Today, the map was a sea of deceptive blue.
"The Italians have pulled back from the North River docks," Dimitri said, his voice a flat monotone. He tapped a glass screen, and a sector of the New York waterfront flickered from red to neutral. "Their gambling dens in Queens are operating at half capacity. Even their street soldiers have vanished. It’s too quiet, boss. It’s the kind of silence that precedes a funeral."
"Or an execution," Roman added, leaning against the cold concrete wall, his arms crossed over a tactical vest.
I leaned over the central terminal, my eyes tracing the glowing lines of our money trails. The Italians were many things—vicious, proud, desperate—but they weren't quiet. Quiet meant they were waiting for something. Or someone.
"There’s a whisper on the encrypted channels. That was what I actually came here for," Roman continued, his voice dropping an octave. "A faint signal. Someone is moving information about our internal security rotations. It’s not a hack. It’s a leak. A precise one."
I felt the familiar, cold tightening in my chest. In our world, betrayal didn't crawl over the walls; it was born in the kitchen, whispered in the hallways, and tucked into the beds. It started at home.
“We suspected something like that, too. We’re on it,” Dimitri told Roman.
"Find the source," I instructed Dimitri, my voice like the scrape of a blade on stone. "Scrub every guard, every maid, every courier. If a single byte of data left this house without my seal, I want the head of the person who sent it."
He nodded and turned back to the screens, but my focus was already fracturing. Every time I looked at the surveillance feeds or the tactical maps, I didn't see the Italians. I didn’t see Enzo Moretti. I saw Mila.
I saw her as she had been yesterday afternoon—perched on the balcony like a porcelain ghost, staring into the snow with an expression so haunted it had made my own breath stall. She was hiding something. I had felt it in the way she stiffened when I touched her, in the way her hazel eyes refused to hold my gaze. My instincts had kept me alive through three wars and a dozen assassination attempts. They were screaming at me now: someone was slipping a thread between my wife and my enemies.
And if I found out she was the one holding the other end of that thread, I didn't know if this new tenderness in my chest would finally shatter or simply turn to ice.
**********
I left the war room at noon, my mind a jagged mess of logistics and suspicion. I was met in the corridor by Boris, one of the younger guards I’d hand-picked for the inner perimeter. He looked nervous, his cap clutched in his hands.
"Sir," he whispered, looking around at the empty hallway.
"Speak."
"This morning. During the mail delivery. A courier dropped an unmarked envelope. Off-white. No return address. It wasn't logged into the system, sir. It was tucked between a magazine and the daily briefing."
I felt the air in the hallway grow thin. "Who received it?"
"The mistress, sir. She was the only one who entered the library after the delivery."
"And the courier?"
"Gone before the gate sensors could ping him. A civilian bike. No plates."
I dismissed him with a sharp nod, my jaw clenching so hard it ached. An unmarked envelope. A secret correspondence. In the middle of a cold war with the Italians, my wife was receiving ghost mail.
I found her in the dining room. Anya was there, rattling on about some upcoming gala, her voice a bright, fluttering bird that seemed to grate against the heavy silence of the room. Mila was sitting across from her, a plate of salmon and greens untouched before her.
She was forcing smiles. I watched her from the doorway for a long minute, dissecting every micro-expression. The way her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin. The way her eyes darted to the door every time a floorboard creaked. She wasn't just hiding a secret; she was vibrating with it.
"Alexei!" Anya chirped, noticing me. "Tell Mila she has to wear the emeralds for the Foundation dinner. She’s being stubborn."
I walked to the head of the table, my eyes locked on Mila. She looked up, and for a split second, I saw it—pure, unadulterated guilt. Then, the mask slid into place. The beautiful, fragile mask of the perfect Lobanov bride.
"Mila can wear whatever she chooses," I said, my voice devoid of warmth. "But she won't be attending the dinner if she doesn't eat. You look pale,dorogaya."
"I'm just not hungry, Alexei," she said, her voice steady but thin.
"Is that so?" I leaned down, my hand resting on the back of her chair. I could feel the heat radiating off her. "Perhaps theair on the balcony yesterday was too cold. Or perhaps you’re carrying a weight you haven't told me about."
She didn't flinch, but I saw her throat work as she swallowed. "I'm fine. Truly."
I didn't push. Not with Anya watching. I sat, ate, and watched my wife crumble quietly from the inside out. It was a slow-motion car crash, and I was the one holding the steering wheel. And the worst part was that I wasn’t enjoying it.
