There’s a shift in his expression. “I see.”
“We spoke briefly. She seems competent.”
Competent.The word has the taste of coal in my mouth. She’s competent the way a hurricane is breezy.
“Well,” Mikhail says, “I’m relieved she didn’t run out the door. The last one nearly did.”
“Noted.”
He lingers. He reads my expression and leaves only after parsing its meaning.
Alexei arrives thirty minutes later with a different problem.
“Dushku agreed to meet,” he says. “Face to face. He’s framing the construction situation as a ‘misunderstanding.’”
“It wasn’t a misunderstanding.”
“No. It was a declaration. But he wants diplomacy.”
“Where?”
“That’s the issue. His ground or yours. No neutral territory.”
Going to Dushku’s territory means limited security, an unfamiliar environment, and restricted exits. Coming here means he sees the estate’s layout, rotations, and entry points. Both options have costs.
But one puts me on familiar ground with full infrastructure, and if Dushku is who I think he is — patient, strategic, playing a game that extends beyond a construction bid — he won’t make a move inside my house. Not yet. Not when the board is still being set.
“Here,” I say. “A maximum of four of his men. No weapons past the gate. I’ll guarantee his safety under my roof.”
“He’ll want more than four.”
“He can want whatever he likes. Four. Non-negotiable.”
Alexei nods. “Timeline?”
“Wednesday. Make sure to double the security team. All hands on deck. I don’t expect Dushku to try anything, but Iwant him to see what he’s up against. Let him count the guns and do the math.”
“The Calloway woman,” Alexei says. “She’ll need to be out of sight during the meeting. Dushku is observant. A new face in the household will interest him.”
“Agreed. Keep her and Anya in the residential wing. No exceptions.”
“She’ll have questions.”
“Tell her it’s a business meeting that requires privacy. She doesn’t need more than that.”
Alexei nods and stands, then pauses at the door.
“The soldier, Laskin, is at the hospital. He’ll lose mobility in the index and middle fingers permanently.”
“Good. He’ll remember every time he touches something that isn’t his.”
12
ELLIE
Sunday is my day off. I could explore the grounds, try to find the library Mikhail mentioned during orientation, or walk the perimeter of the garden, learn the paths, and breathe some new air.
Instead, I’m in my room in bed. In pajamas — not the Hello Kitty ones, those have been banished to the bottom of the suitcase where they will live out the rest of their days in exile. I’m in a BU sweatshirt and leggings, propped against the headboard, pretending to read a book I’ve had open on the same page for forty-seven minutes.
