Page 74 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

The handwriting is Sergei’s, black ink, careful pressure, expensive paper. A man can tell plenty from how another man writes a threat, and Sergei writes his polished enough to look civilized and clear enough to leave no doubt. I read it again.

To my daughter, and to the future she is carrying.

Elena sees my face. Her hand moves to her stomach, and I hate Sergei for making that the first thing I notice. The doctor left less than an hour ago. Ten weeks. Viable. Rest. Food. No alcohol. Reduced strain. Good advice for a world that has never met Sergei Sokolov. My jaw locks hard enough to ache.

I break the seal with my thumb and read.

Sergei congratulates Elena in careful, measured lines and calls the child “the cleanest continuity line.” He says Elena must understand why he prepared the structure the way he did, before weaker men could waste it. Then he offers to speak with her directly, father-to-daughter, before “outsiders” mishandle her condition and “Volkov mistakes control for understanding”.

By outsiders, he means me.

By daughter, he means asset.

By "future," he means my child, whom he’s measuring for a cage.

I fold the letter once and lay it on the table. Tearing it would feel good for three seconds, and then I would still have to answer Sergei.

“Leonid,” I say.

“Yes.”

“Office. Call Dima, Abramov, Petrov, Ilya, and Mrs. Wentworth. Ten minutes. No one comes within two corridors of my office.”

Elena’s eyes shift. “Mrs. Wentworth?”

“She knows the house better than the cameras do.”

Leonid nods at once. The leak didn’t come from paperwork. It came through a hallway, a tray, a gate, a laundry bag, or a driver. A maid with new earrings she can’t afford. My men know guns and routes. Mrs. Wentworth knows the staff.

Elena steps forward. “I sit in that meeting.”

“No.”

“The letter is addressed to me.”

“The letter was used to reach you.” I keep my hand beside the envelope. “That makes it my problem.”

Her mouth tightens. “Convenient.”

“Elena.”

“No, don’t Elena me.” She takes another step, pale and furious, one hand close to her stomach without seeming to notice. “Men got into this house before. Men dragged me out of it. Now a letter appears in my room, and you want me upstairs while everyone decides what I’m allowed to know?”

“No one is deciding what you’re allowed to know.”

“Then why am I being removed?”

“Because there will be men who still don’t understand what you are in this house.”

Her eyes hold mine. “Listed collateral?”

My jaw tightens. “That is one word they’ll use.”

“And Blacklisted?”

“Another.”

“And your problem?”