I read it twice and set the phone face-down.
I haven’t told anyone I’ve been shot. I haven’t reported the ambush or given up the names. In my world, that silence either reads as incompetence or betrayal.
Calling Frol would be the smart move. Feed him a version that keeps Polina out of it. He won’t believe it, but he’ll sell it because that’s what we do for each other. We’ve traded covers since we were teenagers, even when we resented each other for the roleswe were born into. Frol resents me for being the one our old man trusts with the ugly work. I resent him for being the one our old man trusts with everything else. We’ve managed to keep the family running even though neither of us got the version of our old man that we needed.
I pick up the device and stare at his name.
I could make the call, smooth this over, buy a few more days, and extract myself before anyone connects me to the woman down the hall.
Instead, I put the phone back down and think about how Polina reacted when I grazed her hand. The way she bit down on nothing to keep quiet and walked out of this room with her chin lifted, begging herself not to turn around.
My old man can wait.
She can’t.
