The mansion feels quieter suddenly. Just Chicago forces, Philadelphia security, Maksim's core team. Everyone else is in position in New York, watching, waiting.
Dinner is quiet.
The tactical teams eat in shifts—some in the dining room with maps and equipment, others in the kitchen grabbing food quickly. The mansion feels like a military base, controlled chaos barely contained.
Maksim and I eat in his study, needing the relative quiet. I push food around my plate, not really tasting anything.
"You should eat," he says.
"I know."
"You'll need the energy tomorrow."
"I know." I set down my fork. "I keep thinking about her. Natasha. She's been in that studio for over thirty hours now. Bound to a chair. Terrified. Wondering if anyone's coming."
"We're coming."
"But she doesn't know that. She doesn't know about the teams, the planning, the extraction. She just knows she's Anton's hostage and I'm his target." I meet his eyes. "She must be so scared."
"Sunday night, she'll be safe. That's what matters. Mariana's team is the best in the country. Three minutes from breach to extraction. Natasha will be in federal protection before Anton even knows they're there."
I want to believe him. I try to believe him.
But I've seen what Anton does to dancers. The seven victims. The systematic destruction. The theatrical cruelty.
I'm terrified we're going to be even a minute too late.
At 9:00 PM, I find myself in Maksim's study again, staring at the Juilliard Theater blueprints for what must be the twentieth time today.
Stage dimensions: 40 feet deep, 60 feet wide. Proscenium arch: 35 feet high. Orchestra pit: 15 feet deep, 60 feet wide. Wings: 20 feet each side. Fly system: 75 feet to grid.
I've memorized every measurement, every sight line, every entrance and exit.
"You know that stage better than the designers now," Maksim says from the doorway.
I don't look up. "I need to know where he'll position me. Where I can move. Where the rescue team will be stationed. If I miss something, if I'm not positioned right, if he sees through the performance—"
"You won't miss anything. You've prepared for this more thoroughly than any performance of your career."
I finally look at him. "This isn't a performance. This is Natasha's life. And yours. And mine. And—" The words catch. "I can't fail."
He crosses to me, sits in the chair beside mine, takes my hand. "You won't. But you also can't control everything. We will execute the plan and adapt to whatever happens. Together."
"What if the rescue goes wrong? What if he hurts her before they get there?"
"Then we adapt. Mariana's operators have done hundreds of hostage rescues. They'll get Natasha out before Anton realizes what's happening."
I'm quiet for a moment, studying our joined hands. "I keep thinking about Elena. How you couldn't save her. How Anton called while she died and you were powerless."
I feel him stiffen slightly. The comparison stings, I know. But I need to say it.
"That's why we're doing this differently," he says, voice steady. "That's why we have teams, plans, contingencies. That's why you're not alone on that stage—you'll have an earpiece, communication, backup thirty seconds away."
"But in the moment, when I'm facing him, when he's talking about his 'art' and his obsession—I'll be alone with him. Just like Elena was."
"No." His grip tightens on my hand. "Elena was ambushed in her home with no warning, no preparation, no backup. You're walking into a trap we've spent three days preparing for, with an army positioned to extract you the second things go wrong. It's not the same."
I lean against his shoulder, letting his certainty steady me. "I'm scared."
