But the memory comes anyway, unstoppable now that the final wall is down.
His face. Desperate. Different. Dark circles under his eyes, hands shaking. Not in the garden this time, at the edge of our property, near the gates where we sometimes met in secret.
"My father is planning something. Tomorrow night. At the meeting with the Morettis."
"What kind of something?"
"A massacre, Sofia. They're going to kill everyone. Your father. Your men. The Morettis. Everyone."
My chest constricts. Can't breathe. The room is spinning.
This. This is what he was trying to warn me about. The warning I remembered fragments of but never the substance.
"I have to warn them—"
"NO." His hands gripping mine so tight it hurts, desperation making him rough. "If you warn them, they'll know there's a leak. They'll know it was me."
"Misha, I can't just let my family die—"
"They won't all be there. Just your father and the senior men. But Sofia, listen to me—"
"My father—"
"If this gets traced back to me, my father will—" His voice breaks, real terror in it. "He'll kill me. Slowly. You know what Viktor Volkov is. You've heard the stories."
The night air in the memory suddenly feels suffocating. The scent of cigarette smoke from a passing guard making me nauseous.
"There has to be another way—"
"Promise me you won't warn them."
The words land like fists. I'm on the floor of Mikhail's room. When did I fall? My knees ache against the hardwood, palms pressed flat like I'm trying to hold myself to the earth.
"Promise me you won't be there. Just stay home. Stay safe. Let me figure out another way."
"There's no other way—"
"PROMISE ME." His face twisted with terror I've never seen before or since. "Please, Sofia. I'll find a way to stop it. I'll save your father. I'll do something. Just give me time. One day. Promise me."
And I—
Oh God.
I promised.
I promised to stay silent.
I promised to stay home.
The memory cuts deeper, sharper, drawing blood from my soul. Sitting at dinner that night. My father kissing my forehead before leaving. "Be good, principessa. Don't wait up." Marco, barely twenty-two but already serious, going with him. Other men I've known all my life. Men who taught me to ride bikes, who snuck me candy, who called me their little princess.
Walking to their deaths.
And I knew.
I knew and I said nothing.
The copper taste floods my mouth. I'd bitten my tongue bloody to keep from screaming a warning. Watching them leave. My father's last smile, warm and trusting and completely unaware that his daughter was sending him to die.
