Page 42 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

“That can wait,” I say. I tap the cover once. “This can’t.”

Maksim looks at the file, then at me. His eyes stay on my face long enough to push at my nerves. I don’t move. I keep my face straight and make him work for whatever he thinks he sees.

Leonid starts again. “Maksim, this isn’t the time.”

The clerks stop what they’re doing and look between us.

Maksim doesn’t look at Leonid. “It is now.”

That shuts him up.

Maksim straightens, gives one short nod to the clerks, and they gather what’s in their hands and clear out without a word. Then he turns to Leonid.

“Give us the room,” he says, his deep-set gray eyes fixed on him, dark enough that Leonid gets the message.

Leonid goes still, the file still in his hand. He looks at me once, then leaves, closing the door with care behind him.

I pull the file open, turn three pages, and plant my finger on the stamp block near the bottom. “This one,” I say.

Maksim comes around the table. He stops close enough that I can feel his attention settle where I’m pointing.

“What about it?”

“It was processed outside his loop.” I tap the registrar mark again. “Same naming pattern. Same sequence habit. Same fake boredom in the drafting. But the registrar is different.”

His brow pulls tight. “Meaning?”

I look up at him. “Meaning this part stands on its own.”

He says nothing.

I turn the next page, then the one behind it, and line them up with the older warehouse continuation we already flagged weeks ago. “Look at the chain. The shell feeds into the warehouse group. The warehouse group feeds into the holding company. Sergei built his private notes around the later transfers, but this acknowledgment was already accepted before he buried the rest.”

Maksim’s eyes move across the pages fast now.

“If I sign here,” I say, pressing my finger to the continuation line, “this part can move without him.”

We agree to meet after dinner, and the day gets swallowed by work. I sit through two smaller reviews, and he lets me speak through one of them without stepping in. He listens, asks one question, then lets me finish.

That stays with me.

After dinner, I walk into the legal room. He’s already there, shirt sleeves rolled, one hand on the table, files spread out in front of him. A glass sits near his elbow. The cigar burns down slowly between his fingers. He looks up when I come in. His eyes hold mine.

“Close the door,” he says.

I do.

“Come here.”

I move to the table and set my hands on the maps. He shifts a page toward me.

“Read.”

I lean in and start going through the routes, dates, signatures. He steps in beside me, close enough that our shoulders touch when I move. I keep reading. He doesn’t step back. I can feel him there, heat, smoke, the weight of him at my side. It gets harder to stay on the page.

“Focus,” he says.

“I am.”