I slide into the backseat and shut the door. “Why are you calling?”
“Because I’m curious,” she says. “And because your father is moving pieces faster than usual.”
My jaw tightens. “You’ve spoken to him.”
“Not directly.”
A lie, probably. Or half a lie, which is worse.
She goes on before I can press. “He’s nervous. That makes him dangerous.”
“He’s always dangerous.”
“Yes, but now he’s impatient.” A pause. “Which usually means there’s a woman involved.”
My silence gives her too much.
“A woman,” Alena repeats, pleased with herself now. “Interesting.”
“Stay out of it.”
“I might,” she says lightly. “If you tell me whether I should be jealous.”
I almost hang up, but I don’t. “You should be careful what you attach your name to, Alena.”
Her tone cools. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s advice.”
The line goes quiet for a beat.
Then she says, “Whatever this is, Aleksei, it’s making you reckless.”
Maybe. She’s not wrong.
“You called to warn me?” I ask.
“I called,” she says, “because if your father is making a play, you should know he won’t stop with you. He’ll go after whatever makes you hesitate.”
That lands too close.
I end the call without another word.
The driver catches my eye in the mirror and says nothing.
By the time I get home, the apartment is already occupied. Ilya is in the living room with Sergei and Anton, jackets off, drinks poured, the city stretched behind them in glittering black glass. My mother has long since gone to bed. The whole place feels too elegant for the conversation waiting inside it.
Ilya looks up first. “You look terrible.”
“Charming.”
“You know what I mean.”
I take the whiskey Sergei pours and stay standing. Sitting feels too much like conceding comfort. “Tell me.”
Sergei sets a file on the table. “The men from last night were hired muscle. Not family. Not inner-circle. The one who lived gave us nothing useful before he stopped being useful.”
Anton adds, “But his phone had a burner contact linked to a number we’ve seen before.”
