Page 86 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I turn. “Yes?”

“It’s me,” Lidiya says. “There’s a call for you. Secure line.”

My stomach tightens.

“Give me a minute.”

I move fast, pulling on clothes without thinking about them, dragging a comb through my damp hair, tying it back, and pushing my feet into shoes. The mirror catches me halfway through. My cheeks have color, my eyes are clear, and my hair is neat enough to pass. I don’t stop to fix anything else. I open the door.

Lidiya steps back. “Legal room. There’s a call waiting.”

I nod once and walk ahead, already bracing for whatever’s on the other end of that line.

I walk into the legal room. The secure phone sits on the table with its red line blinking, one short ring cutting through the room, then another.

Abramov stands beside it with his tablet open, watching the signal, but he hasn’t touched the receiver. He looks at me, then at Maksim, waiting.

Maksim stands over a spread of registry copies with his sleeves rolled up, his jaw locked hard enough to show me this call is bad.

I look around the room. Leonid has stopped mid-page with one finger holding his place. Dima is by the door with one hand near his jacket, two guards stand at the far wall. Every man looks braced for the next order.

Maksim reaches the phone first. He listens for three seconds, and his face closes before he speaks. “No.”

My throat dries, and my pulse starts beating hard in my ears. He looks at me, and I know.

I stand before he can decide for me. “It’s him,” he says.

Maksim covers the receiver with one hand. “He says he’ll only speak with you.”

“Then put him through.”

“No.”

The answer comes fast enough to sting.

I walk toward him, and every guard inside suddenly finds the floor very interesting. “He’s my father.”

“He’s the man who listed you.”

“He’s the man who built the structure we’re trying to break,” I say, stopping close enough that he has to look down at me. “If he’s calling, he wants something, and if he wants something, he may give us something.”

“He may get inside your head.”

“He built half of it,” I say, and Maksim’s face changes. “Now let me use that.”

His nostrils flare once, and the hand over the receiver tightens. For a second I think he will refuse anyway. Then he pulls the phone from his ear and hits the speaker.

“Three minutes,” Maksim says.

Sergei’s voice fills the room, calm and smooth enough to make my skin recoil.

“Elena.”

One word. My name in his mouth. A whole childhood folded into one controlled breath.

I put both hands on the table because standing without support suddenly takes work. “You wanted to speak.”

“I wanted to hear that you are well.”