My jaw tightens slightly at that.
“Kidnapping,” Mike says flatly.
Lukyan nods once. “Yes.”
The word sits in the room like a loaded weapon.
I exhale slowly through my nose.
“No,” I say quietly.
All eyes shift to me.
“That doesn’t happen inside my estate,” I continue. “Not once. Not ever.”
“What do we do?” Misha asks.
That opens the room. Voices layered over each other, each man bringing his angle, his concern, his instinct shaped by years of anticipating violence.
“Relocate her,” one of the senior guards says immediately. “Move Valeria tonight. A secondary safehouse. Somewhere off-grid.”
“That’s reactionary,” Lukyan cuts in sharply. “If Anton already has internal mapping, relocation only creates movement visibility.”
Mike leans forward slightly. “He’ll anticipate a move. He’ll track patterns, not positions.”
Another voice joins in. “Then we harden the estate. Lockdown protocols. Full perimeter reinforcement.”
“Lockdown still makes her a target inside a fixed point,” someone else argues. “If he gets in, we’re trapped defending instead of controlling.”
“I’m not leaving the estate.”
Every head turns toward the doorway.
Valeria walks in with steady steps, head held high. She’s dressed in a black, flowing dress that makes her seem like she’s floating.
Whispers start almost at once. She doesn’t react to it. Doesn’t even slow down. She walks straight to the head of the table and stops beside me. Close enough that I can feel her presence settle into the space without needing to announce itself.
I don’t stop her.
She places both hands lightly on the edge of the table, eyes moving across the room once—acknowledging everyone there—before she speaks.
“Anton will keep coming,” she says calmly. “No matter where I go. Running doesn’t change that. It only delays it.”
Murmurs rise immediately at that.
One of the men shifts forward. “That’s exactly why youshouldrelocate,” he says. “You’re the primary target—”
Valeria cuts him off without raising her voice. “And I will still be the primary target somewhere else,” she replies. “Just in a weaker position. Less control. More exposure during movement.”
Silence flickers again.
Her gaze shifts—just slightly—to me, then back to the room.
“We don’t give Anton distance,” she says. “We give him the situation he thinks he’s going to win.” A beat. “And we wait for him. Here.”
The room reacts instantly.
“No,” someone says sharply. “That’s not strategy; that’s exposure.”
