Page 128 of Twisted Pact
Sergei shifts his weight forward. “Going after Novikov with a compromised police contact is going to bring heat you can’t imagine. No cover if things go sideways.”
I cross my arms. “We’re out of good choices. Now we’re just picking the least-terrible option.”
Dmitri nods and adds, “I’ll reach out to our contacts and see who can help without going through official channels.”
“What about Lebedev?” I ask.
“What about him?”
“Yevgeny offered resources. Maybe it’s time to accept.”
“That’s a big step. Owing the St. Petersburg Bratva?—”
“I know what it means. But if the alternative is getting blindsided because Novikov knows our every move, I’ll take my chances with Yevgeny.”
Sergei stands. “I should go. Need to keep gathering intel without tipping off whoever Novikov bought.”
“Keep us informed,” Dmitri instructs. “Any new developments, we need to know immediately.”
“Understood.”
After Sergei leaves, my brother and I sit in silence for several minutes. The weight of the decisions we’re making settles over the room.
“We need to tell Boris,” I finally state. “He deserves to know his department has been compromised.”
“Agreed. But carefully. If whoever Novikov bought is watching Boris, we can’t give them any indication that we know.”
“Then we don’t make mistakes.”
Dmitri raises his glass. “To not making mistakes.”
I clink my glass against his. “And to ending this shit show for good.”
We drink, and I try not to think about how many things could go wrong. Try not to imagine Mila raising our child alone because I got killed or arrested trying to protect her.
But the fear is there. It’s always there, reminding me that in this world, happy endings are rare and usually temporary.
I just need this one to last long enough for my child to have a father.
35
Mila
Mama looks smaller than I remember.
She sits across from me at the metal table in the bunker, picking at a sandwich one of the guards brought down twenty minutes ago. Her hair is shorter now, and styled in a way that makes her look younger despite the lines around her eyes.
“You’re staring,” she comments without looking up.
“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re real. It’s been almost eight months.”
She sets down the sandwich and meets my gaze. “I know how long it’s been. Down to the day.”
The guard by the door pretends not to listen, but his posture tells me he hears every word. I’ve gotten used to living without privacy. Mama probably never will.
“How did Papa convince you to come here?” I ask.
“He didn’t. You did.” She reaches across the table but stops short of touching my hand. “When you called and wanted to hear whatI had to say, that changed something. Made me realize I needed to stop waiting for the perfect moment and just show up.”
