By 11:00 AM, my head is spinning with tactical details. Radio frequencies, positioning coordinates, extraction routes, medical protocols. This isn't just a confrontation—it's a military operation.
When the call ends, I sit stunned at Maksim's desk.
"Seven women," I whisper. "Maybe more we don't know about. And I'm the only one who survived intact."
Maksim's protective fury is controlled but visible in the tension of his jaw, the way his hands form fists. "He won't touch you again. We will end this in five days."
"I'm not just a survivor," I say slowly, the realization settling. "I'm proof his 'art' doesn't work. He tried to perfect me through suffering, tried to keep me isolated and broken for five years. Instead, I built a gallery. Learned to fight. Found you." I meet Maksim's eyes. "I'm his failure."
"You're his nightmare," he corrects. "The one who got away and came back stronger."
Tuesday afternoon, I can't stop thinking about the other victims.
Maksim works beside me at the dining table, coordinating final security details with Sergei via phone. I have Mila's files open on my laptop, reading through everything she compiled.
The pattern is clear: Anton escalates every two to three years, always choosing Bratva-connected ballerinas, always destroying them through their art. I’m his longest obsession—four years longer than any other victim held his attention.
We discuss strategy after dinner. How to use Anton's obsession against him.
"FBI wants him alive if possible. Federal case against him for at least three murders, and much more."
"Let him rot in prison for the rest of his life, knowing he failed."
Tuesday night, I practice in the studio from 7:00 to 9:30 PM.
Giselle choreography with the tactical movements integrated. The lifts become defensive positions. The turns become evasive maneuvers. The ballet Anton wants me to perform is now my weapon.
Maksim watches from his usual spot, and I can see both the beauty and the danger registering in his eyes.
When I finish, sweaty and breathless, he crosses the studio to me.
He kisses me—deep, claiming, desperate. I respond with equal intensity, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
"Mine," he growls against my throat.
"Yours," I agree, wrapping my legs around him. "Always yours."
The routine grounds me. Barre work, center combinations, Giselle variations. Every movement is perfect, precise, powerful. Maksim watches from the doorway as always.
At 10:00 AM, another video call—this time just with Mila, focusing specifically on Anton's psychology.
"He's a collector and a creator," Mila explains, pulling up behavioral analysis on her screen. She's in what looks like ahome office, professional and focused. "He doesn't see himself as killing—he sees it as perfecting. Making art from destruction. Each victim is a performance, a sculpture of suffering."
"So at Lincoln Center, he'll want it to be beautiful," I realize. "He'll want me to dance perfectly before he tries to destroy me. That gives us time to position, to signal, to counter-attack."
"Exactly." Mila nods. "He's theatrical. He'll monologue, he'll stage it, he'll want the narrative perfect. That's your window. The moment between his artistic vision and his violent execution—that's when you strike."
The call includes more tactical discussion: Chicago team's arrival schedule (Sunday afternoon), FBI coordination timeline (Agent Castillo's team positioning Sunday evening), medical staging locations, communication frequencies, extraction routes.
By noon, I have the full operational picture in my head.
Wednesday afternoon, Maksim and I finalize the foundation plans.
But now it's different. Now we understand it's not just for the future—it's a memorial for Anton's seven identified victims and whoever else we haven't found yet.
"We name scholarships after them," I propose around 2:00 PM, looking at the list of victims. "The Elena Petrov Scholarship. The Irina Volkov Scholarship. All seven. We turn his victims into legacies that save others."
