Page 149 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“I moved names,” Patrick says, his voice low. “Routes, access points, wallet records. Pieces no one was supposed to keep.”

“Morozov’s pieces,” I say.

He gives a small shrug. “I handled what I was given.”

“And skimmed from it.”

His nostrils flare. “I survived it.”

A laugh almost escapes me, but it would sound too much like crying.

Patrick points toward my chest. “Those people clean up their own. You think Antonov is hard? Morozov men erase the paperwork before your body is cold.”

The earpiece clicks once, and Dmitri is there on the other end, silent, waiting, burning.

Patrick leans closer. “I kept records because I’m not stupid. Enough that if they kill me, Volkov gets everything.”

Now it makes sense.

He stole from Morozov’s channel, kept proof to stay alive, and put my name where Volkov would look. He never loved me. Volkov protection around me made Morozov hesitate, and Patrick used that hesitation to buy himself another day.

“Safe passage first,” I say, using the line Yuri caught from Patrick’s side. “Or the wallet records go to Volkov if cleanup starts early.”

Patrick’s face empties. Then he pulls himself back together.

“You have been listening,” he says.

“I have been learning.”

My chest burns.

I take one step closer, and my voice cracks. “And Mikhail? He’s a child, Patrick.”

Patrick looks away.

I follow his eyes. “No. Look at me. What did you need my son for?”

Patrick’s face softens in pieces. His mouth relaxes first. Then his eyes, the little crease between his brows, the one he used to make when he wanted me to believe he had rules.

“I never wanted the boy touched,” he says.

My fingers close hard around the blue car.

“You wanted everyone to know he could be touched,” I say. “That’s worse.”

His hand clamps around my arm. Pain shoots up to my shoulder, and I pull in a breath through my teeth.

I look at his hand on my arm. “Let go.”

“The men upstairs are less patient than I am,” Patrick says, dragging me toward the service corridor.

Movement passes behind the wall again, closer this time. A muffled voice. The lift hums behind the service door.

Dmitri’s voice enters my ear. “Keep him talking.”

Patrick’s grip tightens. His eyes cut to the lift, then to the lobby behind me, and I understand the choice forming in his head. He can’t walk out alone anymore.

My heart pounds hard enough to reach my throat, but my voice comes out steady. “What happens if Morozov gets you before Volkov does?” I ask.