Page 157 of Dark King Daddy

“Tonight,” he said. “Dressed. Courted. At home.”

“Thank you, Daddy.”

Anton arrived at eight fifty-seven.

The doorbell rang. Boris answered it. Anton’s voice carried from the hallway—low, measured, asking Boris something about the street. Then he was in the kitchen doorway, his coat over his arm, his shirt tucked in properly today. He looked more rested than he had at Volna. The weight of succession still sat on him, but he was beginning to carry it with less visible effort.

He kissed my cheek. He nodded at Daniil. He sat.

Daniil gave Anton the terms of Oleg’s ultimatum. He kept his voice level.

Then he placed the envelope on the table.

Anton set down his fork. He opened the envelope. He pulled out the photographs one at a time and laid them on the kitchen table beside the butter dish and the coffee pot.

Five images. All me.

Anton studied each one for a long time. His face did not change. His hands did not shake. But he placed each photograph face-down after he finished looking at it, and the placement was careful — each one aligned with the edge of the table, precisely parallel, the controlled precision of a man managing his reaction through geometry.

Then Daniil told him about Kostya’s call.

“Before you’d told either of us?” Anton asked.

“Yes.”

Anton picked up his coffee. He drank. He set it down.

“Someone in that circle passed the schedule to the Voronins. And now Kostya is advising you to surrender.”

“Yes.”

Anton was quiet. He turned his coffee cup in his hands—a slow, quarter-turn rotation, the handle moving from three o’clock to six to nine. I had seen my father do the same thing. The gesture of a man thinking through something he did not want to conclude.

“I’ll help,” Anton said. “Whatever Nikita needs from the Orlov side—personnel records, communication logs, movement reports. He has my authority. Full access. No friction.”

“Thank you.”

“But I want to be clear about something, Daniil.” Anton set the cup down. “Kostya is family. By marriage, by history, by loyalty that predates both of us. If he is compromised, I need to know. And if he is not—if someone in his circle acted without his knowledge—I need to know that too. I will not destroy a man’s reputation on suspicion.”

“Agreed. We investigate. We establish facts. We move when we have proof.”

Anton nodded. The business portion of the breakfast ended. Not formally—it simply dissolved, the way it did between men who understood that the conversation had reached its natural boundary and that pushing further required information they did not yet have.

Breakfast appeared. Galina, normally hidden, actually showed herself. She put down eggs, toast, coffee, pastries, smiled then left.

I pushed the toast plate toward Daniil. One piece left. He took it without looking—automatic, his hand moving from the plate to his mouth while his eyes stayed on Anton. I reached across and lifted his coffee cup. I drank. I set it back in front of him.

Anton watched both transactions. His eyes moved from the toast to the coffee to my face to Daniil’s face, and something shifted in his expression — a loosening around the eyes, a change in the set of his mouth.

Daniil’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen.

“Nikita. I should take this.”

He stood. He carried the phone toward the hallway. The kitchen went quiet.

Anton looked at me across the table. The eggs sat cold on his plate. The photographs lay face-down between us. The coffee pot ticked as it cooled.

“Are you happy with him? With the marriage.”