Page 27 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

It’s obvious who Dmitri is here. He is the enforcer, and people notice him the second he steps back into the house. Something hard brought back inside.

A woman’s name moves through the hall in a murmur before we reach the staircase.

Elena.

A maid says it softly to another, and the second woman gives her a look that shuts her mouth fast. Correction comes first, with reverence tucked under it.

Dmitri notices me noticing. “Don’t ask questions about her.”

“I’ll ask questions about the murder lighting instead.” I follow him across the polished floor and hate how fast he walks. I keep up with Bratva cardio after a kidnapping, a flight across oceans, and one full night of not falling apart. Worse, I hate that I have to follow him at all. He doesn’t need to touch me to make me obey.

“There’s no murder lighting.”

I glance at the recessed fixtures set into the stairwell, angled to avoid glare on camera lenses, and say nothing.

He takes me through a side corridor instead of up the main stairs. The estate is a nervous system with carpets. Formal sitting areas open and close behind guarded doors. A long hallway gives me a glimpse of green-shaded lamps, brass-labeled cabinets, and a central table under white light before a guard steps into the sightline.

Legal wing.

Another turn reveals a bank of monitors through a closing door. Estate feeds. Route maps. Men in shirtsleeves under suit jackets. Someone says “fuel” in English, then switches to Russian when he sees me. The estate works as a command center, a court, a prison, and a battlefield with rugs. All of it breathes around Maksim Volkov, though I haven’t seen him. His permission is in the walls.

Dmitri leads me to the north wing.

Two guards stand outside a set of double doors. One unlocks them with a card and a code. The doors open into a smaller corridor with fewer lights, thicker carpeting, and tasteful furniture that looks chosen by someone who believes captivity should photograph well.

My suite is large. A maid appears the instant I step inside and gives me a tour with a brisk calm. A sitting area with a writing desk. Windows facing black trees and snow. A bedroom with good linens. A private bath. An outer door that locks from both sides, which is cute if you enjoy jokes written by security consultants.

A tray waits on the table. Tea, dark bread, butter, sliced fruit, and something pale and creamy in a bowl that looks suspiciously comforting. It makes me want to sit down and rest.

“I’m not hungry,” I say.

“Eat later,” Dmitri says.

“Will I? Add clairvoyance to the résumé.” I make a show of crossing to the balcony window and trying the handle. It doesn’t move.

He moves through the suite with a soldier’s attention, yet every check faces outward. Window seals. Door frame. Balcony line. Corridor angle. He’s securing the room against men coming in, not me getting out.

My temper sparks.

“What, no ankle bell?” I ask. “Or have I reached the luxury-prisoner tier where the furniture gets to supervise me?”

Dmitri glances back. “You won’t run tonight.”

I smile. “That sounded almost stupid.”

“Trusting the outside would be stupid.” He finishes his survey and plants himself in the doorframe, arms folded, feet braced, face unreadable.

I stand near the bed and hate the linens for being soft.

“Where is my phone?” I ask.

“Under review.”

“My laptop?”

“Same.”

A laugh leaves me, brittle and ugly. “You drag the cybersecurity person across the world over my brother’s digital shitshow, then take away my tools. This is insane. Is this a hostage situation or a group project run by idiots?”