The Ignatov insignia gleams on the lead helicopter like an accusation.
I expect the moment a man steps out with handcuffs, or worse, Mikhail’s versions of justice that are often quieter and irreversible. The past weeks have taught me that trust is worn thin inside this syndicate, stretched to translucence, easy to tear.
The side door slides open and Mikhail steps down.
Surprisingly, there are no guards flanking him or any kind of weapon in his hands.
His coat snaps in the rotor wash, a dark banner warring against the wind. His face is carved in stone, looking older than I remember, grief packed into the lines around his mouth. When he reaches me, he extends his hand.
“The council knows who kept the house standing,” he says, voice low enough that only I can hear it over the thunder above us.
I don’t move. My mind replays every betrayal, every time I was told I was an heir and a pawn in the same breath. I search for hidden meaning, for the trap. I expect to find an angle, a shadow, a blade tucked into a kind gesture.
But Mikhail’s eyes hold something I haven’t seen from him in years.
Recognition.
And… regret.
I take his hand.
His grip is firm, belonging to a man acknowledging a survivor of the same battlefield. Something that feels like relief eases in my chest.
The moment doesn’t last long.
More helicopters land. Men disperse, fanning out like a practiced tide reclaiming territory. I recognize them—Loyalists, those who remained silent through the syndicate’s fracture.
I scan their faces for hostility, for doubt, for the quiet calculation that usually comes when someone learns you lived through your own death sentence.
But there’s nothing except a kind of wary deference.
Harper shifts closer to me, barely an inch, her arm brushing mine. I feel the tremor she won’t show on her face. She’s still raw from the escape, still wearing soot and ash like a second skin.
She should be resting, sleeping, breathing something cleaner than smoke and adrenaline. Instead, she watches the scene unfold with a journalist’s hunger and a survivor’s caution.
Mikhail’s attention flicks to her.
“The evidence went worldwide,” he tells her. “The council is… appalled. And grateful.”
Harper nods but doesn’t lower her guard. The look she’s wearing tell me that she’s cataloging every exit, every weapon, every expression. A part of me aches with pride; another part aches with guilt, because she should never have needed to learn this.
Behind Mikhail, one of his lieutenants approaches with a tablet. News feeds strobe across the screen; headlines in multiple languages, footage dissected by a dozen networks.
Anton’s confession, the ledger trails, and the fabricated videos being dismantled in real time. Inessa’s public denouncement already collapsing under the weight of truth.
And underneath it all: our names, finally detached from the crimes pinned to them.
“Anton’s supporters?” I ask, though the answer is already forming like frost across glass.
“Scattershot,” Mikhail sneers. “Fucking cowards without a banner. They dissolve when the wind shifts.” His jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly. “Inessa fled. She boarded a jet hours ago. Our contacts say she’s off-grid now.”
The news feels more bittersweet than relieving. Ghosts are always more dangerous unchained.
The unspoken warning doesn’t go over Harper. Her hand hovers near mine.
We’ll be learning how to inhabit safety, how to stop bracing for the next blow for a long time.
Mikhail nods once to both of us, then steps away to coordinate his men.
