“Increase perimeter patrols during shift changes. Install additional cameras covering blind spots they’ve been exploiting. Consider relocating the east gate entirely to force them to reestablish observation patterns.”
I lean forward slightly, studying the camera feeds. “The east gate services deliveries, right? Household supplies, maintenance equipment?”
Oleg glances at Felix before answering. “Yes.”
“Relocating it creates logistical complications that outweigh security benefits.” I tap the screen showing the current gate position. “If you stagger delivery schedules randomly instead of maintaining the Tuesday-Thursday pattern, surveillance becomes less useful. They can’t predict windows of vulnerability if the timing shifts unpredictably.”
The room goes quiet. Pavel’s expression sharpens with something that might be respect or calculation. The financial analysts exchange glances suggesting they’re reassessing my role here.
Felix doesn’t react visibly, but his hand finds mine beneath the table and squeezes once—acknowledgment that I just contributed strategically rather than observing passively.
“Implement random delivery scheduling,” he tells Oleg. “Coordinate with household staff to ensure supplies arrive as needed without creating predictable patterns.”
The briefing continues for another forty minutes. I contribute twice more—once about political exposure risks if certain senators distance themselves publicly, once about financial restructuring that could insulate Rudenko interests from Sartore pressure.
Each contribution shifts the dynamic slightly. I’m not a protected civilian being briefed for awareness. I’m participating in strategic planning with insights that matter.
By the time the meeting ends, I’ve stopped feeling like an outsider observing Felix’s world.
I’m inside it now.
Chapter Twenty-One - Felix
The charity gala is supposed to be controlled: vetted guest list, secured venue, minimal exposure. Diana’s first public appearance since the wedding, carefully staged to demonstrate that she’s not hidden away under duress but actively participating as my wife.
The optics matter for council perception, and for political allies who need reassurance that my marriage wasn’t desperation disguised as strategy.
She wears the burgundy dress I had tailored for her, the one she initially rejected before deciding it suited her purposes. Her hair is pulled back elegantly, revealing the diamond earrings I gave her yesterday. They’re family heirlooms that belonged to my grandmother, chosen to signal permanence rather than temporary arrangement.
She looks beautiful and composed, working the room with competence that shouldn’t surprise me but does. A few short months ago she was confronting donors at the Whitmore gala with nothing but a tablet and conviction. Now she’s navigating Bratva-adjacent social structures with the same strategic precision, asking questions that sound conversational but gather intelligence I’ll use later.
I watch her from across the ballroom, tracking her movements with the same attention I apply to threat assessment.
Oleg stands positioned near the main entrance. Taras covers the service corridor. Three additional security personnel rotate through the crowd in civilian dress, communicating through encrypted channels I monitor via the earpiece concealed beneath my collar.
Everything operates according to plan until it doesn’t.
The signal jammer activates at 7:43, cutting communications across all channels simultaneously. I reach for the backup phone in my jacket and find it dead—sophisticated interference rather than equipment failure. Training overrides the spike of adrenaline. I scan the ballroom for Diana.
She’s not where I last saw her near the silent auction tables.
Movement near the service corridor catches my attention; Taras gesturing urgently, his expression suggesting crisis rather than routine adjustment. I cross the ballroom quickly, awareness sharpening into focused alarm.
“Lost visual on Mrs. Rudenko thirty seconds ago,” Taras reports quietly, his Russian accent thickening with stress. “She stepped into the hallway with one of the event coordinators. Female, her staff credentials appeared legitimate during initial screening.”
“Appeared.” I push past him into the corridor, already knowing what I’ll find. An empty hallway, service exit propped open, no sign of Diana or the woman she left with.
The security footage will show exactly how this happened—compromised credentials, social engineering that made Diana trust the approach, timing coordinated to exploit the signal jammer deployment. Surgical precision that suggests planning rather than opportunism.
Sartore.
I’m moving before conscious thought completes the assessment, shouting orders to security teams who can’t hear through the jammer interference. By the time communications restore three minutes later, Diana is gone and the black SUV caught on external cameras has switched plates twice during a route that dead-ends at an abandoned industrial park.
I stand in the service corridor staring at the propped exit door and feel control fracturing in ways I haven’t allowed since I was seventeen and watching my father’s funeral from the back row.
***
The message arrives fifty-three minutes after Diana’s disappearance, routed through encrypted Bratva channels that ensure I receive it before anyone else. No text. Just an image attachment.
