Page 17 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I’m about to answer when there’s a measured knock at the office door. “Come in,” I say.

Dima steps inside, my inner-circle enforcer, trusted because he executes orders without drift. He has a phone in hand and enough sense to look at the floor before he looks at me. “Message just arrived through the Trieste relay,” he says. “Moretti-linked.”

He crosses to me and offers the device. I take it, read once, then read it again because irritation has a way of sharpening text.

The message is clean, formal, and written by someone who thinks polish excuses hunger.

Before 11 a.m. tomorrow, formal talks are requested regarding the listed Volkov collateral.

They don’t call her Sokolov’s daughter or the listed girl now. They call her listed Volkov collateral, already stitching her into my name.

5

ELENA

By morning, I know three things for certain.

First, this house runs on clocks I can’t see.

Second, nobody here forgets I exist.

Third, Maksim Volkov has built a fortress that still insists on pretending it’s a home.

I learn the estate the way I learned exam material and evacuation routes, which is to say quickly and with a level of distrust that would offend nicer people.

Breakfast appears at eight whether I want it or not. Staff move in orderly lines through the ground floor, never rushed, never idle, each one knowing where they’re meant to be before they get there. Guards rotate by pattern, not at random. Two at the front. Two at the rear grounds. One by the side corridor after lunch, replaced before dusk. Cameras cover the obvious places, and judging by the angles, a few less obvious ones too.

The house itself is old money and old violence dressed up to look pretty.

Family portraits. Long rugs. Silver frames. A chapel off one wing. A library with shelves tall enough to require a ladder. Then the other layer beneath it, harder and cleaner. Reinforced doors where a normal family would have oak. A communications room behind a panel that looks original until you notice the keypad in the molding. Men with earpieces moving through hallways lined with dead ancestors.

It’s both a house and a command center, and by noon I understand the most important thing of all.

Being listed means I can’t go anywhere that’s not already claimed ground.

Out there, my name is an argument. In here, at least for now, it is a settled one.

The thought makes my skin crawl.

A woman named Mrs. Wentworth brings lunch to a small sitting room off the east hall and watches me with the careful expression of someone trying not to stare at a dangerous animal. She is British, silver-haired, straight-backed, and carries herself with the confidence of a person who has outlived several bosses and intends to outlive this one too.

“I hope the room is suitable,” she murmurs, inspecting me over the dull red rims of her ladybug-shaped glasses.

“It’s a prison with better curtains,” I fire back.

Her mouth twitches. “Yes. Still, one prefers good curtains.”

I almost smile.

After she leaves, I don’t touch the heavier dishes. Ten minutes later, another tray appears, this one without announcement. At first, I don’t pay attention to it, but then my stomach protests audibly and forces me to lift the lid to find hot, clear broth. Dark bread. Tea. Sliced pear. A little dish of salt.

I stare at it.

Then I look toward the open doorway, though no one is there.

Anger goes through me so fast, it makes my eyes sting. Someone knew I was too wound tight to stomach rich meat and cream and whatever else had gone untouched downstairs. I know who he is, and I hate that he can read me this easily.

I eat the soup anyway, furious the whole time.