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Maksim Volkov. Head of the Volkov empire, and apparently, the only man here more annoyed by Alexei’s condition than I am.

Abramov catches Alexei under the arm, and together we haul him onto the rear bench beside me. Alexei falls back against the leather, breathing hard, while Abramov checks that we’re clear and slams the door.

A second later, the vehicle launches forward with Abramov and his men following close behind.

Misha crawls into my lap and reaches for my pocket. I give him the yellow car, then check his hands, face, and legs for blood. There isn’t any, only glass dust in his hair and a cut near his thumb.

I press a tissue against it. “Does this hurt?”

He shakes his head and keeps watching Alexei.

Beside me, Alexei holds pressure against his wound. His eyes stay on Misha, following every small movement.

I reach across and replace his hand with mine. “Let me.”

He moves without arguing, which frightens me more than his color.

Three blocks from my building, I spot the smoker. Same hat, same rigid posture. His cigarette is gone, and a phone is pressed to his ear. He looks straight at our vehicle and smiles before stepping between two parked cars and disappearing from view.

“He saw my son,” I say.

Maksim follows my stare, touches two fingers to his earpiece, and gives the order without looking away from the window. “Take us to the estate.”

Alexei looks at Misha. There’s blood on his shirt, and his face tightens.

“From now on, Misha stays out of sight until I know who’s been watching him.”

6

ALEXEI

At the turn onto Rublyovo-Uspenskoye Highway, Abramov’s vehicle pulls past ours and takes the lead.

The first gate opens at one in the morning, and my fever decides this is the perfect moment to become ambitious. The lead vehicle rolls through first. Our armored SUV follows, carrying Maksim, Vera, Misha, and enough blood on my shirt to turn the back seat into a medical argument. A third vehicle closes the convoy behind us.

Our headlights sweep across the high stone wall and the old snow beneath the trees. Guards patrol in pairs beyond the first gate, while cameras hidden among the branches and ironwork turn toward us.

The gate closes behind us before the second one begins to open.

Misha sits strapped into the child seat already fitted in Maksim’s vehicle for his own son, Lev. His borrowed coat hangs open over his green dinosaur pajamas, and he holds the yellow race car Vera returned once we were moving. He hasn’t let go of it since.

Vera catches my wrist before the SUV enters the sally port.

I look down at her fingers over my pulse. “You’ve become familiar.”

“I’m a doctor.” She counts beneath her breath, then presses the back of her hand against my forehead. “And you have a fever.”

Maksim looks up from the tablet resting against his knee. He has spent most of the drive reading reports and pretending not to notice the people in the back.

“Fever isn’t part of the command structure,” I tell her, reaching for the medical packet beside me.

Vera pushes my hand away. “Infection doesn’t care about rank.”

Misha looks from her to me.

I shift against the seat. Pain tears through my chest and abdomen, then settles beneath my ribs in a hot, steady line.

Vera’s eyes narrow. “Stop moving.”