Page 11 of Secret Baby of the Bratva
“Do you want a tail inside the building,” Petr asks without looking up, “or only outside once she exits?”
“Inside,” I say. “Casual. She knows how to read a room; don’t let her read you. Outside we keep distance. I do not want her to feel the leash yet.”
He nods.
“That’s her name,” Sergei says quietly. He has seen the staff board. “Annie Vale.”
I know her name. I filed it as soon as she said it earlier. I do not answer him. Saying the name aloud again in a room like this gives it a weight I am not interested in feeding.
We finish where we began, with silence that belongs to men who do not narrate their work. I run through contingenciesas easily as I breathe. She could go to the police. If she does, I will know before she reaches the desk.
The answer to that choice is sharp and automatic. She could tell the woman with pearls and a director’s smile. If she does, that woman will make an appointment with a donor tomorrow and never show up. She could get on a train. She could turn off her phone.
I know what I prefer. I prefer the kind of prey that runs home and tries to make the walls feel safe again. People light their apartments like shrines when they return from something that shakes them. They pick up a mug that belongs to them and move through rooms that have their fingerprints on every surface.
They let their guard drop three degrees. My men know how to move through those degrees without making a sound.
By the time I leave the service wing, the corridor smells like cleaner again. The drain looks like an architectural choice. The camera blinks red for no one. I walk the long way back toward the main hall to avoid the last of the staff moving tables. I pause at a window and watch rain score lines down the glass in quiet patterns.
The storm has settled into the kind of steady pressure that keeps a city honest.
The gala is still vibrant when I return to it. Laughter clings to the crystal. Men lie to each other with their hands on each other’s shoulders. Women gauge everything in the room with a glance and decide what to reward with their attention.
I step into the glow and it folds around me; the air warms and the edges of the night soften for people who prefer it soft.
She’s returned to her post because that is who she is. She stands near a lectern with a small group of staff and movesthrough a conversation without hearing it. Her face is composed, but her hand gives her away; the small muscles at the base of her thumb tighten when someone touches her elbow.
Annie thanks the donor with a voice that falls in the right register and then steps back. She sips water. The glass trembles and she hides the tremble by moving. The human instinct to hide weakness is one of my favorite tells. I file it with the rest.
I stay for ten minutes without speaking to her, because speaking now is indulgence. I let my presence bring pressure to the edges of her awareness. When her gaze skims across the room and catches mine, I let it hold for one second. I let her see that I do not need to raise my voice to decide how the rest of her night goes. Then I turn and leave because leaving is the part of the lesson that keeps a person like her from telling herself a pretty story.
The valet looks up when I wave him off. The car meets me like it was waiting with its breath held. Rain ticks on the roof when I close the door. I start the engine and let the wipers clear the city in slow arcs. My phone vibrates before I reach the corner. A message from Milan slides onto the screen.
She returned to the main floor. No noise. Shaken.
I type one word:Understood.
Chapter Five - Annie
The moment my apartment door clicks shut behind me, I press my forehead to the wood and let out a breath I’ve been holding since the gallery. It’s too shallow, too fast, and I force another one, then another, like I can push the night out of my lungs if I just exhale hard enough.
My key still dangles from the lock; I fumble it free and drop it in the bowl by the door. The apartment is dim, quiet, filled with the faint lemony scent of the candle I forgot to blow out this morning. Home. Safe.
I keep repeating that word in my head as I slide the deadbolt, then the chain. Safe.
The word feels flimsy, like tissue paper trying to stand up to a storm.
The city hums outside my windows, traffic blaring in uneven bursts, voices rising and fading on the sidewalk below. Usually, it grounds me, reminds me that I’m just one person in millions. Tonight, it feels too close, like the world’s pressing its ear to the glass, listening for secrets.
I peel out of the black dress that’s clung to me since morning and toss it over a chair. The straps leave faint red lines in my shoulders. My heels hit the floor with two sharp thuds that echo too loud in the little apartment. I catch myself glancing at the door again, as though the locks might’ve undone themselves.
I need to move. I need to do something that isn’t replaying the sound of a gunshot inside my head.
So I clean.
I scoop empty mugs from the coffee table, load them into the sink, run hot water until steam curls in the air. I wipe the counters, though they’re not dirty, then sweep the floor forcrumbs that don’t exist. My body keeps going, arms moving, legs pacing, as though if I stop, the images will catch me.
The kneeling man’s face. Dimitri’s voice, calm as winter. The split second when his eyes found mine in the doorway.
