“That depends on your answer.”
He mutters something under his breath—a string of curses, I think—and I wait him out. I’ve learned not to rush men like Popov. Pressure makes them contrary. Give them space to arrive at the conclusion themselves, and they feel like it was their idea.
“Fine,” he says at last. “Tell me what you need.”
Good.
I straighten up, one hand braced against the door. “For now, nothing. I’ll call when I’m ready to move. When I do, I need you fully committed—both feet in, no hesitation.”
Another pause.
“I’ll be in touch,” I say, and I end the call before he can negotiate terms.
I exhale and cross to the bed, dropping my phone on the mattress.
Blyad.
Cooperating with a man like Sergio Popov is like shaking hands with a crocodile—the grip is fine until it isn’t. My father used to talk about Popov’s father when I was still young enough to listen to those stories without understanding what they meant. The things that man did to people who trusted him. The elaborate patience of it—giving people exactly what they wanted, letting them believe they were safe, and then taking everything. Methodically. Personally.
The apple, as they say, doesn’t fall far.
What I need to work out is how to use Popov’s appetite without becoming its next meal. He’ll want something beyond revenge—a piece of what Aslanov has built, access to the networks, a foothold in territory that was once mine. That’s the negotiation waiting for me down the line, and I’ll need to go into it knowing exactly what I’m willing to offer and where the line is.
Because there will be a line. There has to be.
And if he turns on me—if somewhere in the middle of this he decides I’m more useful as a bargaining chip than an ally—I’ll deal with it. I’ve survived worse betrayals than Sergio Popov.
What I can’t do is nothing.
I think of Lauren downstairs, holding everything together with both hands. Hannah’s laugh drifting up through the floor. Two people who didn’t choose any of this, who are living inside the consequences of decisions I made—and decisions that were made for me.
Timur is in. But Timur has Sophia now, and a child coming, and I won’t be the reason that ends badly.
Popov is a risk I have to take.
I pick up my phone and start making a list of what comes next.
It’s time to stop waiting for Aslanov to move and start putting things in motion myself.
Chapter Fourteen
Lauren
Almost a week.
That’s how long it’s been since the attack, since my life fell apart.
I wander through the penthouse in the early morning quiet, coffee warm between my hands. My sleep has been getting better—incrementally, reluctantly—and I think I know why. Something about knowing Nikolai is on the other side of the door, running his circuits, checking his cameras. My nervous system has apparently decided that’s enough to stand down from full alert. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
The stress hasn’t left my shoulders, though. It’s just taken up permanent residence there.
What I can’t stop turning over is Hannah. We’re coming up on a week of no school, no friends, no routine. She’s been remarkably adaptable—better than me, honestly—but children need consistency. Structure. Other four-year-olds. The longer we’re here, the more I feel the weight of what she’s missing, and the guilt that comes with not being able to fix it.
I pin my hair back and head downstairs.
I stop halfway.
Hannah is at the kitchen table with Claire, a workbook open between them and a pencil in her hand. Her brow is furrowed in that particular way—the look she gets when she’s thinking hard and doesn’t want anyone to know she’s thinking hard.
