Chapter 21 #2
“It also has security designed by Ivan, staffed through several captains, and visited by half the men whose access you’re investigating.
” She gestures toward the clean photograph inside Boris’s case.
“The safe house is safer because fewer people know its layout. Moving me into the largest Dymov property gives an insider more routes, not fewer.”
I want to reject the argument before she finishes. Control offers immediate motion, but listening requires me to stay inside uncertainty.
The contractor mapped my casino, Ivan designed the mansion, and every senior captain has attended meetings there. The safe house is concealed behind construction companies with a narrow access list.
Katie is correct.
“You stay at the safe house,” I say. “The additional exterior team stays too.”
“Discuss the placement with me before they arrive.”
“I’ll show you the revised positions.”
It is agreement delivered in a cold, punitive voice. Hurt passes over her face before she turns toward the corridor.
I see the injury I chose, yet I don’t repair it because distance has begun to feel like another guard between Katie and the wreckage inside the photograph.
We return to the safe house as dawn begins whitening the bedroom curtains.
The bedroom carries cedar from the open closet, with faint dust still rising from our ruined clothes. Katie showers first, so I use the second bathroom opposite the study to avoid the clear glass and every memory attached to it.
When I enter the bedroom, Katie is wearing my white shirt, which barely covers her thighs. Damp hair darkens the cotton over one shoulder, making the fabric cling to the curve of her breast.
She occupies the right side of the bed.
My side.
I remove my jacket without commenting.
Katie lifts the blanket. “Your border has suffered another administrative failure.”
“Keep it.”
The lack of resistance erases her faint smile.
I take the left side, leaving enough space between us for cool air to move over the sheet. Katie turns toward me, and her bare knee touches my thigh before I shift away.
“Are you angry because I contradicted you?” she asks.
“No.”
“Then stop speaking as if I’m applying for permission to remain married.”
I look toward the security panel, where four camera views show guards moving into the revised positions we approved in the kitchen and confirm that the perimeter remains intact.
“Sleep, Katie.”
She studies my face, then lies back without closing her eyes.
Everything I refuse to say keeps me rigid on the opposite side of the bed. Her shirt has ridden above one hip, leaving me hard under the lounge pants, but reaching for her would expose the fear behind my distance and the fact that I no longer know how to separate protection from panic.
I leave the bed before my hand crosses the space between us.
The study has no door, only a wide opening toward the short hall.
Beyond the kitchen, the two narrow utility rooms flanking the rear entrance have been pressed into service as guard posts: battery racks, water tanks, and radio equipment share each cramped space with a monitor, metal chair, and locked cabinet, but neither room contains a bed.
The entire safe house occupies one level; I call Boris from the study desk with Katie visible through the bedroom doorway.
We review the casino’s damaged systems, the guard rotations, and every person who crossed the north service passage during those seven minutes. Boris speaks in the patient register he uses when he knows I’m listening to another room.
Katie watches me from the bed without wavering, gathering the shirt hem across her bare thighs before letting it fall again. The deliberate movement makes the next number leave my head.
“Continue,” I tell Boris.
“I did.”
I find the report on the desk. “Nothing in this house can disrupt my concentration.”
Katie’s mouth curves through the open doorway.
The distance survives the following morning, when I wake on the left side with Katie asleep across my pillow and one hand occupying the empty place where my chest should be. At breakfast, she slides coffee toward me until our fingers almost meet, then notices when I take the cup by its handle.
Katie doesn’t demand an explanation while guards enter to review the new perimeter. She studies their positions through the kitchen window, then moves one man whose reflection exposes him from the rear road. I approve the correction without touching the hand she rests on the map.
The next night she walks out of the bathroom with damp hair and a towel wrapped above her breasts.
I remain at the security screen until she dresses.
On the third morning, she sits across my lap to reach a cabinet she could have opened from the other side.
My hands close around the chair instead of her waist.
Her provocations remain deniable, though the hurt under them becomes harder to ignore.
I answer with schedules, predictable meals, and every guard change printed on the kitchen counter before it happens.
Katie receives the consultation she demanded, but I withhold every touch that would expose how badly I need the comfort of her body.
By the fourth day, she stops asking whether I’m angry.
She begins watching.
That evening I make the same mistake during a security call.
Katie stands inside the bedroom wearing dark trousers and a soft blouse, her hair pinned away from her neck. She has endured four days of careful distance without accepting it as permanent.
Boris explains the contractor review while Katie reaches for the first button.
I keep my attention on the report. “Nothing can disrupt my concentration.”
Katie opens the button.