"I'm already on my way."
***
Dmitri arrives two hours later.
We convene in my study, the room that still bears traces of the assault—a crack in the plaster that hasn't been repaired, a faint stain on the carpet that might be blood, a chip in the window frame where a bullet passed too close. I should have the whole room redone. Later. When there's time. When the more urgent repairs are complete.
"Anatoly has gone quiet," Dmitri says, settling into a chair across from my desk. "No retaliation, no mobilization, no public statements. His son is dead, and he's doing nothing."
"He's waiting."
"For what?"
"For us to make a mistake. For an opportunity. For the right moment to strike." I pour two glasses of whiskey, hand one to my brother. "Anatoly is patient. More patient than Sergei ever was. He'll grieve his son in private and plan his revenge in silence. When he moves, it will be calculated and devastating."
"So we strike first."
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended. "Not now. I can't wage a war while Bianca is pregnant. She needs stability, safety, rest. The baby needs—"
I stop. The baby needs. I'm already thinking like a father. The realization is disorienting, like stepping off solid ground into open air.
Dmitri studies me over the rim of his glass. "You've changed."
"Have I?"
"The Misha I knew would already be planning the assault on Anatoly's headquarters. He would be drawing up lists of allies to cultivate, enemies to eliminate, strategies to ensure total victory." Dmitri takes a sip of whiskey, his eyes never leaving my face. "That Misha wouldn't let a pregnancy slow him down."
"That Misha didn't have anything to lose."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. Dmitri nods slowly, something shifting in his expression. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
"So what's the plan?"
"We fortify. We defend. We make it clear that attacking us again would be suicide." I move to the window, looking out over the grounds where my men patrol in careful rotations. The sun is starting to sink toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of gold. "And we wait for Anatoly to make a mistake."
"That could take months. Years."
"Then it takes months. Years." I turn back to face my brother. "I'm not going anywhere, Dmitri. Neither is she. We have time."
Dmitri is quiet for a long moment, swirling the whiskey in his glass. Then he raises it in a mock toast.
"To patience, then. A virtue neither of us has ever possessed."
"Perhaps it's time we learned."
He drains his glass and sets it on the desk. "Anna wants to visit. She's been calling me every hour since the rescue, demanding updates."
"Tell her to wait until Bianca is stronger. A few days, at least."
"I'll tell her. Whether she listens is another matter." Dmitri stands, straightening his jacket. "Take care of yourself, brother. And take care of her. Whatever's coming next, you'll need each other."
I nod, and he leaves without further ceremony. That's Dmitri—economical with words, reliable in action. The brother I can always count on, even when we disagree.
***
The sun is setting by the time the house falls quiet.
I find myself wandering the estate, checking on the repairs, reviewing security protocols, doing all the things a leader should do after a crisis. But my mind isn't on tactical assessments or threat analysis. It's upstairs, in my bedroom, where Bianca sleeps with our child growing inside her.
