Page 92 of Dark King Daddy

He held up the tablet. “Overnight reports. Two things. First—Kozlov’s men at the Maspeth yard ran the shared route without incident. Full load, Orlov cargo, delivered on time. No refusals.”

“Good.” The marriage was working.

“Second. Nikita pulled traffic camera footage from the Hamilton Avenue overpass. The stolen municipal truck was reported missing from a Sunset Park depot at six-forty the morning of the attack. The depot’s gate camera shows a white panel van entering at six-twelve. No plates visible. Driver wore a cap.”

“Facial recognition?”

“Poor angle. Nikita’s running partial matches.”

“Tell him to cross-reference Voronin Atlantic Logistics employee records. Newark terminal staff. Warehouse personnel. Anyone with commercial driving credentials.”

“Already instructed.”

Arkady took a drink of his coffee. He watched me unwrap my hands. The wraps were damp and dark. I dropped them on the bench beside the weight rack.

“You look like shit,” he said.

“Thank you. I said I had poor sleep.”

“How long?”

“That’s enough questions about my night.”

He studied me for two seconds longer than the statement required. Then he set the tablet on the bench and drained his coffee.

“Breakfast is upstairs. Galina made eggs. I’m going to eat some before Nikita steals them.”

He went back up the stairs. I followed.

The breakfast room was bright. The table was set with its usual precision—coffee, toast, butter, jam, sliced fruit, and a plate of scrambled eggs with the dill Galina insisted on adding to everything. Arkady was already eating. Nikita sat across from him, reading something on his phone, his plate half-empty.

I poured coffee. I sat at the head of the table. I opened the security folder Nikita had left beside my place mat and began reading.

Ksenia appeared at seven-twenty.

She wore black trousers, fitted through the waist. A cream blouse with a high collar. A structured blazer the color of wet stone. Her hair was swept back and pinned at the nape. Small gold studs. My eyes flashed to the ring, proof she was mine.

She looked like a woman going to war.

Her mouth was still faintly swollen.

I noticed. I did not look at it. I looked at the folder. I read the same line about the Sunset Park depot three times without absorbing a single word.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Good morning,” Nikita answered. Arkady grunted through a mouthful of eggs.

“Good morning,” I said.

She sat across from me and poured coffee. The eggs sat untouched between us. The toast sat untouched. The fruit. The jam. She had not reached for any of it.

She set down the cup. She leaned across the table to reach the sugar bowl and her sleeve brushed my forearm.

The contact was light. Cotton against bare skin, below my rolled sleeve. The friction of fabric on the fine hair of my arm. Less than a second.

My body locked. Every muscle from my wrist to my shoulder went rigid. I felt the contact in my chest, in my stomach, lower. The memory of her pressed against me on the promenade flooded through the point where her sleeve had touched my skin.

I moved. I pulled my arm back and shifted the folder six inches to the right, creating distance. The movement was not subtle.