Communication protocols reviewed. What happens if Anton deviates from his plan. What happens if he tries to take her hostage. What happens if the subway threat proves real mid-performance.
By Thursday evening, we're as ready as we can be for a situation we can't possibly control.
Sonya and I lie in bed in the secure apartment, neither sleeping.
"After tomorrow," she whispers, "we're free. No more Anton. No more threats. Just our life. Our family."
"After tomorrow," I agree, wanting to believe it.
She fell asleep against my chest that night.
But I don't sleep. I can’t. Tomorrow determines everything.
Friday, December 17th, 6:00 PM.
We're in a private dressing room two blocks from Carnegie Hall—FBI staging location, close but not inside the venue yet.
Final bomb squad reports came in this afternoon: sixty-eight stations swept completely, another forty-five partially swept. Nothing found. But that leaves forty-three stations untouched, plus vast sections of the swept stations that couldn't be fully cleared.
"Doors open at Carnegie Hall at 7:00 PM," Mariana reports via video link. "Performance scheduled 8:00 PM. You need to be positioned by 7:45 PM."
Sonya starts getting ready.
The burgundy costume, layers of silk that flow and hide. Tactical vest underneath. Hair pulled back. Minimal makeup.
I watch her transform from my pregnant wife into the warrior who'll face Anton one final time.
Once she's ready, she studies herself in the mirror.
She turns to face me. "I need you. Before we go. I need—"
I understand. Cross to her immediately, pull her close.
"Yes."
She's already working my belt, desperate, needing connection before danger. I turn her to face the mirror, bend her forward over the dressing table. Lift the burgundy skirts carefully until I can access her.
She's ready, wet and wanting. I enter her from behind, both of us watching in the mirror.
"Watch us," I tell her. "Watch what he can never take."
Her eyes lock on our reflection. My hands on her hips, one sliding to her bump, protective and possessive.
"You're carrying my child into battle," I murmur. "You're magnificent."
"Don't stop."
I won't. This is ritual—reclaiming what Anton tried to corrupt, affirming life before potential death.
I move faster, deeper, watching her. The bump visible when the costume shifts. Our baby, present for this desperate moment.
"Come for me."
She does—clenching around me, crying out softly. I follow immediately, spilling inside her, marking her one final time.
After, I help her straighten the costume. She checks her appearance—perfect, no sign of what we just did.
My phone buzzes. Text from Mariana.
