Page 18 of Cruel Demands

“Where is the driver?” I ask, raking my fingers through my dark hair.

“Waiting.”

“Can he speak?”

“Yes.”

“Keep him that way.”

Arkady pauses. “There is more.”

“Of course there is.”

“Antonov was not the only one who saw the vehicles.”

“How many?”

“Seven of our men were present.”

“And only Antonov reported it.”

“Yes.”

“How many intended to report it?”

“Antonov says none of the others.”

The house seems to become quieter around me. Not because Orlov may have used my route. Routes can be closed. Drivers disappear. Shipments are seized or redirected. Ambition can be corrected. But six of my men saw a foreign shipment move through my depot and chose silence. That is infection.

“Do not approach them,” I say.

“I have men ready.”

“I said no. Watch all six. Verify Antonov’s account. Trace the permits, the altered records, and every payment they have received in the last three months.”

“And if the report is accurate?”

“I want every name before the first man understands we know.”

Arkady knows what happens after we have the names. So do I.

“When?” he asks.

“I will see you today. I want to talk to the driver myself.”

When I hang up, my mother is watching me from the corridor. “You need to eat. Whatever this is, it can wait until you have eaten.”

“I am the governor. Expectations are higher.”

“I have seen governors. They are usually disappointing. Maybe because they are all hungry.”

I offer her a smile and tilt my head at her. She stands from her wheelchair and walks to me. Her hand rises to my cheek. Cold fingers. Thin skin. The pressure is barely there. To anyone else, it would feel fragile. To me, it is still command.

“Oh, Misha. I won’t be around forever. You’re always so busy. I don’t want you to be alone forever.”

“I’m not alone,” I say.

She looks down the corridor, at the guards stationed discreetly beyond the dining room, at the maid clearing my untouched plate, at the polished marble floors and the towering windows and the house too large for two people.