“Volkov will need management,” Ivan says.
I rest my head against his shoulder.
“He wasn’t hostile.”
“Not yet. He’s waiting to see how we handle consolidation. If we show weakness, he’ll exploit it. If we show strength, he’ll negotiate.”
“Then we show strength.”
Ivan’s mouth curves. “We always do.”
The car hums beneath us.
“Have you heard from the dacha?” I ask.
“Weekly reports. Health stable. Spirits less so.”
“Good.”
“He asked to see me,” Ivan adds. “Again.”
“And?”
“I declined. Again.”
His arm tightens around me.
“He had thirty-four years to be the father I needed. He doesn’t get to start now.”
I think about Sergei Baranov—alone in comfort, surrounded by beauty that means nothing to him.
It’s exactly what he deserves.
“The organization is stable,” I say.
Ivan shakes his head slightly.
“They accepted you,” he says. “That was the harder victory.”
He’s not wrong. The last six months have been a continuous proof. Competence in meetings. Authority in negotiations.
“What are you thinking?” Ivan asks.
I watch the city lights slide past.
“I’m thinking about the first time I entered the Tower. Four years ago. Tactical gear. A file in my hand. An assignment that told me who I belonged to.”
“And now?”
I turn my head to him.
He looks older than he did then. More certain.
“Now,” I say, “I’m exactly where I chose to be.”
The car delivers us to the Tower.
We ride the elevator up in comfortable silence. The doors open onto the penthouse and warmth rushes over us.
