Page 22 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I shake my head and look back down at the Moretti file.

MORETTI is stamped in the upper right corner, businesslike and stripped of decoration, neat enough to make the contents look almost respectable.

Even that name isn’t doing its job. I keep seeing her. The way she stood her ground, chin up, eyes straight on mine, the tilt of her mouth when she’s about to say something that’ll cost her and she says it anyway. The way her teeth catch her lower lip, pressing in just enough to leave a faint mark, throwing her questions, demanding answers, her eyes on me the whole time like she’s enjoying watching me lose ground.

I drag a hand over my face, then look down again. The folder sits open, tab bent just enough to catch my eye. Moretti’s name sits in the corner, clean and tucked away where it belongs, while Elena’s drags in the Blacklist, Sokolov, legal access, and every man who smells weakness and calls it opportunity. Elena is mine to protect before they start circling. I push back from the desk and walk to the window. Outside, the trees stand stripped down, branches bare, nothing hiding what they are.

That’s what tomorrow is going to be. Strip everything down until no one can hide what they are.

Tomorrow, she sits at that table with me. She needs to know what she’s walking into, and she’s going to hear it from their own mouths. No filters. No favors.

By the time I get up and head for the stairs, I’ve locked it in. She’s coming with me, and she’s going to understand exactly what her name sounds like when men start placing bets.

Morning hits early, gray through the windows by the time I’m dressed.

Breakfast is already laid out when I step into the office sitting room. Tea throws up steam. Silver covers sit in a clean row across the tray, everything in its place because this house runs better when nobody has to guess.

I tear a page off the desk pad and write in block letters, slanted enough to show speed, clean enough to leave no room for argument.

Join me at eleven. Outside parties present. Listen more than you speak.

I pause, then add,

Eat first.

I read it once, fold it in half, then ring for Mrs. Wentworth.

When she steps in, I hand her the note with the tray. “Take this to Elena,” I say. “Put it in her hand. Don’t leave it outside the door.”

She’s almost out the door when I call her back. “Mrs. W.”

She turns, chin lifting a fraction. “Sir.”

“Take her something she can keep down.”

She pauses just long enough to register it, a small flicker in her eyes before it’s gone. Then she settles back into form, straight-backed, voice even, very English. “I’ll take her tea, then,” she says. “Lemon. Toast with butter. A soft-boiled egg.”

I nod once. “Very good.”

Simple food, enough to steady her before she walks into a room where men lay out terms and keep looking at her like she’s already on the table.

Mrs. Wentworth takes the tray and the note and goes.

If she skips breakfast just to prove a point, I’m going to sit through that meeting watching her hold her ground on nothing but nerve and stubborn pride, and somehow, I know that’s going to land back on me. She’d rather run on that than give me the win.

By the time I walk into the strategy room, my people are already in place. A notebook and pen sit at every place setting.

Nobody wastes my time with greetings. Chairs scrape back as I walk in. Leonid closes the folder in front of him and gets to his feet first. He’s the one who keeps ownership in place, transfers moving, and the structure from falling apart because some fool signed the wrong page. Elena’s name sits inside that structure, and Leonid knows exactly where. Karpov rises next, silver starting at his temples, suit spotless, expression unreadable. He isn’t built like a street thug. He looks managerial, controlled, the kind of man who can sound reasonable while setting up your ruin. He has enough standing in this house to ask hard questions and expect answers. Petrov stands last, silent as ever. He handles freight, corridor movement, port pressure, and loss.

I move to the head of the table, jacket buttoned, cuffs clean, and pull out the chair on my right before I sit. I wave a hand, and the others take their places, the gesture landing harder than a speech would.

I sit, and everyone settles around me.

A second later, the door opens again, and Elena walks in. Leonid’s face gives nothing away, but his hand stills on the file. Karpov clears his throat and drops his gaze to his laptop like it suddenly needs him.

Good. Let them get their act together.

She’s in a dark dress under a fitted coat, clean lines, no fuss, the kind of thing that blends in until you look twice. Her hair is pinned back, showing the cut of her cheekbones and the line of her jaw. A few strands have slipped loose and rest against her temple and neck, almost softening what could read as strict.