6. Cara #3
I look at Dmitri. “I’m working on it.”
The call ends when Dmitri takes the phone with finality.
For a few seconds, I can’t speak. My body wants to fold while my mind stays upright with a clipboard and starts making lists.
Kathryn safe. Mikhail fed. Patrick missing.
Dmitri armed. Phone controlled. Laptop gone.
Son hidden. That’s the only piece of victory I have, and it’s so small, I could crush it in my fist.
Dmitri sets the phone on the desk. “You understand why I refused.”
“I understand that you can make anything sound reasonable if you drain enough humanity out of it.”
His eyes harden. “Humanity won’t protect him.”
The word slams between us.
Him.
Every muscle locks. Did I say anything wrong? Did Kathryn? Did he guess? No. No, he means a child. Kathryn’s child, maybe. A general him. A civilian risk. I force my face back into place.
“You don’t know anything about him,” I say.
“No,” Dmitri says. “I know men like Patrick.”
That almost makes me laugh. “So do I. I share DNA with the bastard.”
He steps closer. “Then understand this. Patrick didn’t only steal money. Men are already asking about you. Morozov’s channels moved before we reached the estate. Your name is circulating.”
“My name has done a lot of traveling without my consent.”
“Listen to me, Cara.” His voice cuts through the room. “The Blacklist works because interpretation kills faster than guns. If your position is unclear, other men will define it.”
“My position is very clear. I’m pissed.”
“Pissed isn’t a status recognized by Bratva houses.” He doesn’t smile. “You’re under my custody until Patrick is found and your listing is frozen or settled.”
“Custody. Listing. Settled.” I taste each word and want to spit. “You people make human trafficking sound like accounting.”
“It’s accounting,” he agrees, “with blood behind the numbers.”
For a second, the floor seems to shift under me. Dmitri is describing a system I am already inside. Old, recognized, functional. A ledger where people can be priced, moved, argued over, claimed.
My brother put me in it.
Dmitri watches the realization take hold.
“You need rest,” he says.
A knock comes before I answer. A woman enters with a fresh tray, and Dmitri makes way. She needs no permission, which tells me she outranks half the guns in this house. Older, neat, severe. Her hair is pinned back, and ladybug-shaped glasses with dull red rims sit on her nose.
“Elena sends me,” she says.
Elena again. The house speaks her name like it belongs in ledgers and locks.
Pakhan’s wife.
Dmitri watches my face as I put that together.
“This is Mrs. Wentworth,” he says. “She’ll take care of you.”
She looks me over, sorting bruises, hunger, pride, and practical next steps.
“Take care of me?” I say. “That sounds expensive and involuntary.”
Mrs. Wentworth sets the tray down in a cozy little alcove. “Most useful things are.”
Dmitri almost reacts. Then he leaves before the room she can do anything human to him.
She lifts the cover from the bowl. “Tea. Chicken soup. Fresh rolls. You’ll eat while it’s hot.”
I blink at her. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for soup?”
“You look like you may faint and insult someone on the way down.” She straightens the napkin. “Soup prevents both, in my experience.”
I stare at her. Then, against every instinct I have, I laugh. It’s small and ragged and gone fast, but it happens. The soup smells good, damn it. Dill, chicken, something earthy. My body wants warm food, which feels like betrayal.
“Yes, that’s better,” Mrs. Wentworth says. She checks the water, towels, linens, and toiletries, then gives a satisfied grunt. “Eat. I’ll be just outside in the kitchenette. Holler if you need anything.” Somehow, she’s reassuring, which makes her dangerous in a whole new way.
I sit at the tray and pick up the roll.
She pauses near the door. “You won’t be harmed here.”
Then she leaves, and the lock clicks shut.
I’m alone in a suite nicer than any hotel I have visited, surrounded by woods, guards, history, and men who lower their voices when a woman named Elena is mentioned. I eat three bites of the roll and two spoonfuls of soup because Mrs. Wentworth is stout and proud and probably impossible to disobey.
After that, I inspect every surface. Windows sealed. Vents narrow. Bathroom mirror mounted flush. Desk drawers empty. No loose hardware except the lamp, and the lamp is useless unless I plan to start my rebellion by redecorating someone’s skull.
Voices move outside. Russian first, then a few words in English. I lean closer, pressing my fingertips to the wood.
“The Irish-listed key,” one man says, then spits.
“Shut up,” another says.
“What? Antonov is taking personal interest.”
“Personal makes men stupid.”
“Maybe her brother guessed that.”
A pause.
“That he would come?”
“Yes. Now shut up. Someone’s coming.”
My hand stays on the door. The suite, the guards, the call, the rules, the soup, all of it pulls into one clean and awful line. Patrick didn’t pick my name because I was available. He picked it because Dmitri would come.