I should be touched. Instead, I'm angry.
"I'm so tired of this," I say, and my voice comes out flat, hard. "Men deciding I belong to them. My father selling me like livestock. Sergei thinking he has some claim on me because of adeal I never agreed to. Even you—" I stop myself, but the words are already out.
"Even me," Misha says quietly. "Buying you at an auction. Bringing you here. Making decisions about your life without consulting you."
"Yes."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't defend himself. Just nods, accepting the accusation.
"You're right," he says. "I've treated you like something to be protected rather than someone to be consulted. That's not—" He pauses, searching for words. "That's not who I want to be with you."
"Then stop. Stop shielding me from information. Stop making decisions on my behalf. If Sergei is coming for me, I need to understand what that means. I need to be part of the planning, not just the thing being planned around."
He studies me for a long moment. I can see him wrestling with something—instinct, probably. The urge to protect, to control, to keep me safely ignorant.
Then he nods.
"All right. Sit down."
I take the chair across from his desk, the same position we were in yesterday when he told me about my father's crimes. It feels different now. Less like an interrogation, more like a briefing.
"What do you want to know?" he asks.
"Everything. How many men does Sergei have? What's his timeline? What's the plan to stop him?"
Misha leans back in his chair, and for the next twenty minutes, he talks.
He tells me about Sergei's movements—Las Vegas, Seattle, the coalition he's building. He tells me about the Belov family, the other organizations Sergei might pull into his orbit. He tells me about the reinforcements Dmitri sent, the security upgrades being installed, the contingency plans for different scenarios.
He tells me about the safe room in the basement, the extraction routes, the protocols for lockdown. He tells me what to do if the perimeter is breached, where to go, how to barricade myself until help arrives.
I listen. I ask questions. I file away details the way I'd file away symptoms, building a mental map of the threat landscape.
When he finishes, I sit in silence for a moment, processing.
"What about offense?" I ask finally.
He raises an eyebrow. "Offense?"
"You're describing defensive measures. Walls, guards, safe rooms. What about striking first? Taking the fight to Sergei before he can bring it here?"
Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise again, maybe. Or respect.
"That's being considered," he says carefully. "But it's complicated. An attack on Sergei would mean open war with the Morozovs. My brother is evaluating the risks."
"And if the risks are acceptable?"
"Then we move. But not yet. Not until we know more about what Sergei is planning."
I nod slowly. It makes sense—gather intelligence, shore up defenses, wait for the enemy to reveal his hand. It's what I would do, if I knew anything about warfare.
I don't. But I'm learning.
"Thank you," I say. "For telling me."
"You were right to demand it." He pauses. "I'm not used to... explaining myself. To anyone outside my family."
"I'm not asking you to explain yourself. I'm asking you to include me."
