“I’m not interested.”
“That’s understandable,” he says, as if I’ve commented on the weather. “You’ve had time to adjust. But the council’s patience is not unlimited.”
“I don’t belong to the council.”
His eyes harden. “You belong to the structure that kept you alive this long.”
I lean back in my chair. “That structure beat me. Paraded me. Used me as proof of power.”
He doesn’t flinch. “And yet you survived.”
“That’s not the endorsement you think it is.”
He exhales, almost regretful. “You’re being emotional.”
I smile thinly. “You’re being careless.”
The look he gives me then is measured. “You’re not alone,” he says, spacing the words out. “That complicates things.”
I don’t ask how he knows. It doesn’t matter now. The council always knows more than it shows.
“I’m allowed to choose whom I see,” I say mildly, as if I’m testing the line.
“For now.”
My shoulders go still. I look at him and try to read what that means. The silence stretches.
When he stands, he doesn’t threaten me. He doesn’t need to. He leaves me with something colder than fear, a certainty that this isn’t over.
I call a taxi and come home. Dominik waits under the stairwell, pacing back and forth.
“Where the hell have you been?” he snaps.
“Ask yourself that,” I say, brushing past him and heading for the door, keys in hand.
“What do you mean?” He grabs my shoulder.
I knock his hand away and glare at him, but the look in his eyes tells me something’s wrong.
“Why didn’t you come to the cafe?” I ask, and I don’t soften it.
“You told me not to,” he says. “You texted me to come here. I’ve been waiting for you.”
My stomach turns. Mikhail knew where I’d be. This wasn’t chance.
“We’re compromised, Dominik,” I say. “Someone rewrote our plan.”
We pull out from our apartment in a rented sedan. Dominik chooses a hotel temporarily on the edge of the city. It has cameras that loop, Dominik says, and staff don’t ask questions.
As we head toward the hotel, a vehicle pulls in behind us. Red and blue lights flare in the rearview, too bright, too clean, cutting through the dark as we drive. Dominik’s hand tightens on the wheel.
“Not police,” he says immediately.
“How do you know?” I ask.
“Wrong hour. They don’t run stops here yet.”
He slows anyway, just enough.
The car behind us doesn’t pull alongside. It hangs back, waiting.
“Seatbelt,” he says.
I’m already pulling mine on.
The first shot hits the pavement in front of us.
Dominik doesn’t brake. He accelerates. Everything breaks loose at once.
Tires scream as he punches the gas, the engine surging hard while a second car cuts in from the side.
Gunfire cracks again, louder now, close enough that I feel it in my chest. The windows shudder, and the cabin goes thin and metallic.
I duck and keep my head down. The world narrows to sound and motion and the thought that this is too clean to be chance. One wrong move and I’m in a different car.
We lose them by inches and choices and roads Dominik knows. When we finally stop, my pulse is hammering in my throat.
“This wasn’t about hurting you,” I say once I can breathe again.
He looks at me, eyes dark. “It was exactly about you.”
“No,” I correct him. “They weren’t trying to grab me. If they wanted me, they would’ve boxed us in.”
He sits still.
“Don’t you see?” I say. “They were trying to make you move. To pull you back in. To make you choose.”
We don’t argue after that. Later, in another borrowed room that still smells like someone else’s life, I lie awake and watch him sit in the dark. He doesn’t sleep. He listens to the night, counting doors, measuring distances.
That’s when it settles in.
The council isn’t negotiating anymore. They’re done asking. The next time they move, they’ll make one of us pay.