17. Dmitri #2
The depot settles again, a message box now. Morozov left enough for me to recognize the road, then sent men to see whether I did.
I look at the van, the grit, the contractor token, and the wiped handles.
“No satisfaction,” I say.
Ilya’s gaze flicks to mine. “No satisfaction.”
“Pull the pickup’s path. I want its first stop and the second stop. The first may be bait.”
“And the third?”
“That’s where a patient man waits.”
Roman laughs under his breath. “We have patient men now?”
“We have orders.”
That kills the humor fast. Morozov put the aid crates and forged Volkov notes in front of cameras so Maksim would have to defend the family in public.
Then he left the van for me. The grit, the token, and the old road all pointed back to my parents’ fire.
He wanted me angry, he wanted me moving fast, and the pickup came to see if I took the bait.
I remind myself to be patient.
By late afternoon, the sky is gray and the road back to the estate is slick with sleet. Dima drives with the heat low and the windows clear. Roman sits in front with the evidence case across his lap. Ilya stays at the depot with his road men, checking the camera gaps one by one.
My phone lights twice. Abramov replies.
The company behind the Vostok storage yard links to one of Patrick’s Boston relay vendors. Same filing pattern, same payment path. No clean proof yet.
The second message is clearer.
Asset secure. Cara requested terminal access three times and called me a paranoid undertaker.
I put the phone away.
The estate gates open. At the service entrance, I pause and look toward the north wing windows. Then I take the evidence case from Roman and head inside.
I should go straight to Maksim’s office. Instead, I go to the north wing. The official reason is on my desk. Cara’s route notes need review, and the new road map needs to go on the internal board in my temporary office.
When I reach the study, I stop with one hand on the doorframe. Voices come from the small kitchen attached to the north wing. No one sounds hurt or afraid, but Cara is in there, and she isn’t alone.
Laughter comes from the hall. Mrs. Wentworth would call it a disturbance. Abramov would call it too many people in one place. I know the sound before I reach the door.
Cara.
I cross the hall. Sergei stands just outside the kitchenette with a pale, nervous face. When he sees me, he moves aside so fast, his shoulder almost hits the wall.
The kitchenette door is open. Inside, Lidiya has covered the counter with buns, sausages, mustard, chopped onions, pickles, boiled potatoes, and a small bowl of ketchup placed far from Cara.
Yuri stands near the kettle with a plate in hand. Kirill is beside the paper plates, looking pleased to be included and trying to pretend he came for work. No one notices me except Sergei. He knows he’s been caught, and for one second, he can’t decide whether to warn the others or save himself.
Cara stands at the counter with mustard on one finger and a serious look on her face.
“Bun first,” she says, lifting one. “Then sausage. Mustard. Onions. Pickles, unless this household has hidden them from me.”
Lidiya glances at the jar. “Why would we hide pickles?”
“Because everyone here keeps feeding me like I’m a sick duchess,” Cara says, and everyone laughs with her.
Her voice is the loudest. That’s what gets me.
Yuri studies the tray. “Americans truly consider this food?”
Cara points at him with the mustard finger. “Americans consider many things food, policy, and personality tests, which explains a lot.”
Yuri laughs.
Kirill steps around Cara to reach for a plate, looking far too pleased with himself. “Teach me properly, Miss Cara. I want to survive American women.”
His voice carries a smile. He uses her first name by accident, and Cara doesn’t flinch. She turns, half amused and half ready to explain the constitution of a hot dog. Then she sees me. Everyone follows her.
The kitchenette changes at once. Yuri lowers his plate. Lidiya looks down at the counter. Kirill straightens with the paper plate in his hand. Cara looks from them to me, and her mouth loses the smile.
I look at Kirill. “Outside.”
Kirill’s face reddens. “Antonov, I was only helping.”
“You were close enough to forget her name,” I say, stepping into the doorway.
Everyone hears the warning in it.
Kirill puts the plate down. “Yes, sir.”
Yuri keeps the sausage in his hand and forgets to eat it. Sergei steps back from the doorway, already clearing the corridor. Lidiya gathers the knife and onion bowl with careful hands.
“Everyone out,” I say.
Yuri lifts his plate a fraction, then checks my face and lowers it. “This seems unfair to the hot dog.”
“Yuri.”
He drops the plate. Lidiya slips away. Kirill goes last, red-faced and smart enough not to look back.
Cara doesn’t challenge me in front of them. She understands hierarchy and what it costs when a man is cut down in public inside a house like this. She waits until the door closes. Then she turns on me.
“What is this supposed to be?” she asks, one hand still braced on the counter.
“Keeping threats away from you.” I stay where I am, hands at my sides.
Her laugh comes out small and angry. “In my country, we usually call that a restraining order.”
“You call it whatever makes you feel free,” I say, watching her grip tighten on the counter’s edge. “In my world, a man doesn’t stand close by accident. Distance is a question. Rank is another. If no one stops him, he learns what he can take.”
Cara glances at the abandoned tray, then back at me. “This was a kitchen.”
She turns away, then turns back before she can give me the victory of her silence.
“Was the hot dog classified,” she asks, wiping mustard from her finger with a napkin, “or was it the mustard?”
“Kirill stood close,” I say, keeping my back to the door.
Cara throws the napkin onto the counter. “People stand close in kitchens. Kitchens were designed by someone who hated elbows.”
“Not to you.” The words leave before I can make them cleaner.
Cara’s face changes. The anger drains first. Then her chin lifts, and the fight comes back in full.
“You’re jealous,” she says, folding her arms.
“Yes,” I say.
That stops her. She expected me to dress it up as security, proximity, guard discipline, or any of the words men use when they want control to sound useful. I give her none of them.
Behind her, the tray waits on the counter. Buns split open. Mustard cooling beside onions. Pickles arranged with criminal optimism. A small, ridiculous rebellion, abandoned between two people who don’t know how to stand near each other without turning the whole room dangerous.
“Kirill is still walking because I moved him instead of breaking his jaw,” I say.
Her hands curl into fists. “That’s not romantic.”
“No.” I move one step closer and keep my hands at my sides. “Romance isn’t what I was built for.”
Cara’s throat works once. “Then what were you built for?”
I look at her, at the anger in her face and the hurt she refuses to give a name.
“Protecting the people who matter.”
Her mouth opens, then closes again. I stop before I touch her.
“I won’t lie to you about jealousy,” I say. “Don’t ask me to be civilized about fear.”
For once, Cara has no clean answer.