“They reveal more when they think they’re winning,” I continue, turning slightly toward the window. “If I close the door now, he becomes cautious. If I threaten him, he becomes defensive. Neither produces useful information.”
Mikel inclines his head a fraction, absorbing the logic rather than the conclusion.
“He’ll move faster,” I go on. “He’ll think he’s protected when he isn’t. He’ll talk too freely to the wrong people because he believes he’s already close.”
“That gives us his network,” Mikel replies.
“Yes.”
“And the one behind him,” he adds.
I don’t answer right away. I already know, and there’s no need to say it yet. Ivan Malenko isn’t the source of the problem. He doesn’t have the patience or discipline to build this on his own. He’s a means, not the origin. Useful only because he thinks he matters more than he does.
Arkady Voronin fits the gap Ivan leaves behind.
“I want eyes on Ivan,” I say at last. “But quiet ones. No pressure or visible tail. I want him comfortable.”
Mikel nods once. “Karp and Polina can rotate coverage.”
“Good.”
He turns to leave, then pauses, his hand resting lightly against the edge of the table as if centering himself before stepping back into motion.
“The hospital,” he says. “Rowan.”
Rowan has always been part of the calculation. What’s changed is that others have started to see it.
“I want every detail of that interaction,” I respond. “Exactly how he approached her, what questions he asked, and how he framed himself.”
“We’ll get it,” Mikel assures me.
“Make sure nothing is missing.”
He exits without another word, the door sealing behind him once more. The room returns to stillness, but it’s not empty. Decisions linger in the air, fully formed and awaiting execution.
I remain seated for a moment longer, my hands resting on the table, my fingers loosely interlaced.
Ivan Malenko believed this meeting was about advancement. That assumption shaped everything he did here, how he positioned himself, chose his words, and what he assumed I would value. He treated me as someone whose authority needed agreement rather than a man who doesn’t require it. That wasn’t disrespect. It was a mistake.
Men who misunderstand power often survive longer than those who challenge it openly, but they never survive indefinitely.
I stand and move toward the window. The city stretches below, orderly and unaware. Streets align in neat grids. Traffic lights cycle through their patterns. People move through their lives without sensing the calculations unfolding above them.
Rowan’s world was never invisible. Attention has been on her from the beginning. What’s changed isn’t awareness, but intent.
Ivan Malenko isn’t the one behind this. He doesn’t have the patience or discipline to build something like this himself. He moves when there’s something to gain and pulls back when it gets difficult. That makes him useful, but not important.
Which means the problem sits above him. Someone else istaking the risk at a distance, letting others move first. Arkady Voronin fits that role.
I stay where I am and let the city continue as it is. Not out of restraint, but because timing determines how completely a problem is erased.
17
ROWAN
The trauma bay runs on patterns I know well enough to feel in my bones. Monitors rise and fall in even cycles, doing exactly what they’re meant to do. Shoes move across the linoleum with intention instead of haste, the pace shaped by people who have handled far worse nights than this one. Voices stay brief and professional, information exchanged cleanly and accepted without debate. When the flow stays intact like this, my body relaxes before my mind has time to notice. Tonight, everything is moving the way it should.
I circulate from room to room with my tablet tucked against my forearm, eyes scanning vitals, lab values, and post-op notes. A nurse murmurs an update as I pass. I nod once without slowing.
