Chapter 17
AURORA
The security briefing takes twenty minutes and involves a whiteboard. Viktor draws a map of the route from the safehouse to Miami, marks three checkpoints, and assigns positions to each operative like he’s planning a military extraction instead of a get-together with my best friend.
“Fedor will accompany you directly. He stays within arm’s reach at all times.” Viktor taps the board. “Four additional men will operate in civilian proximity. They won’t engage unless a threat presents itself, but they’ll maintain visual contact throughout.”
“Civilian proximity,” I repeat. “You mean they’ll follow me around a college campus pretending to be students?”
Viktor’s expression suggests he doesn’t appreciate the characterization. “They’ll blend into the environment.”
Adrian watches the briefing from the kitchen doorway with his espresso.
He agreed to let me go because Karpov has gone quiet for over a week, and Eric has no current legal basis to approach me outside the investigation.
The agreement came with conditions, and the conditions came with Viktor’s whiteboard, which comes with four armed men who are currently upstairs changing out of their tactical wardrobe.
I meet them in the garage fifteen minutes later and stop walking. “Absolutely not.”
The four men stand in a row wearing dress shoes, suit pants, and dress shirts with the top buttons unfastened, ties removed. They look like a wedding party that got lost on the way to the reception.
“You need to find something more casual.” I look at each of them in turn. “Jeans. T-shirts. Something a normal person would wear to a college campus on a Tuesday.”
One of them, a stocky man named Arseny with a shaved head and forearms built for intimidation, frowns. “It’s hard to hide my gun in casual clothes.”
“Use an ankle holster or a jacket. Just figure it out.” I cross my arms. “You are not following me around Miami Dade College looking like the Russian secret service.”
They disappear back upstairs, and I hear what sounds like closet doors opening and frustrated conversation in Russian. They return ten minutes later in jeans, slacks, T-shirts, and one polo shirt. They still stand out like soldiers at a farmer’s market, but they’ll have to do.
Fedor drives. I sit in the back with my laptop bag, the printed course catalog I downloaded last night, and a nervousness in my stomach that has nothing to do with morning sickness, which isn’t better or worse than it was a few days ago, when I first found out.
I texted Marisol the address and told her to meet me there.
She didn’t ask why. She just said she’d be there with coffee.
The Miami Dade College hospitality advising center is on the Wolfson Campus in a glass-and-concrete building five blocks from the water.
Marisol is waiting outside with two coffees and an expression that says she has questions but is saving them until we’re indoors.
She glances askew at Fedor but doesn’t mention his presence.
I wonder if she’s detected the quad of bodyguards yet. They definitely don’t blend in.
“You look good,” she says, handing me my favorite caramel macchiato. “Rested… Different.”
“Different how?” I sip the coffee, glad I didn’t take time to make one with Adrian’s complicated machine this morning, so I can enjoy my coffee guilt-free. I still hear Adrian scolding me in the back of my mind about the amount of caffeine in this drink versus my usual ten ounces but tune it out.
“Like you slept more than four hours and maybe smiled at least once this week.” She looks at Fedor, who has positioned himself eight feet behind us and is pretending to read something on his phone. “He’s subtle.”
“He actually is the subtle one. The other four are worse.” I nod toward the campus entrance. “Walk with me.”
As we walk, she tells me about the latest incident with Eric. He confronted her outside her office three days ago, without Rebecca present, and was persistent enough that she called her lawyer with him standing there. “He was…intense.” She looks a little frightened, though she’d never admit it.
Before I can reply, we enter the building, and I lead her to the advising office on the second floor.
I scheduled this appointment two days ago using the secure laptop Grigor configured for me, and I spent the previous evening researching transfer credit policies, prerequisite requirements, and the differences between the associate’s pathway and the bachelor’s program.
I came prepared because showing up unprepared to something this important would make me feel like I’m playing at it instead of pursuing it.
The admissions counselor is a woman named Dr. Reyes who has been advising hospitality students for fourteen years and doesn’t appear impressed by much.
She pulls up my academic history, reviews my high school transcript and the scattered college credits I accumulated before Echelon consumed my schedule, and asks what I’m looking for.
