He looks up from the monitors where he’s been working, and I see the question in his eyes before he voices it.
“Did you confront Alexei?”
“Yes, and my father. Both of them dismissed me, told me I was being paranoid.” I sink into the chair beside him, exhaustion from the confrontations settling into my bones. “But Misha warned me that Durov is building something bigger than just financial theft.”
Rafa’s expression darkens. “Building what?”
“A way back into the family. A path to...” I hesitate, then force myself to say it. “To me.”
The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. Rafa’s hands still on the keyboard, his jaw tightening with what looks like barely controlled anger.
“Over my dead body,” he says quietly.
The protective instinct in his voice sends an unexpected warmth through me, though I quickly push it aside. “The point is, we’re dealing with more than just stolen money. This is personal for Durov, which makes him exponentially more dangerous.”
“Then we need to move faster.” Rafa turns back to his screens, pulling up new data streams. “I’ve been analyzing communication patterns while you were gone. There’s a cluster of calls between Alexei’s phone and an untraceable number, originating from the same cell tower in Brooklyn.”
He shows me the data, and I lean closer to examine the patterns. “Industrial district?”
“Warehouse row. Perfect place to hide a private operation.” He highlights the specific location. “If we can get close enoughto tap into the cellular signal, we can intercept those calls in real time.”
“Physical surveillance,” I say, understanding immediately. “You want to go there.”
“I want to set up monitoring equipment. Get audio, maybe visual if we’re lucky.” He turns to look at me. “But this is field work. Dangerous field work. You should stay here where it’s safe.”
The patronizing tone—different from Rafa’s usual respect for my capabilities—triggers immediate defensiveness.
“Absolutely not,” I say firmly. “I’m going with you.”
“No, you’re not.” His voice takes on the same authoritative edge I hear from my father and Alexei. “This isn’t a boardroom or a computer lab. If something goes wrong?—”
“If something goes wrong, you’ll need backup,” I interrupt. “Someone who knows Durov’s methods and psychology. Someone who can adapt if the plan falls apart.”
“Someone who could get killed if we’re discovered.”
“Someone who’s been dealing with dangerous men her entire life.” I stand, placing my hands on the desk and leaning toward him. “I’m not some helpless princess who needs protection, Rosso. I’m your partner in this, which means I get a say in operational decisions.”
“Partnership doesn’t mean we both have to take unnecessary risks.”
“And it doesn’t mean you get to make unilateral decisions about my safety.” The argument is becoming heated, echoing the professional disagreements I’ve had with male colleagues who assume gender equals incompetence. “Either we do this together, or I do it alone.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
We stare at each other across the workspace, wills clashing with the same intensity that marked our last confrontation. But this time, there’s something different underneath—a current of protectiveness and concern that runs both ways.
Finally, Rafa’s shoulders drop slightly in defeat. “If we do this—if I agree to let you come—you follow my lead. No improvisation, no heroics. We get in, set up the tap, and get out.”
“Agreed,” I say, though we both know that plans rarely survive contact with reality.
“And if I tell you to run, you run. No arguments, no looking back.”
“Fine.”
“I mean it, Petrov. If something happens to you because I let you come along...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hangs heavy between us.
“Nothing will happen to me,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “We’re both too smart to let Durov get the better of us.”
