Nikolai’s careful footsteps, then a pause, then a throat-clearing cough
I don’t turn. “What is it?”
He stands just inside the doorway, taking in the room, the mess, the paintings—her. He’s silent a beat, then says quietly, “You didn’t answer your phone.”
“I’ve been busy.”
He studies me. I can feel it even without looking.
“Busy painting,” he says, a hint of dry humor. “Most men drink when a woman leaves. Or hit the gym.”
I keep my eyes on the canvas. “I’m not most men.”
“No,” he agrees. “You’re not.”
There’s something in his voice, almost cautious. He’s seen me like this before—obsessed, single-minded, dangerous when I’m denied what I want. He knows how little stands in my way.
“I have men looking,” he says, businesslike now. “Street cams, traffic data, bus depots. She’s smart. She paid cash. Changed routes. She’s trying to disappear.”
My hand tightens on the brush, streaking color over her hair.
“She won’t,” I say, voice low. “She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.”
He exhales, quiet. “You want updates?”
“Yes.”
He turns to leave, then pauses. “Aleksander,” he says, his tone softer than usual, “are you sure?—”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I interrupt.
“The city’s restless,” he says. “Since Kirov.”
I grunt.
He continues, like he’s reading off a list he already organized in his head. “His guys are moving. Not openly, but they’re active. Meetings in the usual places. People who normally stay quiet are suddenly talking. The old men are listening. Everyone wants to know who gets his chair.”
I keep painting. “Let them fight over scraps.”
He steps closer, low voice. “There are rumors you were on that flight with him. Not confirmed. Just talk. ‘Antonov was there. Antonov had words with him. Antonov left the airport fast.’ That’s the story making rounds.”
I stop moving the brush. “Who started it?”
“Hard to say,” he replies. “Could be Kirov’s people looking for a direction. Could be someone else trying to aim them at you. Right now, it’s still rumor. That’s good. It helps that you’re locked up here. No one knows you’re back home. If you’re not seen, the rumor can’t turn into certainty.”
I give a short sound. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just acknowledgment.
Nikolai keeps going. “We cleaned what we could. Boston was messy, but we handled the obvious parts. Anyone digging will get noise, not answers.”
“And the plane.”
He nods once. “Harder. Too many systems, too many logs. We can’t erase it like a street camera. But we can make it difficult for the wrong people to connect it to you. We’re working on that angle.”
I pick up the brush again and drag one stroke through Bella’s hair. Slow. Controlled.
He hesitates, then starts, “Things are not looking good, especially with your mot?—”
I turn my head. That’s all it takes.
