Page 88 of The Pakhan’s Debt by Leona White

I look at Maksim. He stands beside me, eyes on the phone, and he doesn’t interrupt.

“You forced me into his house,” I say. “You put my name in places he couldn’t ignore, and then you called that protection.”

Sergei goes silent for the first time.

My throat burns, but I keep going.

“You didn’t protect me. You set it up so I could be used. My name went on it, then you vanished and let them come for me.”

“Elena, listen to yourself.”

“I am,” I say. “For once, I’m listening to myself before you explain me back into obedience.”

Leonid’s pen lowers to the table, and Abramov’s eyes flick toward Maksim.

Sergei’s voice hardens. “Volkov has filled your head.”

“No,” I say, calmer now. “You did. You taught me law, patterns, clean wording, and routine documents. You forgot I was paying attention.”

The line goes still. Maksim feels it too, and his hand moves flat against the table.

Sergei speaks carefully. “You know enough to be dangerous and not enough to be safe.”

I grip the table harder. “Then teach me more.”

Maksim’s head turns toward me.

Sergei says nothing.

I smile. “That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To be asked. To be the only man at this table who knows the map. So explain it.” I bend over the page, then look up at Maksim and let my mouth tighten like I hate needing the answer. “Tell me which clause I missed.”

Sergei’s voice lowers, and the calm turns almost pleased. “If you think you understand the structure, Elena, you still know only the skin of it.”

26

MAKSIM

Lunch arrives in the legal room because no one is leaving while Sergei still has gaps inside my empire.

Mrs. Wentworth comes in first with Lidiya behind her, and two staff members follow with covered trays while Abramov watches the door. She serves Elena herself, setting down lemon chicken soup with rice, warm rye bread, soft butter, roasted potatoes, cucumber salad with dill, baked salmon, sliced apples, and tea with honey.

For others, the trays are heavier. Beef stew in deep bowls, roasted chicken, buckwheat with mushrooms, boiled eggs, dark bread, pickles, cheese, and a pot of strong tea that smells like it could strip paint.

“Elena, eat first,” Mrs. Wentworth says, sliding the broth near her hand.

Elena looks up from the registry copy. “I’m not an invalid.”

“No,” Mrs. Wentworth says. “You’re pregnant and surrounded by men who think coffee counts as food.”

Dima looks down at his cup and Abramov keeps his mouth shut.

Mrs. Wentworth checks the water pitcher, moves Elena’s tea closer, and gestures for the staff to leave. She exits last and shuts the door with care.

Everyone gets back to work.

At the table sit Elena, Leonid, Petrov, Dima, Abramov, and two counsels Leonid brought in under guard. Pavel Moroz handles emergency corporate shields, and he’s a small man with rimless glasses and hands that sort paper. Nina Voronina handles registry work. She wears a plain black suit, a silver streak in her hair, and the bored expression of a woman who has watched judges lie and kept billing.

Elena picks up her spoon, tastes the soup, then points with the handle at the top file. “Start with the fuel subsidiaries.”