Page 50 of The Enforcer’s Pawn

“I didn’t say concerns.” I lift one hand. “That makes me sound reasonable.”

Lidiya looks down at the tray. Dmitri’s shoulders square by a fraction, and his mouth loses all softness.

“You’re behaving like a troublemaker,” he says.

“And you’re auditioning for headmaster.” I try for a scoff, but my voice comes out thinner than I want.

“This house has rules.” He steps closer. “Learn them before you make your life harder.”

His warning gets into my head. I almost back down. Then pride kicks in, and I lift my chin.

“I didn’t come here to learn etiquette from kidnappers.”

Dmitri comes closer, and every part of my body recognizes the mistake before my brain can name it.

“No, Cara,” he says. “You came here because Patrick put your name where it could be used.”

Color creeps into my face. As if I have forgotten.

Lidiya steps back without making any sound. Near the table, Mrs. Wentworth becomes attentive in a way that makes me feel fifteen and furious.

My fingers curl. “Then find him.”

Dmitri’s mouth curves without warmth. “You can be useful for once. It may save your skin.”

A laugh leaves me, bright and mean. “You need me.”

His eyes narrow. “We need a password.”

“No, Dmitri. A password is what people need when they forget their Netflix login. You need me.”

His eyes hold mine, and for half a second, I enjoy the hit.

Then he looks at the guards. “Bring her.”

They take me through two guarded doors, past Abramov’s office and into the command wing where screens glow, papers wait, and men look up because the woman in the file has finally walked in.

I arrive tired, angry, watched, and unwillingly pleased. The balance has shifted by an inch, and everyone here knows it.

Dmitri puts the laptop in front of me, and every man in the office watches my hands. The machine is new, black, and locked down. A cable runs from its side to a programmer’s station, where my screen mirrors on a larger monitor. Another program sits open in the corner, recording every key I touch.

“Cute,” I say. “You gave me a laptop with a babysitter.”

Dmitri stands beside my chair. “Work.”

I lean in, ready to be difficult on principle, then the file path catches me.

OConnell_Lineage_Final.

Below it sits a buried archive named StBrigid_FamilyLedger_Backup.

My hands stop over the keyboard. Patrick hid evidence inside family memory. My brother never loved history unless it made him taller.

Think. I tell myself. Men around me wait for answers, and I have to give them something.

Not for them. For me.

Patrick liked old names, old grudges, and old Irish suffering polished into party stories. It made him feel less like a man running bad money. He could turn a dead relative into a speech, a parish record into a personality, and any family loss into a story about why the world owed him more.