He stood to get his phone, and I made a decision. I had to tell him.
"Actually," I said, "I got a message. Something you need to see.”
Chapter 16
Konstantin
Shehandedmeherphone like it was a confession, and the moment I read the text, something cold and familiar slithered down my spine—not fear for this Frank person, but recognition. I'd seen this exact playbook before, used it myself when extracting informants from rival families.
The message glowed on the screen, each word carefully chosen to hit maximum emotional impact. Dr. Cross—using her professional title to establish trust. The grandmother in danger—family leverage, the oldest trick in the book. The warehouse location—isolated, controllable, perfect for an ambush. And that final hook: You're the only one who can help. Making her feel special, necessary, guilty if she didn't respond.
Professional work. Clean, efficient, designed by someone who understood psychology better than most therapists. Someone who'd studied Maya, catalogued her weaknesses, and crafted the perfect bait.
"This isn't from Frank," I said, keeping my voice clinical, matter-of-fact. No point in softening it—she needed to understand the danger immediately.
Maya's face shifted, confusion rippling across her features. "What do you mean? That's his number. I've texted him before—"
"Numbers can be spoofed. Phones can be taken." I set the device on the nightstand, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall. "This is extraction protocol. Textbook. Someone knows exactly what buttons to push to get you moving."
She pulled back from me, that medical mask sliding over her face—the one she wore when processing something she didn't want to accept. "You don't know that. Frank could really be—"
"Think about it." I kept my tone even, the way I'd explain tactical situations to new soldiers. "How convenient is this timing? You're finally safe, finally protected, and suddenly someone from your old life needs urgent help. Middle of the night message, isolated location, family member in danger. It's designed to bypass your logic, hit you straight in the guilt."
I watched her process this, saw the moment her brilliant mind started connecting dots. The timing was too perfect. The emotional manipulation too precise. But knowing something intellectually and accepting it emotionally were different battles.
"They studied you," I continued, needing her to understand the sophistication of what we were dealing with. "Identified your weakness—your compulsive need to help people who helped you. Found the perfect leverage point. This message, every word of it, is calculated to make you walk out that door."
Her hands had started trembling, just slightly. The reality setting in. "But what if you're wrong? What if Frank really sent this?"
"Then he sent it with a gun to his head." The brutal truth, but she needed to hear it. "Either way, responding confirms yourconnection to these people. Validates that you're nearby, that you care enough to react. The moment you answer, even to say no, they know they have the right pressure point."
Maya's breathing had gone shallow, that anxiety response I'd learned to recognize. But underneath it, something else—the stubborn set of her jaw that appeared when she was about to dig in her heels.
"So we do nothing?" Her voice came out sharp, accusatory. "Just leave him there?"
This was the part I couldn't explain properly. Couldn't tell her that whoever sent this message didn't want Frank—they wanted her. Wanted her organs, her value as inventory. That Frank was just bait, probably already dead or wishing he was.
"The only winning move is not to play," I said instead, hating how cold it sounded. "Any response, any action we take, gives them information. Confirms their hypothesis about you."
"Their hypothesis?" She stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Zmeya meowed in protest at the sudden movement. "We're talking about a person, Kostya. A kid who risked everything to help me. His grandmother—"
"Is probably fine." I stayed seated, kept my voice calm even as my insides churned. "This is psychological warfare, Maya. They're counting on your guilt, your sense of responsibility. Don't give them what they want."
She turned to face me, and I saw tears gathering in her eyes. Not from fear for herself, but for Frank. For Mrs. Zi. For all the collateral damage her existence had caused.
"What happens to him if we do nothing?" The question came out broken, desperate.
I didn't have a good answer. If Frank was already compromised, he was gone whether we acted or not. If this was pure fabrication, he was probably safe at home, unawarehis name was being used as bait. But I couldn't promise either outcome, couldn't offer the reassurance she needed.
"I don't know," I admitted, the words tasting like failure.
She wrapped her arms around herself, my stolen henley hanging loose on her frame. In the lamplight, she looked impossibly small, carrying weight that would crush most people. The brilliant doctor who'd saved lives, now paralyzed by the possibility of causing death through inaction.
"This is what they want," I said, standing, moving toward her slowly. "You, paralyzed by indecision. Guilt-ridden. Ready to make emotional choices instead of logical ones."
"Maybe emotional choices are human choices," she shot back, but the fight was draining out of her voice.
"Not in our world." I stopped just out of reach, giving her space to process. "In our world, emotional choices get people killed."
