Page 23 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

Cara shoves the page away, then grabs it back before it slides off the table. “I didn’t give him routes. I didn’t give him names.”

“No.” I lean back and watch the truth settle where panic can’t hide it. “You gave him a clean structure. Patrick filled it with stolen information, and Morozov’s people used it to find weak spots.”

“He strong-armed me over coffee and acted helpless,” she snaps, though the anger breaks in the middle.

I place the final sheet in front of her. This one has her name typed beside Patrick’s authorization. Cara stares at it. A breath leaves her, uneven and small.

“What is this?” she asks.

I keep my voice steady. “The part where he made it official.”

I watch her closely. I look for what Patrick told her and what he hid from her. She gives me nothing.

“You’ve heard of Blacklist?”

“I’ve heard criminals love dramatic naming conventions.” She shakes her head, but her fingers have already found the edge of the chair.

“Answer me.”

Cara’s grip tightens until her knuckles pale. “Patrick mentioned it once. As a joke.”

“Patrick doesn’t joke when money is scarce.”

Her gaze drops to the page again. Cara O’Connell. She stays very still, and the paper takes all her attention. Her mouth barely moves. I let her have a few seconds. Then I speak, since silence has started pushing me toward the wrong side of the table.

“The Blacklist isn’t public,” I say. “Most soldiers never see it. Serious houses use it when money no longer settles a debt. A name entered there can be claimed, held, married off, traded for relief, used to force cooperation, or kept under guard as leverage.”

Her eyes lift to mine. “People.”

“Yes.”

“Say people.” Her voice comes out rough, and the words carry a threat she has no weapon to back it up with.

“People.”

Cara swallows once, then looks back at the page. “Patrick put me there.”

“He offered you.”

“Offered.” Her smile twists, and it looks like pain. “That’s a nice family word.”

“Volkov claimed the debt first.”

She pushes the folder back so hard, it slides an inch. “Should I be grateful for that distinction, Dmitri?”

“It keeps you alive.”

Her laugh comes out short and ugly. “Ownership with a clean shirt.”

“Yes.”

The answer makes her angrier, and I like that on her, which is another failure I have no time to examine. Color comes back into her face. Her spine straightens. One hand leaves the chair and lands flat on the table, close to the name Patrick sold.

“You don’t get to drag me across the world, show me a paper cage, and then talk to me like I should thank the better jailer.”

I lean back. “You would prefer Morozov?”

She folds her arms across her chest, and the move almost looks defensive. I know better. When she speaks again, she looks straight at me.