“I want to understand the business side of hospitality.” I sit forward in my chair.
“I’ve spent six years managing VIP operations at a high-end venue.
I understand client behavior, operational logistics, service flow, and revenue optimization.
What I don’t have is the credential that lets me build something of my own instead of managing someone else’s. ”
Dr. Reyes looks at me over her glasses. “What kind of venue?”
“A nightclub in Miami. I managed the VIP floor, handled client relationships, coordinated with security, and oversaw event operations for corporate bookings.”
“That’s significant operational experience.
” She pulls up the program requirements on her screen.
“The bachelor’s in hospitality management with a beverage concentration would give you the business foundation.
With your work history, you’d likely qualify for some experiential credit, and several of your existing credits should transfer. ”
Marisol leans forward. “What about scheduling flexibility? She may need evening or weekend options.”
Dr. Reyes nods. “We offer a hybrid format. Most core courses are available online with periodic in-person intensives. The beverage concentration has lab components that require on-campus attendance, but those are typically scheduled in blocks.”
I spend forty minutes asking questions about curriculum, financial aid, and the capstone project requirements. Dr. Reyes answers each one directly, and by the end of the session, she’s given me a preliminary credit evaluation, a program timeline, and an application packet.
We leave the advising office, and Marisol waits until we’re outside in the courtyard before she turns to me. “You’re serious about this.”
“I’ve been serious about it for years. I just never had the space to act on it.
” I sit on a bench near a fountain that’s too loud for anyone to overhear us.
Fedor adjusts his position to maintain sightline from twelve feet away.
I catch a glimpse of one of my other guards casually loitering near a coffee kiosk, sticking out like a sore thumb. “I have something else to tell you.”
Marisol sits beside me and puts down her coffee. “The last time you said that, you told me your boss was dead and you were hiding from the Russian mafia, so I’m bracing.” She grips the arm rest of the bench with a touch of humor but also genuine anxiety.
“I’m pregnant.”
She stares at me. “You’re pregnant.”
“We’re having twins.”
The stare intensifies. She opens her mouth, closes it, opens it again, and then picks up her coffee, drinks half of it, and sets it down. “Twins, as in two babies…Adrian’s babies?”
“It’s confirmed with an ultrasound yesterday. I’m nine weeks along.”
“Nine weeks.” She does the math the same way I did and frowns. “Was it the same night as…you know…Dominic?” She lowers her voice so much I can barely her say his name.
“Yes, that night. I wish it were a different night, but I can’t change it.”
“The night your boss was murdered, you got pregnant with twins by the man who killed him.” She takes another drink of coffee, letting it all settle. Finally, she says, “Aurora, your life makes telenovelas look boring.”
I laugh because the alternative is crying, and Marisol’s ability to absorb catastrophic information by responding with dark humor is the reason she’s my best friend. “I know.”
“How are you feeling? Physically?”
“Nauseated and terrified, but the OB says everything looks healthy.”
She sips her coffee again, trying and failing to sound only mildly interested. “What does Adrian think?”
“He’s been calm about it, and he’s become more reasonable, but I think maybe my hormone surges scare him.
” My grin fades as I look at my hands. “He sat in the ultrasound room, held my hand, and then spent twenty minutes asking the doctor practical questions about risks and prenatal care while I was still trying to process the word ‘twins.’ He didn’t panic or make it about himself. He just started building.”
“Building.” Marisol repeats the word carefully. “That’s an interesting verb for what he does.”
“He’s not building my life, Mari.” I gesture at the course catalog in my lap. “Adrian asked me what I would choose if survival wasn’t the first concern, and he treated the answer like it mattered. I’m here because of that question.”
Marisol is quiet. She looks at the fountain, Fedor pretending to read his phone, then at the course catalog in my lap. “Is he helping you become more yourself, or is he making dependence feel beautiful?”
The question is exact and deserves an honest answer.
“Both exist in the same space right now, and I can’t fully separate them.
I depend on him for safety, money, and access to a world I couldn’t navigate alone.
I know that. I also know he hasn’t used any of it to make me smaller, and every time I push back, he adjusts instead of insisting. ”