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Somewhere beyond the office, Vera is settling Misha after his nightmare, unaware that the life waiting for her outside these walls is already gone. I need to tell her Marina is dead and the apartment where she raised her son is burning, but I won’t hand her both losses while her child is still clinging to her.

I’ve spent my life deciding which truth a man hears first so I can control what he does next, but none of that helps me decide when Vera should hear hers.

“Yuri recovered this from the hospital feed.” Dmitri places a photograph in front of me.

Arkady Belov stands outside the operating suite in a stolen security jacket. Through the glass, Vera is bent over my open body while Marina works beside her.

Belov isn’t looking at me. His eyes are fixed on Vera, and Marina has turned far enough to follow his gaze.

10

VERA

Alexei disappears into his bedroom at ten fourteen in the morning without saying a word to me. A folder is tucked beneath one arm, and the secure phone in his hand tells me he plans to work from bed if no one lets him reach his office.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Yelena steps off the elevator with a medical bag in one hand, and Irina follows carrying fresh dressings. I’m standing just inside my suite when they pass me and the private medical area before continuing toward Alexei’s bedroom farther down the corridor.

They return twenty-five minutes later, walking back toward the elevator.

“Check the dressing again in four hours,” Yelena tells Irina. “Keep watching his temperature, and he doesn’t stand unless someone is beside him.”

Irina glances over her shoulder toward his bedroom. “He won’t like that.”

“He doesn’t need to.”

I meet them in the corridor.

“He has no fever now,” Yelena says. “The drain is giving very little fluid. Once the blood test results come back, we can remove it and change him to antibiotic tablets.”

“I’ll check him again later,” I say.

They continue toward the west-wing entrance, and Alexei comes out moments later in a clean black shirt. Instead of following them, he walks the other way, passes the second guard point, and disappears into his office at the far end of the inner hall.

I remain beside my half-open suite door and hear the latch click.

The silence bothers me because his mouth was on mine hours ago, and because he stood outside Misha’s bed looking like he wanted something he knew he had no right to ask for. Now he gives me a closed office door, guards along the corridor, and breakfast supplies chosen by people who know my son’s toothpaste brand.

I tell myself I prefer it this way.

The lie follows me back into the sitting area.

Misha drives his cars along the edge of the rug, makes a soft engine noise, and stops one beside my foot. “This one is tired,” he says, resting both hands on his knees.

I crouch beside him and turn the car over. “Does it need a nap?”

He shakes his head. “Jam.”

“Of course it does.” I set the car upright and hold out my hand. “Let’s feed it before it files a complaint.”

His fingers slip into mine, and we cross the sitting area into the small kitchenette attached to our suite.

For the first time in months, I have nowhere to be. No rounds, no trauma list, no preschool pickup wedged between operations, and no laundry waiting beside the washing machine. I should enjoy the freedom, but armed guards are the only reason I have it.

Mrs. Wentworth finds us inside the kitchenette. Her ladybird glasses hang against her chest, and her eyes move from Misha’s bare feet to the car in his hand.

“Dobroye utro, madam,” she says, folding her hands in front of her. “What would you like for breakfast?”

She makes it sound like a hotel, which irritates me more than it should.