I nod slowly. This is it. The point of no return. Once everything is laid out, once exile becomes reality, there’s no version of the world where I go back to being invisible again.
“There’s one more thing,” I say.
He stills. “Go on.”
I stand, suddenly restless, crossing the room like movement might keep my voice steady. My fingers go to the seam of my jacket without thinking, brushing the place I’ve touched a hundred times since the night I ran.
“I didn’t put the diamonds somewhere you could find them,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t interrupt. He never does.
“They’re not hidden in the city. Or in a safe. Or with a third party.” I swallow, meeting his gaze. “ I got them through the airport by wearing them as a bracelet, joked with security when they asked if they were real. As soon as I got to Prague, I took the bracelet apart and stitched them into my jacket.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
“I took the seams apart myself,” I continue, heat creeping up my neck. “Stitch by stitch. Replaced it carefully by hand. Spread the weight over two bags so it wouldn’t show. I wore them across borders, through your house. Every second I was here, I was carrying my escape with me.”
Silence stretches between us, heavy and charged.
“I needed to know,” I finish softly, “that if you turned on me, I still had a way out.”
He rises slowly from his chair, crosses the room to me while I pull apart the inside of my second-hand leather jacket.
“Do you still need them?” he asks.
I hesitate.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “And that terrifies me.”
His mouth curves with something dangerously tender.
“Good,” he says quietly. “That means you’re finally choosing instead of surviving, and it isn’t supposed to be easy.” He dots a kiss on my forehead.
Leonid
I don’t take Victoria to the vault because I want to impress her. I take her there because it’s time to tell her the truth in a language she understands.
The elevator descends smoothly beneath the estate, stone giving way to steel, ancient foundations layered with modern precision. She stands beside me, quiet, alert, reading the space the way she always does. Mapping exits, watching reflections, clocking the subtle hum of security systems she doesn’t yet realize she’s been given access to.
The doors open into my vault.
Not Boris’s hoarded mausoleum of greed. Not a shrine to ownership. Mine is clean, controlled, designed for movement rather than worship. Rows of secure cabinets line the walls; data terminals integrated seamlessly into stone and steel. This place exists to protect assets, not entomb them.
I step forward and gesture for her to press her palm to the biometric panel.
She hesitates, suspicion flickering briefly before curiosity wins. When she presses her hand flat against the glass, the system hums, recognition passing through layers of code and hardware, and the vault unlocks fully.
Every door opens.
Every system responds.
Her breath catches.
“What did you do?” she asks quietly.
“I gave you access,” I say simply. “Not partial. Not conditional. Full clearance. Here, and everywhere else on the estate. Including the gates.”
She turns slowly, eyes sharp, searching my face for the trick. “You’re serious.”
