39. Dmitri
DMITRI
The winter garden is dim and warm.
Night presses against the glass panes, and Cara sits on the bench near the gazebo, wrapped in a gray coat, with her red scarf gathered in her hands and mine underneath it.
The orange trees stand in large clay tubs beside the stone path, glossy and green under the wall lights. They make the garden feel clean, and I want this moment to stay that way.
I reach into my coat pocket and look at her.
“Cara.”
She studies my face, then the hand I keep closed at my side. “You look like you’re about to say something dangerous,” she says, drawing her coat tighter.
“Maybe,” I say, and my fingers open.
The ring sits in my palm. Plain platinum. One small stone. No family crest, no Volkov mark, no old blood dragged into the setting. Maksim had it brought from his jeweler.
Cara’s hands fly to her mouth.
“Dmitri, I…”
“This belonged to no one before you,” I say.
Her eyes lift to mine, wet already.
“I want you by choice,” I say, keeping my hand open between us. “Every time. If you stay, it has to be yours.”
Her gaze shifts to the ring and comes back to mine. “And Mikhail?”
“I want to build something he can grow inside,” I say. “Without fear. No man teaches him that love can be a weapon.”
Her mouth trembles. “No cages.”
“No cages,” I say, and it is the truth.
Cara breathes out, then holds out her hand. “Then ask me properly.”
I’m already kneeling, with the winter, the snow, and the night around us.
“Cara O’Connell,” I say, sliding the ring halfway onto her finger, “will you marry me?”
Cara laughs and cries at the same time. “Yes,” she says, and her fingers close around mine. “Yes, but I’m correcting you anyway.”
“I’m counting on it,” I say, and I push the ring home.
My phone vibrates before I can stand. Cara feels it through my hand.
“Go on,” she says, wiping her cheek with her palm. “That face means someone ruined dinner.”
I read Maksim’s message.
Morozov talks now.
Cara sees the words before I turn the screen. “Go,” she says, but her hand catches my wrist. “Come back this time.”
I bend and kiss her knuckles. “I will,” I say.
Maksim waits in the lower level with Yuri, Kirill, Leonid, Abramov, and Petrov gathered around the monitors. Morozov sits at the bolted table. Dima stands behind him, looking bored enough to scare smarter men.
Maksim doesn’t look at me when I enter. “Tell him again,” he says to Morozov, turning one file with his finger.
Morozov smiles through a split lip. “The fire was timed for Boston,” he says. “Your enforcer was out of Moscow. That was the point.”
Dima watches me from behind Morozov, one thumb resting near the gun at his hip. My hands stay at my sides.
Maksim taps the file. “You knew he was at Patrick O’Connell’s party.”
“Everyone watching O’Connell knew,” Morozov says, wiping blood from his lower lip with his thumb. “He drank loudly, invited the wrong people, left phones unsecured, and relied on hotel staff who could be bought. Your man followed Cara O’Connell into it.”
My hand starts to close. Dima shifts behind Morozov. Maksim glances at me once, and I force my fingers open.
Leonid looks up from his notes. “Patrick knew about the Moscow fire?”
“No,” Morozov says, giving him a flat look. “O’Connell was useful because he didn’t know enough to be careful.” He sounds almost disappointed about the loss of a useful asset.
Yuri leans toward the monitor. “Then why use that night?”
Morozov turns his head slowly, offended. “Because Antonov was on the wrong continent. By the time he could get back, the house would be ash, his parents dead, and his head full of guilt.”
My shoulders lock.
Maksim’s voice stays flat. “You wanted him alive and angry.”
“I would have taken him dead if he had been there,” Morozov says, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Alive gave me something else.” He looks up at me and lets his mouth curve.
Abramov folds his arms. “A weapon to point at Volkov.”
Morozov’s smile widens. “Pretty words. But yes.”
Abramov hits him across the mouth so fast, the chair scrapes back an inch. A tooth lands on the table. Maksim lifts one hand, and Abramov steps back.
Kirill moves away from the wall. “When did Patrick understand that Cara mattered?”
Morozov wets his cracked lip. “Why do you ask?” He spits blood onto the floor. “Antonov vanished from Boston. Cara was left behind. O’Connell noticed. Later, when he learned about the boy, he knew exactly what he had.”
My ribs tighten until I force myself to breathe.
Abramov steps closer, his hand raised in a fist. “The Blacklist entry?”
Morozov coughs once. “Water,” he croaks.
Abramov places a glass just out of reach.
“Later,” he says.
Morozov licks his lips. “O’Connell wanted Volkov to pick up Cara. Once you had her, we couldn’t take her without starting a fight with Maksim.”
His mouth twists.
“Then the rat disappeared with our inside information.”
Dima’s thumb moves against the gun.
Morozov looks at me. “Patrick used Cara to pull you in, and he used the boy to make you angry.”
I look at Abramov. “Give him water.”
Maksim watches Morozov drink.
“Yuri,” he says, keeping his eyes on him.
Yuri looks at his monitor. “The money trail matches what he said.”
For five years, I thought I should have been in Moscow. I thought my parents died because I stayed in Boston. I followed Cara. I broke routine for one night.
Yuri’s screen gives me the answer. Morozov chose that night because I was in Boston. He knew I couldn’t get back in time. The fire was meant to kill my parents and leave me alive with the guilt.
For one second, I feel nothing, and then the anger comes in clean and cold.
Leonid sets a second folder in front of Maksim. “Sokolov Children’s Fund,” he says, adjusting his glasses.
Maksim’s face changes at once.
Leonid opens the folder. “They copied Elena’s invoice format and used her foundation’s name to move cargo.”
Maksim turns to Morozov. “You used my wife’s foundation.”
Morozov says nothing.
Maksim closes the folder and hands it back to Leonid. “Everyone involved loses protection, papers, accounts, and safe houses.”
Leonid nods once.
Maksim’s eyes stay on Morozov. “After that, we decide who keeps his hands.”
Leonid tucks the folder under his arm. “I’ll make sure the real foundation records are pushed first. The fake invoices won’t stand.”
Maksim speaks to me. “You have your answer.”
I look at Morozov and feel the old need for blood rise again. Cara’s scarf flashes in my mind. Mikhail’s serious face follows it.
“I have enough,” I say, stepping back from the table.
Dima’s mouth moves almost into a smile.
Maksim nods toward the stairs. “Then go marry her.”
Morozov lifts his head.
Maksim turns back to him. “I’ll deal with you myself. By morning, you’ll wish you had died at Vostok Meridian.”