They say nothing.
Because they know I’m right.
A random attack doesn’t call her by name. A random attack doesn’t wait until she’s almost at her door. A random attack doesn’t come with a knife and a plan.
I put both hands on the desk and lean forward. “I want every call, every meeting, every payment tied to that man from the street. I want to know if Alena’s family touched this. I want to know if my father blinked in the wrong direction. I want every leak in this city squeezed until it gives me something useful.”
Sergei nods. “Understood.”
“And until then,” I continue, “nobody gets near her. Not at the café. Not at the doctor. Not at this house. Nobody.”
Anton’s mouth tightens. “You think they’ll try again.”
“They already failed once,” I say. “That usually makes men either disappear or get desperate. I’m not interested in finding out which.”
Sergei opens the folder in his hand. “We can put a tighter perimeter on the house tonight. More cameras, more rotation outside the east wing.”
“Do it.”
“And her old building?”
“Keep watching it. If they were comfortable hitting her there, someone may go back looking for what they missed.”
The truth is, I should have told them sooner. I have been keeping an eye on her for weeks.
Not openly. Not enough for her to notice, I thought. Just enough to know when she left the café, when she made her doctor’s appointments, when she changed routes home, when she looked tired, when she looked frightened, when she looked almost happy and I hated myself for being relieved by something so small.
Since the day I saw her through that restaurant window, I have not really left her alone.
I told myself it was protection. That was true.
I told myself it was caution. That was also true.
What I did not say out loud, to anyone, was the part that mattered most: I could not bear not knowing where she was.
And last night, that failed her. Because I was not there.
I was too far away. A few streets over, finishing a meeting I should never have prioritized, trusting distance and timing and men with instructions instead of my own instincts. By the time her name came through my phone, by the time the location hit my screen, by the time I reached that block, she had alreadybeen hit. Already been afraid. Already been forced to run while carrying a child and groceries and the weight of a life I should have protected better.
If I had been with her, the man never would have gotten close enough to say her name. Never would have touched her. Never would have seen fear on her face. Instead, she had to look up and find me arriving after the damage was done.
Too late. Not fatally. But too late all the same.
I stand in the study with my hands braced on the desk and feel that guilt settle where anger already was, making it worse.
I have been watching her for weeks like a man who could not decide whether he was preparing to bring her back or proving to himself she could survive without me.
And still she got hurt. That is on me.
Not the attack. Not the order. Not the man who carried it out.
But the gap. The space.
The mistake of believing I could keep her safe from a distance while wanting her up close.
I straighten slowly and look toward the door.No more distance.
If she hates me for it, fine. If she fights me, fine. If she lies to my face about the child again, fine. I can take all of that.
