Page 19
“Open the door, Vera.”
“Answer me first.”
“Your Blacklist entry is active, your accounts are frozen, and someone accessed a preschool account tied to your email.”
The knife becomes visible beside her leg. “How do you know I have a child?”
“I knew there was a preschool account. You just confirmed the child is yours.”
Her eyes narrow. “Your people opened my file?”
“Someone else opened your file first.”
She gives me a look that could reopen every incision. “So you came here with armed men at ten at night to kidnap me? That’s your answer?”
Anger makes her harder to ignore. Her green eyes burn brighter against the exhaustion in her face, and the tension around her wide mouth makes her look tired, furious, and nowhere near fragile.
“My answer is that you need to come with me if you want to stay alive,” I say, unable to look away from the high cut of her cheekbones.
Even to me, my answer sounds weak. Most people don’t understand what an active Blacklist entry means until the men arrive. Vera should. She makes decisions while people bleed.
Her eyes narrow, though her voice stays even. “You arrive with guns and orders after I saved your life. Is this how you say thank you?”
“I was planning something warmer.”
“You were dead.”
“Briefly.”
“You’re welcome.”
A small figure appears behind her.
Green dinosaur pajamas. Dark hair. Bare feet.
The boy looks at the men behind me, then at my face. He doesn’t hide, cry, or reach for Vera. His attention moves from the bandage at my collar, down to the way I keep weight off my left leg, then back to my eyes.
He clasps his hands behind his back. My thoughts stop. He tilts his head a fraction, studying me with the suspicion I’ve carried since childhood. I used to stand exactly that way while my father’s captains lied at the dinner table. Even today, Maksim mocks me for it. Dmitri calls it my funeral-director pose.
Vera shifts in front of the boy, blocking my view.
“Misha, go back to the sofa.”
He leans sideways to keep looking at me. “Is he the hurt man?”
Vera goes still.
I look at her. “He knows about me?”
“No.”
“Mama fixed you,” the boy says.
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
“Misha.” Vera’s voice carries a warning now. “Please go sit down.”
He considers disobeying, then looks at me once more. “You look angry.”
