Page 105 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

The door opens, and cold comes in with it. Dima gets out first, then Ilya from the front passenger seat. Maksim steps out and turns back for me. I take his hand and step down, slow, steady. His eyes drop to my stomach for a second, then come back to my face.

I am showing now under the fitted black dress and long coat. Not much, but enough if someone is looking.

He straightens my coat at the shoulder. “Stay on my right.”

“I remember.”

“And if I say ‘go’?”

“I go with Dima through the stairwell, then hold until Ilya clears the lower route.”

His mouth sets into a hard line. “Good.”

We move to the freight elevator. Inside, the steel walls catch our reflection, clean and bright. Dima faces the doors, one hand inside his jacket. Ilya watches the reflection behind us. Leonid stands with his laptop case and a thin folder under his arm.

“Everything ready?” Maksim asks.

The doors open, and we step into the private level above the old loading bays. Trains still run underneath, and every few minutes, the floor trembles under my heels.

Leonid taps the case once. “Ready enough to ruin someone’s evening.”

I look at him. “Charming.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

We step onto dark wood under exposed beams. White lights burn over a single table set with papers, water glasses, and laptops. Sound panels line the walls. There are no windows. Men stand in the dim edges of the room and watch.

Two men from each side hold the space, one pair near the table, one pair closer to the doors. Beyond them, shapes shift in the hall, and another guard waits by the elevator with his hand inside his jacket.

Dima moves to the freight elevator doors, and Ilya takes the steel stairwell at the far end. Neither man looks at me, which means Maksim has already given the order. Leonid sets his laptop on the left side of the table and places the paper folder beside it. He doesn’t sit.

Moretti and his men are already seated near a stack of clean folders and capped pens. Moretti has brushed-back silver hair, wears a dark suit, and keeps his soft hands folded on the table, a wedding ring tight on his finger. Mancini keeps his phone face down beside his water glass, and his mouth pulls too hard at the corners when he tries to look serious. His eyes move from my face to my stomach, then to Maksim’s hand at my back. He looks down at the papers before I can catch him staring.

Karpov stands off-center near the back wall, hands folded in front of him. His suit is spotless, and his face gives nothing away. He doesn’t stand with us or with the Morettis.

Maksim catches it, and his mouth tightens before his face clears.

Then Sergei walks in.

My father comes in without hurry, gray suit neat, coat over one arm, gloves in one hand. He looks rested enough to piss me off. His hair is neater than mine, and his face has color. His eyes move over the men before they land on me.

“Elena,” he says, his mouth curving.

My body wants to step back, but I don’t.

“Father.”

Mancini’s mouth twitches. Moretti gives nothing away.

Sergei sets his gloves on the table and pulls out the chair opposite me. “This could’ve been handled privately.”

“No,” Maksim says before I can answer. “It couldn’t.”

Sergei glances at him. “I was speaking to my daughter.”

“You’re standing on my ground.”

“This is neutral ground.”