I stood, pacing once, then stopped at the window where the lake lay black and endless below.
“But we do this clean,” I said. “No tricks. No shortcuts. No violations that could destroy what little trust she’s given me. I will not become the man who hurt her again.”
Giovanni’s expression softened—not pity, but respect.
“I’ll confront Ruslan myself,” I finished. “When the time is right.”
“As you say, boss.”
He turned and left, the door closing behind him with a muted click that echoed far too loudly in the quiet room.
Silence rushed in to take his place.
I returned to the desk, staring down at the chaos I hadn’t noticed before—half-read books, intelligence reports stacked and restacked without progress, a cup of coffee gone cold hours ago. The scent of smoke hung in the air, stale and accusing.
For a long moment, I did nothing.
Then I picked up my phone.
The number was still there. Of course it was. Some things you never delete—only pretend you’ve forgotten.
I pressed call.
One ring.
Two.
I exhaled slowly, already bracing for absence, for evasion—
The line clicked.
“Dmitri.”
Ruslan Baranov’s voice filled my ear like distant thunder—calm, deep, unmistakable. Amusement curled faintly beneath it, like a predator recognizing familiar footsteps.
“Ruslan,” I said, steadying my breath. “I have questions. And I need you to answer them honestly.”
A low chuckle rolled through the line. “Do not insult me, boy. Ruslan Baranov does not lie. If I cannot answer, I will tell you so plainly.”
I could picture him perfectly—leaning back in some leather chair halfway across the world, eyes sharp, mind ten moves ahead.
“Now speak,” he continued. “I have precisely two minutes before my next appointment.”
I leaned forward, forearms braced on the desk, the phone pressed hard against my ear as if proximity alone might force truth through the line.
“Five years ago,” I said, each word measured, controlled, “a woman died in my arms. Penelope Romano. You know the name.”
Silence.
Not a breath. Not a rustle.
That alone told me everything—and nothing.
“Tell me,” I said quietly, dangerously, “did she really die that night?”
I swallowed once.
“Or did you take her?”
