I gave him a center.
I close the folder and set it on the desk. The sound is small, but it lands heavily in the quiet office.
This is old work. Finished work.
The fact that I now want him in ways that don't belong on paper doesn't change what I built. The foundation holds. It has endured through blood, knives, and bodies on white linen.
My secure phone vibrates on the desk.
My father's identifier.
I straighten before answering; some habits don't die.
"Father."
"The restaurant," Sergei says, his voice unhurried. "I've received conflicting accounts. I want yours."
"It was organized," I say. "Fast. Professional. The Rosettis didn't look like they expected it."
"A third party."
"Or Boris wiping fingerprints," I say carefully. "Lorenzo admitted Boris has been negotiating with them, offering access and territory for pressure on my operations."
Silence on the other end—not dramatic, just my father thinking. I can hear the faint scratch of a pen.
"You have proof."
"I have his words," I say. "I'm working on documentation."
"Words from an Italian who benefits from telling you what you want to hear." Skepticism isn't anger in my father; it's reflex. "That isn't proof, Ivan."
"I know."
"Then find it," he says. "I won't move against my brother on a story."
A pause.
"The bodyguard," Sergei says. The shift in topic hits me harder than it should. "He performed?"
"He stopped it," I say. "He took a hit meant for me."
"Good." My father sounds almost thoughtful. "Keep him close."
The call ends.
I set the phone down and stare at the desk.
Keep him close.
As if I haven't already. As if there is any version of this life where I send Maksim away and pretend distance is possible again.
Distance is something I eroded on purpose—slow and careful—until it became normal for him to sleep outside my door, use my soap, and stand in my shower while the city glowed behind frosted glass.
I push back from the desk and go to the office door. I need air. The next secure call needs privacy, and even inside my own penthouse, I assume the walls have ears.
I open the door.
Maksim stands exactly where he said he would: back to the wall, eyes forward, still as a blade waiting in its sheath.
