* * *
The captains’ meeting runs three hours and leaves me with a headache that throbs behind my eyes and a list of problems that won’t solve themselves no matter how many times I read through the reports.
Polina controls forty-two percent of what used to be our Odessa revenue. She’s recruited eighteen of our people since November, three more this week alone, and Chernov’s sourcessay she’s planning something for the summer that involves enough firepower to level a city block.
“Suka,” Roman mutters, scanning the surveillance photos spread across the table. “She’s building an army.”
“An army needs soldiers,” Dmitri says from his seat at the far end, the bruise on his jaw still fading from where I hit him three weeks ago when he tried to countermand one of my orders. He’s learned since then. Mostly. “We cut her supply, we cut her threat.”
“Her supply is our people.” Luka’s voice carries the flatness of someone who’s been awake for thirty hours and running on caffeine and spite. “Bratva who grew up in the organization, who swore vor v zakone oaths, who know our routes and safe houses and—”
His phone buzzes.
The sound cuts through the room like a gunshot, and every captain goes still because Luka’s secure line doesn’t ring during meetings. Ever. The protocol exists for exactly one reason: emergencies that can’t wait.
He checks the screen and his expression hardens into something I’ve only seen twice before—once when Roman was bleeding out in my arms, and once when we found Galina’s empty room in the east wing.
“Keene,” he says.
Roman’s jaw tightens.
Luka turns the phone so we can see the single line of text glowing against the dark screen:
I’m not done. I’m just choosing the battlefield. —E.K.
The silence stretches for ten heartbeats. Fifteen. Twenty.
“Blyad’,” Chernov breathes. “She’s not backing off. She’s—”
“Positioning.” Roman’s voice is cold in that way that means he’s already thinking three moves ahead. “The Red Notices?”
“Still active.” Luka pockets the phone with a motion that’s too controlled. Something about the way he says her name makes me think there’s more to this than professional hunting. “She hasn’t withdrawn them. If anything, she’s added documentation. The factory. The warehouse. Bodies we thought were buried deep enough.”
“She won’t stop,” Chernov interjects. “She’s Interpol. She hunts until she catches or until someone removes her from the board.”
“No one touches Keene.” Roman’s voice carries the edge of command that makes captains straighten in their seats. “She’s doing her job. We do ours better.”
The meeting ends with more questions than answers.
“She’s not going to stop,” I say when we’re alone.
“Net.” He pulls me against him, his arms wrapping around me with a desperation that tells me he’s more worried than he’s letting on. “But neither are we.”
* * *
Later, standing at the window of our bedroom watching Moscow glitter beneath fresh snow, I think about the girl who signed a marriage contract in November.
She couldn’t have imagined this.
The captains who bow to her. The brother who hugs her and argues about chess openings. The husband who loves her with intensity that still steals her breath. The empire is spreading beneath her feet.
Roman’s arms wrap around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder, his body warm against my back.
“Thinking again,” he murmurs. “I can always tell.”
“Thinking about Keene.” I lean into his embrace. “About what she’s planning. What she knows.”
“She knows enough to be dangerous.” His breath is warm against my neck. “But not enough to stop us.”
