My throat tightens.
"It was... passionate," Sergei observes.
I remain silent; there is no safe answer.
"I haven't seen you passionate about anything in years," my father continues, his words carrying unexpected weight. "Not since your mother died."
The mention of her strikes like a blade.
The Kennedy Expressway flashes in my mind—rain, sirens, my hands slick with blood that wasn't mine. Her voice urging me to be kind when my father taught me to be hard.
I feel Maksim stiffen beside me.
Sergei notices that reaction, of course.
"I will verify the evidence," he says, his voice returning to its calm tone. "Then I will decide what to do about my brother, about you, about..." His gaze flicks to Maksim. "All of this."
He opens the door and steps out.
The lock engages behind him with a metallic finality.
For a moment, all I can hear is my own breathing, loud in the sterile, cold room. The atmosphere presses in on us.
Then Maksim's hand finds mine under the table.
His fingers weave through mine, firm and steady.
"You told him," Maksim says quietly.
"You didn't give me a choice," I whisper back, my voice cracking where he can't see. "You should have let me protect you."
"You can't protect me by denying what exists," he replies. "If he kills me, I'd rather die having been loved than live in hiding."
His words hit me with such clarity that they make my chest ache.
I turn my head just enough to look at him.
Smoke and sweat still cling to him. Bruises peek from beneath his collar. His eyes are dark and steady.
He looks like a man who has survived worse than Sergei Baranov. He looks like a man who decided the truth was worth the risk.
"He might still kill us," I say.
"He might," Maksim agrees.
Then, softer: "But you saw his face when he mentioned your mother."
I did.
That flicker of something human behind the mask—curiosity, grief, a buried memory Sergei hates to acknowledge.
"He saw you," Maksim says. "Not the heir. The man. The one who felt something again."
"I'm not sure that helps," I confess.
"Neither am I," Maksim replies, squeezing my hand. "But sometimes the truth is the only weapon that can penetrate armor."
We sit in the cold room, our hands clasped beneath the table—two men awaiting the verdict of a father who built an empire on control and must now decide if stability is more important than the shape of his son's desires.
