Page 107 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“Elena,” he says, softening his voice, “I built safeguards because men like him take first and explain later.”

I stare at him. “You put my name in places I didn’t understand.”

“I prepared you.”

“You listed me.”

His mouth tightens. “I protected value that would have been wasted.”

Maksim’s hand closes into a fist on his thigh.

Mancini leans back. “Family arguments aside, we’re here for the northern line, the fuel holdings, and the warehouse signatures. Without them, everyone bleeds time.”

“Time isn’t your problem,” I say, looking at him. “Access is.”

His gaze drops from my neck to the curve of my stomach, then returns to my face. “Access has many forms.”

Maksim stands before his chair can scrape back, and his hand stays flat on the table. Everyone stops what they’re doing. Mancini swallows. Moretti lifts one finger toward his own man. Stay there.

Maksim looks at Mancini for two full seconds. “Try that sentence again.”

Mancini says nothing.

Sergei sighs. “There’s no need for theatrics.”

“There will be if your guests keep looking at her.”

“Guests?” Sergei asks, and now his smile reaches his eyes. “You still believe this is your table.”

Maksim sits again, but every man stays ready. I make myself breathe through my nose, and my fingers find the edge of the notepad. It gives my hand something to do besides shake.

Sergei notices that too.

“You were always better with paper than panic,” he says. “Even as a girl.”

He knows exactly where to press, and it makes me want to claw the calm off his face. The memory comes back anyway. His office, the leather chair, the fountain pen he used to place in my hand when I was too young to know he was training me instead of loving me.

“You taught me to read what men hide,” I say.

“I taught you to survive men who hide things badly.” His mouth curls. “There’s a difference.”

“You taught me to sign before I knew the cost.”

His thumb stops on the seam of his glove, and for a second, he presses hard enough to crease the leather. It’s small and controlled, but I notice it. I’ve hit a nerve.

“That’s a child’s version of events,” he says.

Moretti reaches for the top folder. “We have reviewed Sergei’s proposal. The transfer is workable if Elena signs the prepared packet and confirms continuity in front of witnesses.”

Leonid’s hand moves behind me. Just a small adjustment near his laptop case. Maksim catches it. So do I. Karpov shifts one foot, barely. Men are counting breaths now. Sergei opens the folder in front of him and slides out a clean stack of papers. Thick pages. Colored tabs. Signature marks—every page arranged with care.

My throat closes. I know those hands, that order, and the sick pull of watching my life arranged by someone who had no right to touch it.

He places the stack in front of me.

“Elena,” he says, and his voice turns gentle enough to make my skin crawl, “this ends if you stop fighting the structure and accept your place in it.”

Maksim’s chair shifts half an inch beside me. I keep my eyes on Sergei.