“Anya?” I call quietly.
The name barely leaves my lips before I hear footsteps hurrying down the corridor, heels clicking against the marble, fast and uneven.
I spring to my feet, my chest tightening with an unfamiliar pain. “Anya!”
I stride to the door and pull it open just in time to see the back of her black dress disappearing around the corner.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath, and start to follow her.
But Dmitri steps into my path, palm flat against my chest. “Don’t.”
I push his hand away, my muscles coiled tight. “She heard.”
“I know,” he says calmly, though there’s a trace of sympathy in his eyes. “But you can’t fix it right now.”
“She thinks I lied to her.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean for it to. “That I’ve been hiding it from her all this time—”
“You have been hiding it,” he cuts in, not unkindly. “And she deserves to be angry. But this…” He gestures to the desk, to the files and the gun holstered at my side. “You've got to clear the air first.”
I stare past him, toward the empty doorway. Every instinct in me screams to go after her, to catch her before the hurt takes root. To explain. To beg if I have to.
Dmitri’s next words land like a blow.
“You can’t go after her, Alexei. Not tonight. Thevoryare already gathering. Theskhodkastarts within the hour. If you ignore the summons—”
“I know the consequences,” I snap.
Dmitri doesn’t flinch, though. “Then you also know they won’t just punish you. They’ll come for your men. Our family. Everything we’ve built.” He holds my gaze, his eyes burningmeaningfully into mine as he hits the nail on the head. “Anya won't be spared.”
Rage burns through me, sharp and suffocating. I drag a hand through my hair, staring at the empty space where Anya stood a moment ago.
I can still hear the faint echo of her steps on the stairs. I can imagine her face—the shock, betrayal, pain…
It guts me.
For a long moment, I don’t move. The silence between us stretches, broken only by the ticking of the clock. Then finally, I give him a stiff nod.
“You’ll make sure she’s safe while I’m gone.” It's not a request, but of course, Dmitri knows that.
“Of course.”
I turn back toward the window, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
“I’ll deal with the council,” I mutter. “Then I’ll find her and explain everything.”
There’s no point pretending otherwise.
When I get back, there won’t be anywhere she can run that I won’t find her.
And when I do…she’ll get the truth.
All of it.
***
Theskhodkatakes place at a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach. It’s one of the old ones with dark wood paneling, heavy velvet drapes, and the faint smell of dill and smoke soaked into every surface. The place has been cleared for the night. Nocustomers. No staff. Just the men who decide the fate of others with a single word.
Neutral ground.
