It feels like standing next to a fire after freezing to death and realizing, too late, that I am burning.
I stay on the floor.
The light outside shifts, turning the penthouse from gold to blue. My knees burn. My thighs tighten. I hold still. Every time Ivan turns a page, every time his pen scratches the paper, it reminds me he is still focused, still functional.
When he finally closes the last file, the sound resonates in the quiet room.
He looks down at me.
His eyes hold my face.
"Tomorrow," he says, "I'm going to need you closer than this."
I don't ask what he means.
The question rises hot in my throat, but I swallow it.
Ivan stands and walks toward the bedroom.
I rise. My joints pop. I follow him.
The distance between us disappears.
7
IVAN
The restaurant has been emptiedfor us.
Tables are dressed in heavy white linen, with place settings laid out in crystal and silver that will never touch food. The staff has been dismissed, sent home with envelopes of cash and instructions to forget they were ever scheduled for a Tuesday night. Candles have been spaced with deliberate intention along the perimeter, their flames casting long, nervous shadows that dance across the wainscoting. Heavy velvet curtains smother the windows, sealing off the street and the eyes that might be watching from the pavement.
The air inside carries a faint, stagnant mix of beeswax, old mahogany, and the ghost of a kitchen that went cold hours ago. It smells like a church before a funeral.
Everyone is gone except for the manager.
He stands near the service entrance, trying desperately to occupy no space at all. His hands are folded tightly in front of him, knuckles white. His eyes flit from the floor to the velvet drapes to the ceiling, never lingering too long. He looks likea man who has been paid well to be forgettable, fully aware that the terms of his payment include both silence and the preservation of his life.
Neutral ground.
That's what rooms like this are supposed to be—a demilitarized zone where men like Lorenzo Rosetti can sit down with men like me and pretend the world runs on etiquette and handshakes. A place where nothing is recorded, no one wears a wire, and no one repeats what they hear. I've been in rooms like this a hundred times. I know what's expected.
I also know what happens when someone decides the expectations are optional.
Maksim stands behind my chair.
I don't turn to confirm it. I don't need to. I feel him the way I've learned to feel him over the past week—a change in the room's density, a gravitational pull at my back. He's dressed in the dark tactical gear we've both stopped pretending is temporary. I know he's armed. I know exactly where the weight of the SIG Sauer rests on his hip and where the knife presses against his ribs. I notice the way his stance shifts, microscopic adjustments, every time the front door rattles in the wind.
I should be nervous.
Lorenzo Rosetti is a calm man, and calm men do not respond well to threats. I am here to drag a threat across the table and make him stare at it until he blinks. This meeting has two purposes: to force a confirmation about Boris's dealings with the Italians, and to establish—violently if necessary—that any deal made over my head comes with a price tag no one can afford.
But my nerves don't show up.
I am sitting with my back to the door in an empty restaurant, exposed, and I feel steadier than I have in days.
Because Maksim is behind me.
And the part of me that keeps a running tally of survival probabilities knows exactly what that means.
