"I'm on it."
The line goes dead. I trust Aleksander to handle it.
My driver appears with the car before I reach the curb. He must have seen me running on the security feed. Good man. I'll remember that later.
"The estate," I bark, sliding into the back seat. "Fast."
The engine roars. Tires squeal against asphalt.
My father is dying.
I've known this for months.
But knowing andfeelingare different beasts entirely.
The bedroom door stands open.
Papa lies in the center of the massive bed, dwarfed by pillows and monitors. His eyes are closed. His chest doesn't move.
For three seconds, I can't breathe.
I'm too late.
Then his fingers twitch against the white sheets, and the pressure in my chest releases so fast I have to grip the doorframe.
"Mr. Baganov." Dr. Petrov appears at my elbow, his hand closing around my arm. "A word, please."
I don't want to leave. I want to sit beside my father, to hold his hand the way I haven't since I was eight years old and he taught me that Baganov men don't cry. But the doctor's grip is insistent, and I let him pull me into the hallway.
The door clicks shut behind us.
"How long?" My voice comes out flat. Steady. The voice I use when I'm ordering executions.
Dr. Petrov's face tells me everything before he speaks. "A week. Perhaps less."
The words land somewhere distant, like they belong to someone else's life. I've known this was coming for months. Prepared for it. Made lists, contingency plans, spoken with lawyers and captains.
None of that matters now.
"Earlier," the doctor continues, his accent thickening the way mine does when I'm tired, "he became very distressed. Crying. Calling out for someone." He pauses. "A woman's name. Yelena."
Mama.
I don't react. My face stays stone, my shoulders squared, my hands loose at my sides. This is what he taught me.Never show weakness. Never let them see you bleed.
"I've increased his morphine," Dr. Petrov says. "He should be comfortable through the night. Your siblings?—"
"Are on their way."
He nods, sympathy softening his expression. I hate it. I hate that he looks at me like I'm about to break, like I'm some fragile thing that needs handling.
I'm the next pakhan. I don't break.
"Call me if anything changes." I turn away before he can offer more useless comfort.
The balcony off the upstairs sitting room faces east, toward the city lights of Chicago. I push through the French doors into the cold night air, my lungs burning as I inhale.
My hands are shaking.
