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“You want him followed?”

“From the moment he leaves.” Alexei moves to the couch and lowers himself carefully. A grimace crosses his face as he settles against the cushions. “If he thinks we believed him, he’ll lead us to whatever he left out.”

Abramov closes the report. “What else?”

“Find out who he calls first.”

Abramov steps toward the door. Alexei calls, “Abramov?”

Abramov turns back. “Release Gurin and his mistress separately,” Alexei says. “Let each believe the other went first, and put different teams on both.”

He leaves us with the reports to return to the lower level.

I stay by the table while Alexei lies back on the couch and stares at the ceiling.

“Are you feeling all right?”

He ignores my question. “The debt and malpractice papers were prepared months before I was shot, but your Blacklist entry wasn’t activated until after you saved me. Why?”

His eyes settle on me, and I shift beneath the stare. “What?”

“Belov couldn’t have known months ago that you would operate on me.”

“What are you saying?”

“You were already part of his plan.” Alexei pushes himself higher against the cushions. “He was preparing to discredit you and force you to run.”

“And if I stayed?”

“The papers worked either way.” Alexei sits up. “If you ran, the debt gave him a claim over you. If you stayed, he could kidnap you and tell everyone you disappeared because a patient died.”

His eyes stay on mine.

“Stop making it sound tidy.”

“I’m making it visible.”

“I’m not one of your maps,” I snap. “My father is dead. Marina is dead. My home is gone, my career is at risk, and every part of my life is spread across this table.”

Alexei rises slowly. He looks worn down, stubble dark along his face, but his eyes stay fixed on me.

“Come here, Vera.”

“Don’t command me,” I snap.

His gray eyes darken. “You know what? I’ve wanted to command you since the gala,” he says softly.

Neither of us moves.

The lamp beside us casts warm light across his face, and I remember another night under softer lights. His cufflinks beside a hotel glass. His shirt open enough to show the Bratva markings that should have sent any sensible woman toward the door.

They drew me closer.

“You remember,” I say, gripping the chair.

Alexei’s eyes narrow. “Everything.” He steps toward me. “The gala. The champagne. The way you told the director his donation wouldn’t cover one week of intensive care.”

My breath catches. “The elevator. The suite.”